Page 20 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

JESSE

AUSTIN TRAPS HIS bottom lip between his teeth before slowly rolling it out, and something about that visual is hypnotic.

Inch by inch, I move my hand up his thigh, feeling the muscle tense under my palm. By the time my hand flattens against his cock, I can feel he's already hard through the denim.

"So what are you trying to do?" he asks.

I enjoy watching his reaction when I press my palm harder against his erection, the way he sucks in a sharp breath like I've stolen all the air from his lungs.

"I'm not big on plans and strategy," I say, fingers already working to map the shape of him through his jeans. "I think I'd rather wing it. If that's okay with you."

Instead of waiting for an answer, I swing one leg over his lap, straddling him.

Papers and pens crash to the floor from the coffee table behind me—collateral damage I couldn't care less about.

When I settle fully onto Austin's lap and our cocks press together through layers of fabric, we both groan in perfect unison, like we're singing some secret song only we know the melody to.

"I can totally live with that," Austin manages.

I start rolling my hips back and forth, slow at first, testing the friction.

It takes exactly three movements for me to get fully hard.

There's just something about the sensation of another man's dick against mine—even through clothes—that does things to me I never thought possible.

When he places both hands on my waist, squeezing firmly like he's taking ownership of my body, I realize it's not just the sensation. It's him .

Austin pushes his hips up, pressing against me harder, and yeah, maybe it's both. Because the sensation of cock on cock sure doesn't hurt either.

Who knew?

We find our rhythm now, somewhat awkward and bumpy, but a rhythm nonetheless.

Austin's hands grip my waist firmly, and I realize he's guiding my movements now, controlling the pace, the pressure.

He clearly knows what he's doing, and for once I don't feel jealous of his experience.

Not when I'm the beneficiary of all that practice.

I lean back, the motion pressing our cocks together even harder.

I'm fumbling for balance, trying and failing to brace myself on the table behind me, and I'd probably fall backwards if it weren't for Austin's hands keeping me safe.

Every now and then my feet bump against the coffee table, sending more items clattering to the floor.

It's cramped as fuck. But I can remedy that.

"I'd like to show you something," I say.

Austin opens his eyes, but not all the way—his lids stay at half-mast as he works his hips up against mine.

"Yeah?" He's already struggling to speak. "Like what?"

"The inside of my bedroom."

He shoots to his feet so fast it's almost comical, somehow managing to get me vertical and stable as well. It's a miracle I don't land ass-first on the table, which wouldn't be so bad—there's barely anything left on it.

"Great." He grins. "I love visiting new places."

I laugh as we somehow squeeze ourselves from between the furniture to an empty patch of floor.

Austin's already looking around, searching for the bedroom door.

But I won't let him go. Every millimeter of space between us feels like such a waste.

I grab the waistband of his jeans and pull our bodies back together.

Austin yelps, but before he can comment, my mouth is on his and I'm leading him to my bedroom blindly, backwards, kissing him all the way there.

Using my sixth sense to know we've entered my bedroom, eyes closed and mouth still connected to Austin's, I flick on the small lamp by the door and lead him further into the space. I don't stop kissing him until we're in the middle of the small room.

I break the kiss, both of us panting. I don't remember the last time I've been this turned on.

Maybe never.

Because right now, in this moment, I don't remember ever being with anyone other than Austin. It's like he's the only person I've ever been with, ever known, even though that's obviously not the case. But there's something to it, I'm sure.

Maybe we've been together in a past life.

Maybe we've always been together in some alternative timeline.

Maybe we were always meant to be.

We stand facing each other, and Austin takes a step forward, but I take a step back, fleeting from him.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and I have to physically stop myself from laughing at how adorable he looks.

"Sooo," he says, glancing around as if assessing the space. "You wanted to show me around?"

"Oh, I intend to show you things."

He looks at me now, eyebrow raised. Damn, he's cute.

I motion with my head toward my bed. "Make yourself at home."

Tentatively, he steps back and sits on the edge of my queen bed, right where I want him. And his eyes are on me the whole time. Just where I want them.

Then, it's showtime.

Positioned perfectly—strategically—in the middle of the room, I kick off my shoes while simultaneously pulling off both my hoodie and t-shirt, taking them off together and dropping them carelessly on the floor.

The moment my eyes land on Austin again, understanding dawns on his face. His brows fall into place, lids becoming heavy, falling to half-mast.

For a moment I wish I could have kept up the charade just a few seconds longer, but…who am I kidding? I'm entirely too horny for that.

With my eyes locked on his, I undo my jeans before pulling them down and off my body, along with my underwear and socks, because if there was ever a time for excessive efficiency, it's now.

Once I'm fully naked, I pause, taking in the moment. Austin's eyes sweep down my body, then up, then down again. Fully exposed, I wait for embarrassment to kick in. That familiar self-consciousness that would make me want to cover up, run, hide.

But this time, it doesn't come, and even Austin's hungry gaze doesn't derail me, my body and brain cooperating in perfect symphony for what feels like the first time in my life.

The realization hits stronger than any drug ever could.

Isn't that something?

I stand up straight, pulling my shoulders back. I flatten one palm on my sternum, then slowly slide it down my torso, all the way to my navel. Then, without preamble, I wrap my fingers around my cock and give myself a long, leisurely stroke.

Austin moans like he's the one being touched. He pushes his hands under his thighs, as if not trusting himself not to reach out, not to break the spell I have him under, even though the room is small enough that I'm within arm's reach.

"Damn," he mutters under his breath. I'm not sure if it's meant for my ears, but my cock twitches in my palm.

I stroke myself slowly, head falling back, exposing more of my throat while my eyes study Austin's face, drinking in his reactions—all those subtle twitches of his facial muscles, the way his tongue flicks out every now and then, keeping his lips slick and shiny and so fucking kissable.

He tilts his head to the side, his eyes fixed on where my hand is working my cock. "You're so fucking perfect it hurts. I wish I could photograph you right now."

"Not all moments are meant to be captured," I say, a soft moan sneaking in between the words as I twist my palm around the head of my cock, smearing pre-cum around. "Some are meant to be lived."

Austin lets out a shaky exhale, and his gaze lifts from my cock and lazily travels up until our eyes meet. "Do you have any idea how bad I want you right now?"

"Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?"

He's on his feet before my brain registers what's happening, closing the distance in a single swoop.

His body presses flush against mine, like he's chasing every possible point of contact.

My dick's still in my hand, trapped between our bodies when our mouths collide and I find myself walking backward, trusting Austin to lead me safely to wherever he wants to take me until my back hits the wall behind me.

And even when there's nowhere left for me to go, Austin takes another step forward, pressing into me with full force, tongue exploring my mouth, gliding against mine in an effortless dance like we've been practicing this for multiple lifetimes.

He says something, or tries to, his words becoming unintelligible sounds that die in my throat. He does this two more times before he releases my mouth.

His entire body is pinning me to the wall, face close enough that I can feel every breath on my skin. If I lifted my feet now, I wouldn't fall.

It takes me a moment to realize he's waiting for an answer to what I now assume must have been a question.

I chuckle. "You'll have to repeat that."

His tongue makes an appearance again, at the corner of his parted mouth before he says, "Do you have any condoms?"

My breath catches in my throat and suddenly I'm grateful for his full-body support, preventing me from falling over as my cock leaks pre-cum, staining his jeans, or his shirt, or whatever offending piece of fabric is currently separating our flesh.

My excitement is short-lived though, the last operational brain cell reminding me I have none.

I swallow, and shake my head.

"Fuck. Lube?"

Fuck indeed.

I shake my head again.

If he's disappointed, he doesn't show it. Instead, the corners of his eyes crinkle in silent amusement and he tilts his head slightly. "Seriously?"

I suck in my lower lip and try to think of the least embarrassing way to put it. Finally, I settle on, "Sorry. This wasn't exactly on my calendar, you know?"

And although it's the truth, it isn't exactly the reason.

Because the chip with a seven on it doesn't just mark my sobriety. It's also a stark reminder that I haven't had sex in seven years.

I've never had sex sober.