Sweet Filthy Boy

“I like your place,” Ansel says, smiling into the kiss.

I nod against him, tugging his shirt from the waist of his pants. “Would you like the tour?”

He laughs when I grow frustrated as my fingers fumble with his dress shirt in the dark. Why are there so many damn buttons?

“This tour includes the bed, yes?” he says, and swats my hands away, making quick work of the last few and finally shrugging out of his shirt.

“And the table. And the couch,” I say, distracted by the miles of smooth, perfect skin suddenly in front of me. “Maybe the floor. And the shower.”

It’s only been a few days since I touched him but it feels like a year, and my palms slip down his chest, nails curving along the toned lines of his stomach. The sound he makes when I lean forward and kiss his breastbone is something between a growl and a needful moan.

He slips my leotard from my shoulders, pushing it down my arms until my hands are trapped at my sides. “Let’s start with the bedroom. We can make the circuit later.”

“We do have twelve hours to kill,” I say. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and I whimper, having missed him so much it’s like the band around my chest has been broken and I can breathe, deep and full.

The bed is the biggest thing in the apartment and even in the dark, he finds it easily.

He backs to the mattress, kissing me the entire way, and sits down, moving to pull me between his open legs. His hands smooth along the skin at the back of my thighs, up and down until his fingers reach the hem of my underwear. The streetlight down the driveway cuts a dim cone of light across one wall, and I can just make out his face, his shoulders. His pants are open and his c**k is already hard, the tip peeking above the waistband of his boxers, the length pressed flat to his stomach.

He pulls me forward and I feel the heat of his mouth on my neck. “Twelve hours isn’t nearly enough,” he says, pushing the words into my skin. He licks a line between my br**sts, sucks on my nipple through the lace of my bra. I struggle to free my hands and he takes pity on me, pushing my clothes the rest of the way down my body and letting them pool at my feet.

Finally able to move, I push my fingers into his hair and it’s just like I remembered—his sounds, his smell, the way my skin flashes hot when he sucks the skin below my collarbone—how did I think I could live a day without this?

“Want this off,” Ansel says, reaching behind me to unfasten the tiny clasps of my bra. His hands pass the straps, moving the opposite direction as they fall down my arms and his hands slide up over my shoulders and then down my chest, cupping my br**sts. Leaning forward, he palms one, kissing the other.

He makes a small sound of approval and moves one hand down over my ass. “And these. Take them off.” His mouth closes over one nipple, tongue flicking against the peak.

This is the point where I would have needed to disappear inside of someone else, to quiet my mind with costumes and make-believe. But right now, the only person I want to be is me.

“You, too,” I say. “Pants off.” I watch with unrestrained hunger as he stands, and pushes the rest of his clothes to the ground.

Ansel doesn’t prompt me further, just inches his long frame to the head of the bed, lies down, and waits until I slip my fingers beneath the lace and push my panties down my hips. Wordlessly he reaches for himself, gripping his c**k at the base and stroking up slowly.

I climb up the bed, hovering over him with my thighs bracketed on either side of his hips. He releases his cock, and it juts up, hard against his stomach, his eyes wide and focused on the diminishing space between our bodies. With impatient hands, he grips my hips, pulling me higher, positioning me over him.

His jaw is flexed, neck arched back into the pillow, and he growls out a Touch me.

I run my hands up his chest and lower, sliding my fingers down his length and cupping his balls, his hip. There’s something so dirty about being above him this way. I’m bare for him to see, exposed. I can’t hide my face in his neck and disappear beneath the weight and comfort of his body.

This is new for us, seeing him here in my apartment and my bed, his messy head of hair in the center of my pillow. His eyes are glassy, his punch-colored lips red from my kisses, and it makes me possessive in a way I’ve never known before.

“You’re so warm,” he says, reaching between my legs. “So ready.” His fingers slip easily along my skin, exploring, before he grips his c**k and moves it against me. I can’t look away from his face, from his focused concentration where our bodies are touching, and it’s like the air has been sucked from the room, incinerated with a single gasp.

He pushes forward with every small flex of his hips upward, closer, closer, until he’s there, finally, pressing barely inside. I sink down on him slowly, breathing so hard and fast and unable to close my eyes because his expression is unreal: eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, cheeks splotchy and red as he gasps beneath me, overcome.

It’s too full, too much, and I give my body a second to get used to the feel of him so deep. But it isn’t what I want; I don’t want to be still; I want to feel the thick slide of him and his rough hands growing hungrier. I want to feel him all night.

I start with just gentle rocking over him, lost in his reactions as much as he seems lost in the feel of me. His hands grip my hips, anchoring but letting me drive, and finally he opens his eyes, looks up at my face, and smiles, showing the pure essence of Ansel: bright eyes, playful dimple, and his sweet, filthy mouth.