by PR Zed
An elaboration of Undone
It's been a good night--a nice meal at our favourite restaurant, a few pints afterwards at his local--and it's looking to be better still now that I'm here in his flat.
He slings his jacket--the black leather one that shows his arse so nicely--onto the hatstand and leans against the wall, wearing too tight jeans and a shirt open three buttons more than is decent. My fingers itch and burn just looking at him, thumbs hooked in his belt, one booted foot crossed over the other, a satisfied smirk lurking at the corners of that lush mouth.
Am I going to let him get away with it, looking like a debauched angel? Fucked if I am.
I take one step, then another, moving close and closer still, until there's only room for breath between us, breath and heat. I raise a hand, running my thumb across his bottom lip. That wipes the smirk off his face. His lips part slightly, and I can see his tongue, pink against the white of that chipped front tooth. I want to taste him now, taste the treacle of his dessert and the bitter of his pint. Taste him. But anticipation is its own pleasure, so I stop myself from leaning forward, from taking his mouth with mine.
Instead I trail my fingers down his cheek, down his throat, down his chest, concentrating on the silk of his skin. I stop when I reach the first restraining button, grasping the soft cotton of his shirt with one finger, pulling the fabric away from his skin. I look up, taking pleasure in his obvious arousal, his pupils blown out till only black shows, his chest heaving with the effort of remaining still, his head tipped back against the wall so I can clearly see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows and swallows again.
I could take him now; I want desperately to take him now. My skin is alive with awareness of him; my own breathing comes fast and loud in my ears. But I won't give in to the temptation. Not yet. I've started this game and I'll play it out to the end.
I put one hand above his head, the wall cool against the heat of my palm, and lean in further, letting my cheek almost brush against his, letting my breath stir the curls at the base of his skull. The other hand I trail down one arm, letting the fingertips skim his sleeve. The pressure is enough that he should feel the fabric stir against his skin, but no more.
His eyes close, his head tips back still further, and he moans, the sound emerging from deep in the back of his throat.
"Bodie," he grumbles, but I put a finger on his lips before he can say more.
"Shhh," I breathe into his ear. I feel his lips purse against the tip of my finger, but he doesn't speak again. His eyes open and I see a need in them as great as my own. Not long now. Not long for either of us.
I trail the finger at his lips back down his body, his chin, his throat, his chest, letting it linger at the waistband of his jeans. It hovers there as we both hover, poised on the edge of a precipice we badly want to fall from.
"Go on, then," he says, breaking the silence between us. His voice is rough and low and it razes the last of my resolve.
I put my hand on his belt buckle and pull.
He unbuckles, pulls, and my belt goes clattering to the floor. Neither of us pays a blind bit of notice to the bloody thing. I'm too busy staring at his mouth, pursed in that perfect pout he gets when he's concentrating hard. And him, he's too busy staring at my trousers.
"What took you so long?" I say, my voice husky and hoarse. I take a deep breath, no longer able to feign a cool that burned away hours ago.
"You fucker," he says, and I know for a certainty how close he is to losing control by how strong the Scouse is in those three short syllables.
"You first," I say, knowing that it's exactly what I want, what Bodie needs. And Bodie knows it too. I see it in his eyes, taking in my body with a relentless appetite, even as he seems frozen in place.
But I'm not frozen. I'm burning up, and there's no way I want to drench this flame. I want to nurse it, fan it, feed it till we both blaze and blister.
I arch off the wall, pushing myself against him, the feel of his body making my temperature rise even further. I wrap myself around him, breathe in his scent, feel his heart pounding in his chest, hear his breath catch in his throat.
I tilt my head and let my lips touch his, and my heat melts his ice at last. His mouth opens, tastes me, devours me. Time shudders and stops as he surrounds me. I flame at his touch, wanting more.
Reluctantly, I push away from him.
"Lose the fucking jacket," I order. He does, pulling off his poloneck as well, before ripping off my shirt. I'll curse him later, when I have to sew the buttons back on, but for now I'm ready to tear it myself.
We come together again, and now it's even better, the feel of skin on skin raising us both higher and higher, shared heat keeping us warm even in the chill of the flat.
He nips at my neck, my shoulder, and I growl, what little control I have slipping further away from me, stealing over the horizon without a backward glance. I struggle with his belt and flies, my need making my fingers clumsy. He moans, impatient, pushing his trousers down and kicking them away. I do the same with mine, and there we are, naked, hard and breathless.
And still I need more.
He reaches out, starts to pull me toward him, but I struggle in his grasp. I push him back and turn, chest and face hot against the cool of the wall, offering him what I know he wants to take. Wants to take, but doesn't, leaving me here, waiting, anticipating.
I twist my head, and see him behind me, face flushed, lips parted, cock hard, and panting for it, but wavering. Bastard. His hesitation's no good to me.
I smile, lips peeling back from my teeth in an expression that has as much to do with hunger as humour. "Go on," I say, remembering a different day. "Stick it in." A day when we might have both died, but didn't. "Now."
He startles, as if I've pulled him back from a cliff, and then the hesitation is gone. He snarls, grabs for me and thrusts. There's no subtlety in the action, no mercy, nothing but brute force and power. Exactly what I want.
We both gasp.
I thought I was burning before, but now my body's an inferno. The cool of the wall is the only thing keeping me from erupting in flame. My hands ball up in fists as he digs those strong fingers into the flesh of my hips. I push back against his thrusts, increasing his pace, driving us both faster and higher and hotter.
I'm on the edge; I don't think it can get much better. Then he reaches one hand around to grab my cock and it does. My neck arches back until it feels like it'll break. His other hand grabs a handful of my hair and then his lips and teeth fasten on my throat. He thrusts one more time and my balls pulse.
"Christ," I say, or maybe he does. Hard to say where I end and he begins. We're both burning, both molten. One final pulse and I explode, coming all over his fist as he squeezes tighter.
Then I'm done, and he's only starting. Both his arms go around my chest, supporting my trembling legs as he pounds into my arse. But even he can't last forever. I think I feel the pulsing of his cock before he does, and finally he's coming, biting my shoulder hard enough to hurt, filling me with his seed.
He pulls out, and leans against me, his breath puffing against my neck. I turn in his grasp, and we stand there, holding each other up as our muscles shiver and our breathing slows.
"You ought to be declared illegal," he says, growling the words in my ear.
"Not illegal," I say, smiling. "Just extremely good."
"You think a lot of yourself."
"I think more of you." I'm not smiling now. I'm serious, and so is he.
"It's mutual, sunshine."
It's the closest we'll ever come to admissions of undying love or some other old bollocks, but it's all I need.
-- THE END --