Page 53 of Full Contact

“Shift up,” I said. “I want your weight higher.”

He moved. The next move of his body against me landed exactly where I wanted it, and I said so. He did it again.

“Hands or mouth?” he asked.

“Hands first. I want to watch your face.”

“Then you’ll help me get it right.” His thumb traced slowly along my hip, down into the crease of my thigh, deliberate about taking the long way. “What do you like?”

“A tight grip. Slow until I tell you otherwise.” I ran my hand down his stomach and wrapped it around his cock, thick and hot in my palm, a bead of wetness already at the head. “And this. I like this.”

He exhaled through his nose as I stroked tight and steady. “Yes. Please.” He dropped his forehead to my shoulder. I stroked him slowly, learning the weight of him and the way his hips followed my hand.

“Mark.” His voice was gravelly. “Up here. I want—“

He didn’t finish the thought before I kissed him hard. He wrapped his hand, rough from holding his hockey stick, around both of our cocks, stroking them together.

His fist worked us together, slick with precum, his palm dragging rough against the underside of my cock. I reached around to the back of his thigh and pulled him tighter, wanting more of his weight, more friction, and more everything.

“Not yet,” he said against my jaw. “Slow. I want this to last.”

“You’re rationing me.”

“I’m pacing you. There’s a difference.”

He loosened his grip to prove it, long easy strokes that kept me hard and climbing but nowhere near the edge. He rolled to his side and brought me with him, his hand never leaving us.

He pushed up onto one elbow over me and watched my face while he stroked us, reading me the way he read a rush developing. When his thumb circled the head of my cock I moved into it at the same instant he tightened his grip, and we both laughed against the kiss, breathless. I reached down to cover his hand with mine and speed him up.

He stopped me and took a deep breath.

He looked into my eyes, and I drew him down for another kiss. I thrust into his fist and he answered the movement, grip tightening, stroking us faster, the slick sounds of it loud in the quiet room. Trier had stopped rationing anything.

“Better?” he asked, low, against my mouth.

“Yes.”

I raked the fingers of one hand into his hair and reached for his ass with the other, wanting his weight, and the drag of his cock along mine.

Heat gathered low in me, and I lost control of the sounds I made.

“Mark,” he said and twisted his grip.

I came with my face pressed into his neck, spilling hot over his fist and his cock, my whole body curling into him while his free hand spread flat between my shoulder blades and held me through it.

I shook, and he kept stroking me through it, easing off at the moment the sensation was too much, not a second before or after.

I was still catching my breath when I wrapped my hand around him, slick with my cum, and took over.

“Show me,” I said.

He did. He let me watch—his jaw loosened, and his eyes lost focus. Trier drove his hips up into my grip with a ragged rhythm. I worked him the way he’d told me he liked, tight and steady, and echoed his twist at the head. He swore.

“Fuck—close, Mark,” he said. “Don’t—don’t change anything.”

He came less than thirty seconds later, his entire body pulling taut and then letting go all at once, spilling over my fingers.

He slumped back against the pillows, chest heaving. I kept my hand on him, light now, feeling the aftershocks race through his body, unwilling to miss a single one.