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I brushed my lips against his ear. “You love begging for it?”
His whole body tensed.
Then, so quiet I almost missed it—
“ . . . Yes.”
“Beg for me, Mike.”
“Fuck, El, please. I want you so bad. I need you, baby.”
I groaned, losing control completely.
Because Mike—sharp-tongued, self-assured, always-in-control Mike—was begging.
For me.
And fuck, I was done for.
Thrust after thrust, I poured every pound of muscle into Mike, shoving and pushing and pressing and . . . damn, I was sweating like a racehorse. It poured off my slickened chest, dripping onto Mike’s body, mixed with his own perspiration in the most perfect way.
I grabbed his ankles, his left in my right hand and right in my left, then flipped him onto his stomach. Screw the bedcovers. Splitting his legs apart with my knees, I grabbed each cheek in a hand and spread him open.
“Fucking perfect hole,” I rumbled.
“Your hole,” Mike amended.
“My fucking hole,” I agreed.
Then I slid back into him.
“Oh, God!” Mike shouted into the pillow.
I lay my body atop him, pressed the whole of me against the whole of him, while my cock buried itself deep within. We were the perfect fit, the perfect height. My lips were near his ear, so I whispered, “There’s only one person here now.”
He whimpered, a tiny, weak sound that rocked my world.
“I love you, Elliot Hart. I fucking love you.”
And my world shattered.
Snaking my arms under his chest, I pulled him into an embrace and began pumping, thrusting into him, nipping at his neck while my cock filled him with everything I felt but was only then learning to accept.
I loved Mike Albert.
And not in the way someone loves their favorite sandwich.
No, I loved him in a way that some Greek author would craft in a masterpiece that would live through the ages.
I loved him in ways that would make mountains shake and oceans rage.
I loved him . . .
“I love you,” slipped free.
Mike tensed.
I pressed further into him and held there, squeezed his body, buried my face in his neck.