Chapter Ten

Jay

I virtually fled down to the kitchen this morning. I needed space away from him, a moment of calm to sense check my emotions. I’d actually done it. A night in bed with a man. Waking this morning to him lying on top of me, rubbing his bare dick against mine, making love in the dark, was fucking beyond unbelievable. And making love was exactly what it had felt like to me. Even though the light had been too dim to see him properly, I’d felt every perfect inch of that smooth long body covering mine, the pleasure-pain pinch of his teeth on my nipples, the velvet hardness of his dick. I’d only just managed to last as long as I did, coming with a surge of need I’ve never experienced before. Any lingering doubts about my sexuality had been comprehensively annihilated at dawn.

And the having him on top part, that was a shock to the system, too, understanding how much I’d enjoyed being held underneath his firm, masculine body. All my sexual fantasies up until this morning had always culminated with me on top, with my cock in another bloke’s arse. But Lucien has blown my mind because now I think I fancy a bit of the other. I want to be taken by a bloke, to have a man inside me.

But it’s not just any man; it’s him. It’s Lucien Avery making me feel chaotically adrift. All my life, I’ve been steady, dependable, reliable, sensible. Son, brother, doctor, boyfriend. Following an unwavering path down the middle of the road, without checking left or right, so certain of my place and role on this earth. Until something changed, until out of all the homosexual men I could have picked for my last-ditch experimental flutter before locking those feelings safely back in their sealed box forever, I selected him.

Watching him now, delicately picking his way through his breakfast to please me, every glimpse of his sharp little teeth, every bob of that long white throat as he swallows, every blink of those knowing pale-blue eyes, has my dick as hard as a fence post.

With a final forkful successfully swallowed down, I push my plate aside and pull him upright. I’m rewarded with an amused smile; he’s feeling it too. We were almost racing each other through the last few mouthfuls.

First things first.

“As much as they turn me on,” I breathe, “this granny dressing gown and Wee Willie Winkie nightie have to come off.”

The reason being, from the odd peeks I’ve stolen, and from the outline of him in the dawn light, what’s hiding underneath is awesome. I throw myself at him, no chat, no deliberation, no opportunity to change my mind. It’s all or nothing, and it has to be all, otherwise my balls will explode.

The lacy garments are left in a pile on the kitchen floor, then I push myself up against him. I’m broad, and he’s slender; he’s only a couple of inches or so shorter than me, but much lighter and barefoot. I easily scoop him up in my arms as our mouths clash together, all teeth and tongues. I hear myself groan, and I swear with pleasure. He giggles delightfully against my open mouth at the ridiculous noises I’m producing. I squeeze his taut bare arse, so smooth and hairless, while his hands are wrapped in my hair. The desperate neediness isn’t all one-sided; he eats my mouth with equal abandon, exploring every dark corner of it, although minus the sound effects I’m unable to control. If I make noises like this just kissing him, god knows what I’ll be like when we actually do anything more.

I move across his jaw and onto his long, elegant neck, sucking and biting around the rope of pearls. Lucien stretches his throat up and away, allowing me more, allowing me the whole length of that narrow pale expanse. It’s not enough; I close my eyes and drift lower, down to his nipples and bite around something hard and metallic, sucking and kissing and biting again. And then the other side, and I know he likes it, even though he hardly makes a sound, because he thrusts up into me, pushing my head closer still, wanting more. And then I’m back up at his lips, and he wants that again, too, his tongue as eager as mine.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Lucien breaks away first. He eyes me like prey, hardly out of breath, whereas I’m panting like a dog on heat.

“Only one of us is naked,” he indicates vaguely in the direction of my body. “Seems a little unfair.”

My brain is slow to catch up with his words when he leans with one hip hitched casually against the sink as if he’s fully dressed and contemplating whether to have a cup of Earl Grey or Lapsang, as though his beautiful raging hard-on belongs to somebody else entirely. Standing back, I see his body properly for the first time in broad daylight. It surely is something to behold. Long and lean, on the thin side of slender because he hardly fucking eats anything, his smooth skin is as flawless and white as alabaster. His chest is hairless, by design not a razor. His nipples are…well, difficult to see actually, because both have stuff hanging from them—one has the diamond encrusted bar through the middle of it and the other a feathery thing. Who cares what it is? It’s hot as hell. No scars, no moles, no blemishes, he’s Adonis brought to life, and that dick…fuck. I’ve seen it once before, but I was pissed then, in a dark corner of a dark nightclub. Now I’m sober as a nun’s tit, and the sun is streaming brightly through the kitchen window. In its full glory, it’s long and pale, hard as granite, curving upwards out of its neat, cosy bed of pale hair towards his navel. A fat bead of pre-come, mimicking one of the pearls around his neck, gleams at the pinkish tip.

“Matching collar and cuffs. Nice,” I blurt idiotically as I wriggle out of my joggers, so I’m just in my long-sleeved tee. Not cool, Jay. Taking off the top half first is a much more attractive striptease. I seem to have temporarily mislaid the rational part of my brain.

“Did you think that I dyed my hair this insane colour?” he asks, icily amused.

Finally, my clothes are off and I’m in front of him once more, fists clenched at my sides. “I’m thinking nothing sensible at the moment. As you can probably tell.”

He gives his dick a couple of lazy strokes, as if I’m not even in the room, openly appraising my body. The tip of that pink tongue flicks over his lower lip. “Tell me what you want to do with me now, Jay. I’m all yours.”

I want to make you smile properly again. I want to hear that sweet giggling more often. I want to cook you decent meals and watch you eat them. I want to make slow gentle love to you; I want you to show me how gay men do it properly. I have a suspicion I want your cock up my arse. I want to lie in bed next to you all night and every night, with my arms all around you, holding you tight as you sleep, keeping you safe.

But I can’t say all that. I don’t have the nerve, and I’ll scare him off. More than that, my brain is being totally dominated by my inner caveman, my vocabulary has shrunk to words of two syllables max. “Um…I want to bend you over this table and fuck you. I want you to show me how.”

More evidence of my silky tongue, but he’s unfazed, just more slow stroking. Christ, I swear I could come just watching him do that.

“I think you probably know how, Jay.”

He reaches into what looks like an ancient flowery tea caddy next to the sink, retrieves a condom packet, and tosses it to me. Well, I suppose that’s one place to keep them.

“We don’t need that,” I inform him, preferring not to use it. “Ellie and me…we…neither of us ever cheated or anything. I haven’t been checked for years, but I don’t need it. I don’t want to use it, Luce. I want to feel you properly, although I know that gay men do use them and it’s safer and we should be careful and responsible and, okay then, I’ll use it, and…”

My hands are shaking. I’m babbling like a fucking idiot. Of course I should use the bloody condom; it’s only a bloody condom after all. But when I state I don’t want to use it, I swear his breathing becomes just that little bit faster, the tip of his tongue darts out again, wetting his upper lip. He deliberates slowly.

“Since Jules and I parted ways, I’ve been in the sexual equivalent of the Sahara. I didn’t totally trust him and arranged to be tested after he left. And nothing. So, in that case…do you trust me?”

I nod; at this point I’ll agree to anything, to be honest. The mood’s been killed for sure. I wouldn’t blame him if he regrets his haste in agreeing to let such an inexperienced guy fuck him.

Coming to a decision, he takes the condom back, drops it in the tea caddy, and carefully replaces the lid.

I am so out of my depth as Lucien strolls past me to the table. He slides our breakfast plates and a copy of the Telegraph to one side, presumably to avoid getting newsprint on his face. With increasing awe and incredulity, I watch as he then arranges himself over one end of the solid oak, long legs spread and arse in the air, before settling his chest against the tabletop and lightly gripping the edge of the opposite side to brace himself.

“Is this what you want, Jay?” he asks coolly, his voice a low whispery flutter.

Of course, deep down I know it shouldn’t be like this. His protective Dr Avery shield has made a reappearance, and it’s not how I wanted it to be the first time. In bed earlier, I experienced the joys of sweet, loving Lady Louisa. For this, I imagined the shy earl, all soft and flirty, hand-holding and gentle kisses. A bit like when I’ve done it with girls for the first time, starting slow and patiently building up, half expecting them to put the brakes on if I go too far. Not like now; his Dr Avery persona is too cold, too emotionally stunted.

The sunlight in the kitchen is too bright, the objects around us too ordinary. Sex should be like what we had in bed this morning, a loving union between two consenting adults, the culmination of a gradual crescendo of foreplay, teasing, nibbling, touching, kissing. I know it’s not always like that, not for everyone, and not for me either on occasion in my drunken randy youth when any shag was the holy grail. Maybe tender sex is not what gay men generally do, maybe our rubbing off on each other in bed this morning was just a fabulous anomaly, never to be repeated.

But fuck, he’s here and giving it to me, just like that, and he’s confusing and beautiful, and I don’t always understand what’s going on in his head. I’ve waited so fucking long for this, not just with him, but to experience it with any bloke. My dick is telling my brain that he’s a willing participant, that he wants it as much as I do. And bloody hell, his arse is so fucking peachy perfect, two smooth white globes spread wide, with a tantalising hairless pink bullseye twitching up at me, desperately trying to win my attention. It has my attention, my full fucking attention, completely and utterly. Nothing else could possibly compete, not an Arsenal hat-trick in an FA Cup Final, not a drowning man, not a herd of zebras barging through the kitchen door. Because I have to—I just have to get my dick in that teeny tiny hole right now. And there lies the problem.

“Luce…er…Luce, I haven’t got any…um…stuff, you know, to like…”

“Use this,” he commands, talking into the tabletop, and he nudges the butter dish with his left elbow. “Open me up with your fingers first. I suggest you avoid double-dipping if you fancy a slice of toast later.”

I shall never look at Lurpak butter in quite the same way. Scooping up a massive handful, I smear most of it over my dick and the rest over his hole. In retrospect, I could have done it in a more careful, seductive fashion, but there isn’t time because if the phrase ‘open me up with your fingers’ isn’t designed to get me almost coming over his back before my dick is fucking anywhere near him, then I don’t know what is.

With one hand squeezing the base of my knob to stop it from exploding, I gently insert one finger. Christ, the sensation as it gets swallowed up, he’s tight in there. I pause, getting myself back under control, then bend over him and trail my tongue over the long line of his spine, my body covering his. He pushes back on my finger, signalling his need for more, so I add another, twisting experimentally.

“Gosh, that’s…gosh, that’s very good, Jay,” he breathes. “Just there…gosh, oh gosh.”

I like gosh; gosh is good. His whispery, fluttery gosh is more than I can take, and grasping my dick in one hand and his hip in the other, I press myself against that rosy-pink star for all I’m worth. The pink star pushes back, resisting, and then I’m in, eliciting more swearing and groaning from somewhere deep in my throat, and merely a slight hiss through his teeth from Lucien.

“Oh my god, oh my god, fuck, that’s so tight,” I gasp, petrified to move any further in or out. I’m embarrassingly close to coming.

Lucien, the sexy fucker, isn’t helping matters by pushing his amazing arse up against me, wriggling and goading me into action. “Get on with it and fuck me, Jay. Hard. Now.”

His words, his movements, are excruciatingly unbearable. Keeping my hand firmly on his hip and leaning forwards, placing the other around his shoulder, I take him at face value, or rather arse value, and bloody go for it. I’m conscious of my balls slapping against the backs of his thighs, and some animalistic grunts I’ve never made before, and the rattling of a teaspoon in a mug on the table. Or rather, off the table because I’m really shaking it now, and he’s holding on for dear life as the table inches across the wooden kitchen floorboards, making a scraping noise with every forwards thrust. The mug goes flying onto the floor, followed by a splintering crash as the butter dish joins it, and Christ, this feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced. And when I said tight, bloody hell, is it fucking tight. I look down, mesmerised by my glistening, swollen dick disappearing and reappearing, squeezed in a vice of warm velvet, and he pushes back with my every thrust.

“I said. Fucking. Hard. Harder,” he hisses.

Christ, I thought I was, but I’m a big strong lad. I’m beyond the point of no return, and if he wants it, he can fucking have it because I’ve got plenty to give. Gripping him even more tightly, I ram into him as though my life depends on it, as if I’m trying to climb inside him. Finally, finally, I hear him, desperate gasps, or are they sobs? Neither pleasure nor pain, but something. I’ve fucking elicited something out of him that makes my balls clench and my spine set on fire. As I minutely adjust my angle to get a better purchase, I sense it—he’s really loving it now; whatever spot I’ve hit, it’s really working for him; he’s almost screaming out with every push and pull. I know the precise moment when he comes because his arse spasms around my dick, and I’m only a second behind him with what feels like litres of spunk spurting into his narrow channel, my hips jacking on and on. When I’m finally done, every drop squeezed out, I flop down over him almost sobbing myself, my mouth at his neck, my sweat-drenched body no doubt squashing him ever further onto the wooden surface. But it’s only to support my weight because, otherwise, I think I’d be on the floor.

I lie like that forever, getting my breath back. Even after my exhausted, flaccid dick slithers its way out of his hole, I still lie there, coating him with my body, smelling the sex, smelling our sweat, loving the feel of his ragged breathing under me. And admiring the rather beautiful discreet tattoo on his left shoulder that I hadn’t noticed before. Two red kites, soaring together, gracefully swooping over his scapula down towards the elegant nobbles of his thoracic spine.

“Feel free to get off me any time you like,” he suggests quietly, and reluctantly, I totter back on wobbly legs and reach for my sweatpants, immediately feeling very exposed with my limp dick hanging out in the middle of the massive kitchen. Lucien remains motionless. I secure the ties of my sweatpants and grab my T-shirt. Still not moving. Still lying exposed across the table. My spunk dribbles out of his reddened arse and down his left leg.

Fuck, this is awkward. I’m not sure of the etiquette. Is he waiting for a repeat performance? If so, he may be lying there awhile because I am so, so drained.

“Gosh, I think I may need a hand getting up, Jay,” he murmurs once I’m fully dressed. “I appear to have deposited my brain and my motor skills, along with the entire contents of my balls, on the kitchen table.”

*

Good lord, I’ve broken my educational supervisor.

I guide him to the sofa, pretty much totally supporting his weight, and he gingerly sinks into it, lying down on his side. Curling into a foetal position, he shuts his eyes. Tears trickle from under his closed lids. Oh my God, what have I done? I know people cry after good sex—I’ve come close to it myself once or twice—but are these tears of joy? Tears of oh-my-gosh, Jay, you were wonderful and sex with you is fantastic? Or tears of oh-my-gosh, I’m never letting that animal anywhere near me ever again. Fuck if I know.

He’s white as a sheet, even whiter than usual. Hovering above, unsure what to do, I take a proper inventory of him, starting at the top. His soft yellow/white hair is sweat darkened and sticking up at all angles. Disarrayed hair. Flustered hair. Just-fucked hair. Nice. His usually immaculate eyeliner is fairly smudged—to put it mildly—like when my sisters get pissed and sleep in their make-up all night. His chin and cheeks are inflamed from repeatedly being grated on my coarse stubble back at the start of the proceedings. His mouth, Christ, his fabulous, lax mouth. Red, swollen, debauched, fucked. Moving on down, I count two enormous love bites on his neck, one near the front, covering his beautiful white stretch of throat and another in the region of his left carotid pulse. I don’t even recall doing that one, but it’s a corker.

His shivery body is covered in a sheen of sweat, some areas a lot shinier than others where I was probably excessively enthusiastic with the Lurpak. Smeared with blobs of dried semen, some parts of his torso and chest are less shiny. Both nipples look raw from the repeated friction of being rubbed against the tabletop and from my sharp teeth. Oh fuck. I reckon they will hurt like buggery later, if not already. The elbow visible from this angle is rubbed raw, too, for the same reason (the tabletop, not my teeth).

Moving lower to his hips, the right side boasts four perfect imprints of my fingertips from where I rode him hard, four angry reddish ovals which will very soon turn distressing shades of purple and grey. Both hips display a purplish band across them from being repeatedly ground into the edge of the table. His dick remains delicious, long and pale, nestled in its light feathery bed, resting limply against his left thigh. Actually, his legs are okay, too, although they’re trembling slightly, but as long and slim as ever. His toe polish has also escaped damage, although he has a small cut on the sole of his left foot from the shards of the butter dish. Oh, and one over his right big toe too.

So, in summary? Bloody gorgeous.

“Luce…Lucien…are you okay?” I ask tentatively, still not sure what to do with my enormous clodhopping body. Do I lie with him? Cuddle him? Check for other injuries? The flawless white skin of his arms is covered in goosebumps, and I reach for the throw on the back of the sofa and carefully arrange it over him before tucking him in. Covering up the damage I’ve inflicted. I try again.

“Have I hurt you, Lucien?”

Still nothing, although his chest is slowly rising and falling and a few tears keep on appearing, so I know he’s still alive. Great doctoring skills, Jay.

“And I’m sorry about your butter dish. Please don’t tell me it’s from the seventeenth century or something.”

Finally, he opens his eyes, his gaze gently falling on me. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“No, that one was just a gift from Queen Victoria to the twelfth earl, in around 1857, I believe. Part of a very large, unique dinner service. Thanking him for his support in the Crimea.”

Fuck.

“Of course you haven’t hurt me, Jay,” he begins softly. “I may look like I’m made of porcelain, but you don’t have to treat me as if I am. I like being fucked hard sometimes.” He looks hesitant, “I’m crying because…I’m…because every intense emotion makes me tearful these days. If we’d done it carefully and nicely in bed, like we did this morning, then I think I’d be crying a lot more. And I don’t want to cry, I really don’t.”

Fuck, I want to treasure this beautiful man so much; I want to crush him to my chest and not let him go. Falling to my knees in front of him, I stroke his hair. “I don’t want to make you cry either. I want to make you happy.”

He indicates to me to join him on the sofa. Once more, his head is in my lap, and I stroke his brow, planting ridiculous soppy kisses all over his face. “I loved it, Luce. But Christ, that was…well, not what I was expecting, not like…um…so well…rough. What I mean to say is I’m not doing it like that ever again, not as rough as that, even if you ask me to.”

Taking my hand, he brings it to his lips. “You are very sweet, did anyone ever tell you that? Jules…was…he was very cold. I think I’ve probably forgotten that sex doesn’t have to be like that. Next time, we’ll smooch and cuddle and make it perfect.”

Next time. I like the sound of next time. He winces as he makes himself more comfortable.

“I have hurt you. Shit, I’m sorry; I’m a bloody idiot.”

“I’m fine, honestly, just out of practice maybe. As my father used to say, there’s no point having a sword if you don’t draw a little blood every now and again, darling.”

Grinning mischievously at my reddening cheeks, he reaches up for a deeper kiss. “And maybe I’d failed to fully appreciate that your sword is impressively large…”

If ever a comment was designed to put a man in a stellar mood, that’s it. “So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day? Unless you want to just stay here and let me kiss you all afternoon because that would be a good plan too.”

He wriggles with delight. “I’m saving that for later. But I do have an idea for the afternoon actually.”

I raise my brows with interest.

“I’m moving house.”

He registers my look of confusion. “It’s time I stopped hiding. I’m emptying the flat and moving my belongings back into the main house properly. We’ll open it up and turn it back into a home. My home.”

*

Yesterday morning, which seems light years away now, because of all the crazy fucking-over-the kitchen-table stuff that happened afterwards, I woke to the unbelievable sensation of Lucien’s elegant naked body draped over mine and our hard dicks pressed together. This morning is almost as good; I’m sleepily aware of his lips tracing a route up my left arm and then something cool and hard pleasantly slithering around my wrist. I stretch lazily, and my dick stiffens as he moves onto my right arm, bringing it up higher with each delightful press of his mouth so it’s resting with the left one above my head, and then something cool slithers over that wrist too.

Wanting to pull him into my arms, I immediately discover that I can’t. Now I’m properly awake.

“Um…Luce, what the fuck?”

“Shhh, it’s only my pearls, just relax.”

Only my pearls.

Oh, my giddy aunt. He’s only gone and handcuffed me with his precious string of pearls to the bloody wrought-iron bedframe I was so admiring of yesterday. Looped several times around each wrist, a crossover in the middle binds my wrists together, and a final loop over an iron curlicue neatly pins me to the bed.

“Stop tugging or you’ll break them, darling! They’re priceless! Another gift from Queen Victoria.”

I look up to see him now straddling my thighs, naked. With his tousled pale hair and a wickedly impish grin on his perfectly symmetrical face, he looks about twenty years old. I have no idea whether to believe him or not.

“Morning, Jay, darling.”

“Morning, you.” I tilt my chin up to assess the wrist situation. “Don’t we have jobs to go to? Patients to see?”

He nods. “Yes, that’s why I woke you up extra early, so I could do this first.”

“Um…what does this entail?” I ask suspiciously, still eyeing the pearls above my head. “This doesn’t look like the promised smooching and cuddling.”

“This is my plan to give you something to think about over the next few days,” he replies. “So that you don’t forget about me.”

“Hah! No chance of that happening. Not after yesterday’s little escapade over the kitchen table.”

While we’ve been talking, he’s been caressing and flicking my nipples, which apparently also have a nerve directly linking them to my dick. Another glaring error in my anatomy textbooks. They’re already throbbing painfully, and I have a wary suspicion he’s only just starting. He swaps his hands at my nipples for his mouth, causing me to arch my hips up off the bed.

“Careful,” he tuts, looking up through his golden lashes. “My pearls, remember?”

“You do know that I am going to kill you for tying me up without asking my permission first. I’m going to…aaah, fuck that’s nice, so fucking nice.”

“You are beautifully groomed, Jay,” he remarks carelessly, turning his attentions to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

“It’s to make my dick look bigger,” I growl, trying not to struggle against the exquisite torture of his tongue working its way up towards the crease between my hip and my groin. I’m half Italian; if I didn’t pay attention to my body hair with regular manscaping, I’d be mistaken for a gorilla. His hands at my hips pin me down.

“Gosh, your dick doesn’t need any help to look big,” Lucien observes, and he’s instantly forgiven for tying me up.

As if aware of being the topic of conversation, my dick starts dribbling wetness, and Lucien dabs at it, almost daintily, with the tip of his tongue, causing me all sorts of anguish.

“Fuck, Lucien, you’ve had your fun, now untie me so that I can touch you.”

I pointlessly flex my wrists, which only results in the soft click of pearls sliding against one another.

“No.”

His own dick stands tall and straight, and leaning back on his heels, he lazily fists himself, long slow strokes with his thumb circling the slit each time, the sight of which has me leaking even more.

“You enjoy watching me do this, don’t you?” he breathes, caressing his balls with his other hand. A shaft of early morning light catches him through the thin curtains, bathing him in a silvery glow. A more beautiful sight I’m not certain I’ve ever beheld.

“Yes,” I gasp, canting my hips, uselessly fucking thin air. I try pleading with him. “I need you to touch me; bloody touch me.”

“Say please.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, please bloody touch me, Lucien, otherwise your pearls will be scattered all over the floor. Please.”

Lucien would clearly rather me dissolve into a pile of frustrated goo than damage his precious pearls, and he curls his lean body forwards. With both hands steadying my hips, preventing my involuntary upwards thrusts, he firmly licks the underside of my dick before enveloping it in one easy motion into the back of his hot wet mouth. He’s all the way to the hilt, effortlessly it would seem, and I gasp as he begins suckling, his wet slurps and my moans the only sound in the still of morning. He swallows me even further into his throat, his mouth tightly stretched around my shaft. Fuck. My balls clench, my spine tingles, and sensing I’m close, he pulls away wetly, his lips red and swollen.

“Don’t stop, that’s not fair, please don’t stop.” I’m begging, all attempts at any dignity gone.

Releasing his grip on my hips, he generously allows me a couple of pointless thrusts, and I spread my legs wider, digging my heels into the mattress as I uselessly chase something to rub my dick against for relief. Settling himself lower, every nerve fibre fizzes, and I shout out with shock as his clever tongue licks a path from the underside of my balls to…fuck, he’s licking my arse.

“Luce, oh my god, you can’t do that. Stop…oh…fuck, Luce, no…it’s too…oh…fuck. Don’t stop…don’t ever stop…oh…”

It’s too much and not enough all at the same time, his tongue lapping and sucking all around my hole. My dick is going to explode off the bed. I’m slick with sweat from the effort of remaining still while he licks me in that most intimate of places and from wretched, hot embarrassment. He’s got his mouth there, and it feels so fucking unbelievable. I groan and babble complete shit because it’s fucking agony. I want to lift my arse up to his face and shamelessly beg for more while simultaneously wriggling away. It feels wrong to want something so much, to be so open to him in this most private of ways.

“I’m going to come, I’m going to come,” I pant, writhing on the bed. Lightning shoots down my spine and there’s nothing I can do to stop it, and fuck, I don’t want to stop it. My dick is screaming for release even louder than I am. I have never, ever been even remotely this turned on.

And like the utter wanker that he is, Lucien stops, squeezing the base of my dick so hard that I cry out with surprise and pain, before he sucks off the juice leaking copiously from the end. Nearly sobbing with need and frustration, I fuck the air with my bare wet knob, while he leans across and grabs something from the bedside table.

“You’re going to come inside me, Jay. I want this big cock inside me again; I want to feel all of you inside me.”

That voice, that maddening, fey, whispery flutter, the voice that screams sex, sex, and more sex, and fucking hell, I’m lost to him; I want to be inside him again so badly it hurts. Surely now, he’ll loosen my hands. I need to have my hands on him.

But no, my hands stay exactly where he’s tied them, and I whimper as he takes all the fucking time in the world to warm some lube between his palms before kneeling up tall astride me. And oh, fuck, he reaches behind to leisurely, fucking leisurely prepare his arse with his fingers. His dick leaks, too, as he finger-fucks himself, the gorgeous red tip impossibly swollen, wet and shiny as he palms it with his free hand.

“It’s too late, I’m going to come,” I wail, not caring that I’ve lost complete control. “I’m going to come just watching you do that.”

“No, you’re not,” he warns, shaking his head. “You’re going to hold on and wait until I’m riding your cock.”

Nothing could tear my gaze away from Lucien, his eyes briefly closing, biting his lower lip in concentration as he crouches over me and spears himself on my dick. His neck and throat still bear the bruises from my claiming of him yesterday, his nipples still reddened from our rough rutting. His breath hitches, and he briefly grimaces as my whole shaft disappears inside him. He must be sore there too. Stilling, he catching his breath for a few seconds before resting his hands on the tops of my thighs and leaning back.

“You fill me completely,” he breathes, closing his eyes again and inhaling deeply.

Then he begins to move, gradually at first, and I lift my head, hypnotised by the hot, impossibly tight glide of my dick in and out of his stretched pink hole. Opening his eyes wide, they meet mine, and we stare at each other in wonder as our mutual pleasuring reaches a crescendo, my hips rising up to join his downwards press in perfect union.

“I’m close,” he moans as he throws his head back.

His hips jerk suddenly as ropes of creamy, hot jizz spatter my chest and face. Finally given permission, my own orgasm barrels through me, powerful and unstoppable, as his arse spasms around my dick; even when I think I’ve finished, another spasm wrings even more from my empty balls.

Reaching for my wrists while I’m still inside him, he unties me. I throw my arms around him as he comes down on top of me, licking up his own release from my face before sloppily kissing me. I taste myself and his come as our tongues frantically join, and I crush the length of him against me, smelling us, tasting us, joining us.

*

“You’re bloody amazing, Luce,” I pronounce while I’m still reeling in a shattered post-coital haze. “Did anyone ever tell you that? Absolutely unhinged, too. So far, in the two days that we’ve, that you…”

“That I’ve been your best man?” he interrupts mischievously.

“Yes. In the two days that you have been my very best man, I’ve shagged you over the kitchen table, which I loved but am going to do so much more nicely next time, and you’ve tied me up and licked my arse. On a school day too!”

“Heteronormative ideals are terribly overrated, darling.” He giggles, nestling in closer.

Bloody hell, have we really got to get up and go to work? I never want to move again. I’m not sure I’ve the energy to move again.

“Don’t laugh,” I begin. “But it feels like I’ve been watching the snooker in black-and-white and then gone out and bought myself a colour telly.”

I say it with a degree of wonder and feel his happy laugh against me. He’s still sprawled on top, his head tucked into my neck. We’re sweaty and sticky and the bedroom stinks of sex, but neither of us care a jot.

“If you don’t start making lewd jokes about potting the brown, then I can probably live with that analogy, darling. Don’t mention cue extensions either; I may get queasy.”

“I mean it, Luce,” I persist, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s…it’s…everything I’ve been looking for.”

“Is it me particularly, or just having a man in general?”

I pretend to give it some thought. “Well, I’m going to have a crack at old Roger in theatres later today, and Dr Leitner looks pretty hot rocking that red tweed jacket which matches the colour of his cheeks…and now I think about it, Sanjay is…”

I yelp as he bites down hard on my shoulder and then softens it with a kiss.

“Of course it’s you, you bloody drama queen; you had me in Spangles.”