Page 7 of Two for Roughing

“Some guys are into the bossy twink thing.” Liam winked.

Kilian was neither a twink, nor was he especially bossy. Consequently, the guys checking him out were neither rough enough to give him the pounding he was looking for on purpose, nor were they big enough to do it by accident. He didn’t encourage any of them; it wouldn’t do to make the Liam mistake twice, not when his opportunities to get laid came so rarely. His handful of admirers would survive the disappointment.

It would be so much easier if Liam wanted to top.

But Liam had struck gold already. Over Kilian’s shoulder, he’d caught the attention of someone with his dance moves, all sultry winks and exaggerated hip thrusts. And now, he was sandwiched between Kilian on one side and a tall, muscly white guy with a tribal tattoo on the other.

Kilian was about to leave them to it and head to the bar for more vodka when a thick arm wrapped around him from behind.

“Hey, sweetheart,” said a voice with a thick Texan accent.

Kilian looked over his shoulder.

The stranger stood a few centimeters taller than him and had a bit more cushion over his muscles than Kilian. He was older, thirty at least, and he had a beard.

“Hey,” he said with a grin.

It only took about ten more minutes of grinding to get the guy into the bathroom, which looked much dingier an hour on. He crowded Kilian into a stall, big hands on his hips, and licked into his mouth as soon as the door closed. Kilian relaxed into it, letting his body go soft and pliant.

“You got a condom?” he asked between kisses.

Spit cooled on his chin. He wanted to wipe it off, but that seemed impolite.

“Shit, yeah,” the guy said. Kilian wondered if it was too late to ask his name. “You wanna…”

Kilian turned around and unbuttoned his jeans. They were so tight he had to do an ungainly little wiggle to get them over his ass, and he pushed down the briefs underneath right after.

A callused hand palmed his cheeks, spreading them apart.

“Your ass is amazing. Ten out of ten. You must do so many squats.”

Squats. Sure. What could Kilian say in response? No, actually, I ice skate for a living? “Thanks.”

Lubed fingers prodded his hole, smearing slick around. “You need prep?”

“I like when it hurts.”

There was a pause, and then the guy’s cock notched against him. He pushed in slow, too slow. Kilian wanted it rough, wanted to be fucked as though he didn’t mean anything. But judging by the way the Texan palmed his side gently, Kilian wouldn’t get his wish.

“Doin’ okay, darlin’?” the man asked.

The accent was wrong. Too musical, too twangy, not thick enough. Not what Kilian wanted to hear from the man behind him, gripping his hips tight as he fucked inside.

“Yeah. It’s good. C’mon, fuck me.”

The man did as he was told. Not hard enough, but the danger of it, the inherent sluttiness of getting railed in a public bathroom, was enough to get Kilian hard.

Would the man call him a slut if he asked? Would he tell Kilian he was too easy, too loose, too…everything?

Or would he call Kilian pretty?

A thrust caught Kilian’s prostate just right, and he was begging before he could think twice. “Please,” he said, not out of breath but out of shame. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what, darlin’?”

Kilian opened his mouth to ask for it, to say what he wanted, but the calluses on the hands on his hips weren’t in the right spots and the voice in his ear was too smooth and the shame of it all overtook him again. “Tell me I feel good,” he begged instead.

It wasn’t a great fuck. It was all right. Kilian had had much worse in the few months since realizing who he was and what he wanted. He ached for a man who could fuck him into a trembling mess of nerve endings, a man who could make him come untouched. No one had recreated the feat since Denisov.