I woke to my phone emitting a low, irritating, clacking judder on the glass top of the table. My eyes popped open, glasses still on my face. It took a moment of disorientation before I comprehended that I’d dozed sitting up. The waning daylight in the apartment was proof I’d lost several minutes, but not much. From my laptop, the sounds of Foxing crooning, I swear I’m a good man, I swear I’m a good man, meant I was only a few songs into my playlist of heartache.
I grabbed my phone and flailed a hand to my laptop beside me, slapping the space bar to cease the music.
The front desk was calling.
“Hello,” I rasped. My dry mouth tasted of cookie, tequila, and regret.
“Mr. Thompson, this is Lawrence. I have Dr. Miles down here to see you, should I send him up?”
I opened my mouth to answer but stopped myself. Did I want him here? Did I want to have this conversation face-to-face? No and no. But did he deserve that much after the train-wreck of voice messages I left him? Yes, he did. I hadn’t handled it very well, said some mean, and downright embarrassing things, and I needed to be an adult about it. Still, I hesitated.
“Mr. Thompson?” the concierge prompted.
“Yeah, Larry, sure,” I replied. “Send him up.”
“Will do. Have a good night.”
I closed my laptop and switched on the lamp in the corner. I wasn’t ready for the glaring light of the overhead fixture and figured a little dimness for this conversation would serve me best. I estimated I had, at minimum, forty-five seconds until Ken showed up, so I busied myself by erasing the evidence of my pity party. I stowed away the macarons and laptop and chugged a glass of water so hurriedly, the liquid overflowed the cup and ran in rivulets down the sides of my chin and on to my button-up. “That’s just great,” I muttered, swiping at the dark spots.
Expecting Ken to knock at any second, I stood in the entry. Resigned and determined. We’d talk honestly, no histrionics, no alcohol-fueled rambles, just the straight dope. I needed to keep my resolve when I was staring him in the eyes—in those hypnotic, glittering orbs of temptation. Dammit! Don’t be swayed by the sexy eyes, ignore the cleft in his chin, and whatever you do, do not get side-tracked by his Adam’s Apple.
When the knock came, it was loud and impatient. As an indicator of his mood, it was accurate. He stood on the threshold just long enough to connect his eyes to mine, then barged past me into the living room.
He had a gym bag slung on his shoulder, which he dropped with a thunk onto the floor. He was wearing black track pants, sneakers, and a white undershirt that fit over his muscles with obscene adhesion.
I took my sweet-ass time following him the half-dozen steps. If his nipples are showing through, you’re a dead man walking, Thompson.
As I faced him, I was surprised to see his slack expression had turned turbulent. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, nostrils flaring. He unclenched his jaw to speak, but no sound emerged. And damn, that goozle in his throat decided to do an alluring, little dance, rippling with unspoken words. His body told me he was angry and agitated, but his eyes, they were…beseeching? Tormented? I couldn’t say.
“Ken, I,” I began, but he closed the distance between us quickly, and brought his chest flush with mine. When the soft warmth of his hand and slow advancing of his face registered, a new frisson of awareness suffused my body. But for the millisecond between our chests touching and his hand cradling my jaw, I thought this was aggression and I jerked back instinctively.
Ken noticed my jerk and seemed to quickly change tactics. He pressed his forehead to mine and whispered, “Kiss me.”
Without a thought, I closed the small space between our mouths and placed my lips on his. It was the permission he needed, and he tightened his hand on my head, pulling me deeper into the kiss, which turned hot and forceful.
And praise be Thor and his giant tool—it was delicious. We ate ravenously at each other’s mouths for a moment before my brain came back online.
How is this happening!? My hands, which had found their way to his hips, floated up and hovered in indecision near his biceps.
Ken slowed the kiss, pulled back slightly and grasped my wrists. He guided my hands to his chest—I knew those nipples were poking out!—and took the kiss deeper. His tongue slid against the seam of my lips, demanding entry. When I relented, he groaned, wrapped both arms around me, and pulled our bodies together.
The slide of his wet mouth on mine, the invasion of his hot tongue, the insistent prodding of his rapidly thickening cock against my own, spurred me into action. My blood pumped fast and my breathing became shallow. I gave a sinuous grind of my hips to feel the friction—to show him I was as hard and eager as he was.
Ken’s mouth separated from mine to let out a deep groan of anguish and delight. Gratified, I gave another slide of my groin and was rewarded again with a low moan. He attempted to bring his mouth back to mine, but I grabbed a fist full of his hair, and pulled his head back gently. Staring into his desire-hooded eyes, I kept up my grinding, driving us both crazy with the motion that was nearly too much pleasure, but not coming close to enough.
In the quiet dimness of my apartment, the rhythmic swishing of track pants pumping against trousers and our labored, choppy breath, created an erotic soundtrack. The sensations and the sounds must have been swamping him because he groaned again and slid his eyes shut. I didn’t want him to break the contact, so I tugged harder on his hair and demanded, “Look at me, Ken.”
When he did, I asked, “What the hell are we doing here, huh? This is insane.” My words might have seemed like I was second-guessing, like I wanted to stop and parse this all out, but my tone was rough and raw, and my hips were grinding our cocks together harder. I didn’t want to stop. I didn’t want Ken to stop either. I wanted words, though. Any words. Dirty words, sweet words—even angry words would have been fine. I needed to hear how affected he was by me, to have spoken evidence of how much he liked what we were doing. I wanted to know he was engaged in this act with me.
His lip curled in a sneer as his hands found their way to my ass. He squeezed and said, “What’s insane is that you’re so clueless.”
My hand loosened from his hair and he took that opportunity to reconnect our mouths in a blistering, carnal kiss. Without breaking contact, he walked me backward to the nearest wall. When my back touched the solid surface, he pulled away, reached an arm behind his head, and stripped off the T-shirt in one fluid motion.
I marveled at the smooth expanse of his torso. His erect nipples and flexing pectorals were as dangerous as I suspected. You’re dead, Thompson. His nipples killed you and now you’re in heaven.
He set to work rapidly undoing the buttons of my shirt. When he opened it, he grasped my undershirt roughly, “This goes too, damn it, I need your skin.”
I quickly divested myself of the shirts, eager to press our hot skin together. When we did, we moaned in unison.
“Steven,” Ken whispered as his mouth met mine. We kissed for minutes? Hours? Days? I had no idea. I was swept up in the need for more. More heat, more friction, more Ken. His smell was enveloping me, his taste was infusing me, the radiating passion was making me lose touch with time and space. We were hovering, suspended in sensation.
Eventually, he pulled himself away slightly and said breathlessly, “Take your cock out for me.”
I felt my shaft get impossibly harder with the demand. I couldn’t move fast enough to get my belt and pants undone. Just the thought of his big hands on me had more excitement escaping from my tip. I shoved my pants and underwear down just low enough to expose me.
Ken groaned again, his eyes transfixed on my jutting dick. He rubbed himself through the material of his pants as he reached for me with his other hand. I hissed at the contact, my eyes shutting of their own volition. Again, it was too much and not enough.
“You’re so hot, so smooth and hard.” With a squeeze and a pull, he marveled, “You’re long.” He twisted his grip as he reached my head, smearing the precum partway down my shaft. I let out a curse, pumping my hips for more.
“Show me yours,” I ordered, chokingly. I could hardly speak through the pleasure that was consuming me. Any other time I would have cringed at the lame words. Show me yours. But in that moment, it was what I wanted, plain and simple. I needed him to let me have him as he was having me.
Without breaking his hold on me, he pushed the front of his waistband down under his balls, causing them to jut upward. I reached out and smoothed my palm up and down the underside of him before squeezing the shaft tightly.
Ken moaned and watched my hand for a moment before repeating in a raspy tone, “I need your skin.” He adjusted so that our cocks touched. He pulled mine down, rubbing our heads together, blending our silky fluid.
“Look at us, Steven,” he said. “Nothing has ever looked so fucking hot as my cock rubbing on yours.”
I silently agreed. I was on the brink of coming from the combination of sensual assaults. It was incredible. He was incredible.
He shifted again to line up our undersides and gripped our cocks in his right hand. We pumped our hips in earnest then, both of us chasing our orgasm. With my hand, I explored our heads and parts of the shafts he wasn’t touching.
I glanced up to see his face screwed into a grimace, signaling he was close. I was close too and wanted us to come together.
“Fuck, Ken, come,” I spurred, reaching lower to tug on his sac. “I want to see you shoot all over me.” He grunted, my words clearly having the right effect. “Yeah,” I encouraged. “Make a mess of me, of both of us.” That did it. With a shout and firm jerky motions, he was letting loose. The sight and the sound sparked my own, and I spent myself.
I was glad the wall was to my back because I would have lost my balance. I was wrung dry.
Ken released his hold and panted out, “Are you up to speed now? Because if not, I’ve got more where that came from.”