Page 62 of Courageous Hearts

Buck naked, Jameson strides over to the nightstand, pulling lube and a condom from within. It gives me a chance to take him in. His tan body, naturally darker than my own. The light smattering of hair on his chest and the happy trail that points downward. And as he comes back my way, I get a front row seat to the flex of his thighs and the swagger of that impressive dick.

He’s the epitome of what I’ve always found sexy, even before I fully understood myself—my sexuality, my identity. His physicality calls to me.

But more than that, it’s Jameson himself who sets my heart pattering as he climbs back onto the mattress, hovering over my body. It’s the fire in his eyes and the way his touch is gentle yet sure when he hitches my knees up and open. It’s how he reverently drags his palms over my thighs, his expression lusty yet full of a sincere sort of warmth as his eyes rake over every square inch of me.

He makes me feel seen. I don’t need to be more with him. More masc. More femme. He’s never once asked me to be anyone other than exactly who I am. And maybe it’s all in my head, what I’m seeing on his face, but I don’t think so. My friends are always telling me to trust in my worth. To believe it when I’m given a compliment.

And the look in Jameson’s eye is the highest compliment I’ve ever received.

When Jameson’s fist wraps around my cock, slick and tight, my head hits the pillow. He takes his time teasing me, stroking slowly, coating my length before trailing his fingers lower. He gives my balls attention, too, cupping them, rolling them, tugging a little before moving on. All the while, his gaze doesn’t stop returning to my face, as if he’s checking in, making sure every single thing he’s doing is bringing me pleasure.

By the time he gets to my perineum, I’m practically panting. His touch disappears for a moment as he squirts more lube onto his fingers, but then there he is, rubbing over my hole, seeking entrance with the utmost care. I spread my legs wide open in invitation, and Jameson presses his fingertip inside of me.

“Jamie,” I groan, clutching the sheets.

He smiles, a wicked, dimple-popping thing, as he fucks his finger in and out of my body slowly. Too slowly.

“More,” I beg.

He hums, all gravelly and pleased, as he rubs against my inner walls with more force. My cock kicks up, and I’m about to beg again when Jameson adds a second finger, stretching me wider. He fucks me for minutes with measured, intentional thrusts that have me teetering on the edge between bliss and torture.

“Good?” he asks.

“More,” I answer. “Three.”

He is a big motherfucker, after all.

Jameson obliges, lubing his fingers again and pressing in with three. I bear down, and he slips in, incidentally—or intentionally—rubbing against my prostate. And it’s too much. I’m too close.

“Jamie,” I say, squirming away or closer, I don’t know. “I’m ready. Please.”

I don’t care if there’s a pinch of pain. I’d welcome it, just like the bruises that tell me Jameson is mine. Mine. At least for now.

He nods, his hair falling disheveled over his forehead. I love those messy waves. The way they stand stark against his skin. How they swoop like the rolling water he so loves.

“Can we keep this on?” he asks, thumb running over the fabric of my negligee where it sits pooled near my belly button. He reaches for the condom with his other hand and tears it open with his teeth.

“Yeah,” I say, my cock throbbing as he drags his thumb higher, toying with the still-damp fabric over my nipple. The simple touch has me bowing off the bed, overstimulated as I am.

Jameson’s dark eyes take me in as he snatches his hand away and rolls on the condom. He wets the outside with lube and then shuffles closer, gaze snagging on mine as he notches against my entrance. “Good?” he asks, pupils wide, his previous steely patience seemingly dissolved.

I nod quickly, and Jameson presses forward. His crown stretches me wider than his fingers, and the moment it slips past that outer ring of muscle, we both groan. He works into me slowly, the trembling in his body at odds with his careful thrusts. When he’s seated fully, groin tight against my ass, he looks up, and we lock eyes.

“Ah, Blue,” he rasps, shaking his head. He retreats and snaps his hips forward, and I arch into him, gasping as he chants my name again like a prayer. Blue.

“Yeah,” I say, the only word I can manage.

I reach for him, and Jameson falls over me, chest to chest, stomach trapping my cock. One of his hands wraps around my hip as the other braces against the mattress, and as his mouth meets mine, he unleashes.

His fingers dimple into my skin as his hips slap my ass, pounding against me time and time again. I urge him on with my heels, hands scrambling for purchase against his back. He’s big, bigger than anyone I’ve been with before, and the stretch, the depth, is unlike anything I’ve experienced. But it’s his mouth and the desperate, punched-out grunts he’s making that have me spiraling toward the end alarmingly fast.

I make a desperate sound. A plea. And as if knowing exactly what I’m asking for, Jameson drops his head to my neck and bites.

I yell, my voice hoarse and dissolving into a reedy moan as Jameson sucks on the mark he made. He drives into me mercilessly, his cock tunneling deep, my own on a hair trigger.

“I want to leave… a hundred marks… on your skin,” he says breathlessly, mouth at my neck. “I want to bite you… and suck you off… and fuck you… and hold you.” He keeps thrusting. “And when you’re covered in my bruises… and too sore to leave my arms… maybe then you’ll know how insatiable I am for you.”

“Jamie,” I groan, his words snaking inside of me like a vow.

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