“Here, take a look.” He holds a paper out to me, and I silently step forward taking it from his hands and trying to read the words on the page, but like the work manual I was supposed to be studying today, the words don’t register. My brain is literally not working.
Instead, I smell the fresh soap on his skin. The product in his hair. The aftershave on his face. And I remember last week when he uttered the words, “I’ve been with men.” That electric shock of arousal hits my nervous system like a storm.
I let the paper settle on the desk and tell myself I need to leave.
I need to leave now.
But I don’t. Instead, I turn toward him, letting my gaze settle on his face when he finally looks up from his paper and stares back. At first his expression is shrouded in curiosity, until his eyes meet mine, and maybe my internal struggle is written all over my face. Maybe I’m not fucking discrete at all, but his face slacks and he gazes back at me like he knows.
Like he fucking knows.
I move first, leaving every thought behind, not giving a shit what could happen or what will happen next as I grab him by the back of the neck and pull his mouth to mine, desperate to taste his lips.
He’s only thrown off for a second. Pure shock I’m sure. Well, I’m fucking shocked too.
But then he’s kissing me back, tasting my lips, my mouth, sucking on my tongue as I force it between his teeth so I can claim his mouth for myself. And he doesn’t stop me. His papers drop to the floor as his hands grip my hips and shove me against the desk, pinning my body with his. A low growl echoes through my chest, and I don’t know if it came from him or me—because he is an extension of me. Or am I an extension of him?
The kiss intensifies until all that exists is the taste of his lips, his breath, his scent, just Ellis. Every tiny movement of his body registering in mine like I’m on his frequency.
“Nash,” he gasps, pulling away to look at my face. “Are you okay?” he asks with a hand on my chest.
Fuck that. I swat his hand away and go in for his mouth again like it’s the only thing I need, the only thing I want. His kiss is oxygen.
With my hands against the soft planes of his chest, I slide them down along the ridges of his ribcage, feeling his skin against my fingers like it’s the first time I’ve touched anyone. And when I reach the waist of his jeans, he doesn’t bother stopping me again. He doesn’t need to fucking check up on me; he needs to never stop kissing me.
As my fingers fumble with the button on his pants, he stumbles forward, like he’s short circuiting, shoving my body even harder against the desk. That’s when he starts tearing at my shirt, but he’s taking too much care with the buttons. Forget that shit. I tear it off, hearing the buttons pop, too anxious to feel his bare chest against mine, and like I expected, it’s fucking heaven. The soft patch of his chest hair against my bare skin doesn’t feel wrong or strange. It feels right.
Somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind is a voice telling me to stop. This isn’t who I am, but I don’t care. Right now, I’m indulging. Just this once. Just for fun.
And since this is the only time I’m doing this, I want everything. Every single thing.
So, I make quick work of his pants, unbuttoning them and pulling them down, and of course, he’s not wearing anything underneath. His hard dick is staring up at me, and there is nothing stopping me from wrapping my hands around it.
So, I do.
Maybe a little too tightly. He moans, deep and husky before latching his teeth onto my jaw, kissing roughly. “Oh fuck, Nash.”
He said my name. I’m holding his cock in my hand. And all of this is happening, and all I can think at the moment is I want to come, so fucking bad. But I want to make him come even more, so I stroke him slow and tight, learning the feel of him in my hand, so surreal. His dick is wider than mine, smooth and harder than a fucking rock.