Page 6 of Edged
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said when he reached down between our bodies and tried to push my dry cock into his hole.
“You already have.”
My breath caught in my throat, and Owen spit in his hand and returned his palm to my cock, jacking my length until I was on the edge and as wet as he could get it.
“Please.”
That time it was his voice, his grip, his hole spreading to accommodate the bare head of my dick breaching his body for the very first time.
“Owen.”
“Talk to me,” he begged, spreading his legs wider. He spit in his hand again and again, adding as much saliva to the place where our bodies were joined.
Even though my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I couldn’t really see where we came together, but I could feel it. The hot grip of his asshole as he relaxed and flexed and eased his way around me. With every grimace and grunt, another inch of my cock pushed into him until I was fully inserted and our bodies were sweaty and pressed together.
I braced myself with one hand on the arm of the couch so I could leverage myself over him without suffocating him, even though the expression on his face looked like he wished I would.
“I’ve never…”
“Me neither,” I said, even though we both already knew the truth about it.
“How does it feel for you?” Owen swiped at his eyes, keeping them tightly closed.
“I don’t think I have words.”
The honest-to-God truth because I hadn’t ever felt anything as good as being inside of him, but the pain of how I’d hurt him was enough to make me want to dig my lungs out of my chest and never breathe again.
“Find them,” he begged. “For me.”
There were some things that I’d known about myself from a very young age, and for as well as Owen knew me, I wondered if he was privy to those secrets too. That the way I talked behind closed doors, the way he’d overheard and taken to make his own, those words were as much for me as they’d been for Mandy. And I worried that if I opened my mouth and gave them to him, I’d make more of fool of myself than I already had.
“I’m close already,” I warned him, finding a slow enough pace so I didn’t spill into him on my next breath.
Between us, he jerked his cock with long and rough twists of his wrist, head falling back off the arm of the couch with a whimper. “I’m close too,” he told me.
My lashes fluttered, eyes rolling back. “Not yet,” I warned him.
The muscles of his channel convulsed around me and I shuddered, going still.
“Not yet, Owen. Make it last a little longer for me.”
“For you?” He snorted, but slowed his hand.
“For you,” I corrected. “Don’t come yet because I don’t want this to end.”
“It’s already over.”
I shifted back onto my heels and pulled him off the couch. It brought us face to face, his hand still moving between us. I answered him with short pumps of my hips, the weight of him against my balls the most delicious thing I’d ever felt in my life.
“No,” I corrected him, even though the fear of his meaning had already taken root at the base of my spine. Tangled up with the treat of my orgasm, it was menacing and angry.
“Archie.”
“Don’t come yet,” I repeated, even as my balls churned with their release.
“I can’t just stop it.” He dropped his forehead against mine. “Can’t stop this.”
“Go slower, then,” I pleaded—I demanded.
