Page 7 of A Very Gay Halloween (Curious #19)

"Both," I growl, surging forward to capture his mouth again.

This kiss is different—hungrier, more aggressive. I shove my tongue into his mouth, claiming him the way he claimed me moments before. He tastes like want and desperation.

His free hand tangles in my hair, holding me in place while he kisses me back with equal fervor. The hand wrapped around his cock continues its slow strokes, and I can feel the movement against my stomach.

When we break apart this time, I'm already moving. Dropping to my knees on the gritty basement floor, ignoring the cold and the dirt and everything else except the man standing in front of me.

His cock is right there, inches from my face, and it's perfect in ways I never let myself imagine.

Thick and curved slightly upward, the head flushed dark with arousal.

There's a prominent vein running along the underside, and his cockhead is slick with pre-come that makes my tongue ache to taste him.

I've fantasized about this moment countless times, usually in the shower with my own hand wrapped around my cock, trying to pretend it was Cooper's mouth, Cooper's hand, Cooper's anything. But fantasy has nothing on reality.

Without giving myself time to overthink, I lean forward and run my tongue along the underside of his cock, from base to tip.

Cooper's reaction is immediate and visceral. His whole body jerks like he's been electrocuted, and a sound tears from his throat—a moan, a curse, a prayer.

"Fuck, August."

Hearing my name in his voice while I'm tasting him for the first time sends a bolt of pure electricity straight to my cock. I wrap my lips around his cockhead, sucking gently, and the flavor explodes across my tongue, salty and musky.

His hand finds my hair, fingers threading through the strands. Not pushing, not guiding, just holding on like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.

I take him deeper, using my tongue to explore every ridge and vein.

I have no fucking clue what I'm doing—my only education comes from stolen glimpses of porn and drunken conversations with guys who probably didn't know what they were talking about either.

But Cooper's reactions tell me I'm doing something right.

His breathing turns ragged, his grip on my hair tightening. Little sounds escape his throat every time I do something that hits just right—a flick of my tongue against his slit, the vibration when I moan around his length.

I start moving my head, taking him as deep as I can manage without choking. The weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my lips around his girth, the way he fills my mouth—it's overwhelming in the best possible way.

My own cock throbs in my jeans, neglected and desperate, but I ignore it. This is about Cooper, about finally giving him what I've wanted to give him for so fucking long.

I pull off to catch my breath, strings of saliva connecting my lips to his cockhead, and Cooper makes a sound like he's dying.

"Don't stop," he pleads, and there's something raw in his voice that makes my chest tight.

Instead of answering, I take him back into my mouth, deeper this time, until he hits the back of my throat. I gag slightly, but push through it, determined to take as much of him as I can.

"Jesus Christ," Cooper pants. "Your mouth... fuck, August, your mouth is..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. I can feel his approval in the way his hips start to move, shallow thrusts that he tries to hold back but can't quite control.

I reach up with one hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently in my palm. They're heavy and warm, the skin soft and vulnerable, and when I squeeze just slightly, Cooper's knees nearly buckle.

My other hand finds the base of his cock, working the inches I can't fit in my mouth. I establish a rhythm—mouth and hand working together, slick with saliva and pre-come.

The sounds filling the basement are obscene. Wet sucking noises, Cooper's increasingly desperate moans, the way his breathing has turned to sharp pants. If anyone were to walk down here right now, there'd be no mistaking what we're doing.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes my cock pulse harder against my jeans.

Cooper's hand tightens in my hair, not painful but firm, guiding my movements now. His hips start to snap forward with more purpose, and I realize he's close.

I double my efforts, hollowing my cheeks, using my tongue to trace patterns along the sensitive underside of his cock. His moans turn into something that sounds almost like sobs, and his whole body starts to shake.

"August, I'm—fuck, I'm gonna—"

But instead of finishing, he uses his grip on my hair to pull me off his cock. I make a sound of protest as his length slips from my mouth, already missing the taste and weight of him.

He hauls me to my feet and crashes his mouth against mine before I can complain. The kiss is deep and dirty and desperate, his tongue seeking out the taste of himself in my mouth.

When we break apart, we're both shaking. Cooper's hands are everywhere—pushing at my shirt, working on my belt, mapping the planes of my chest like he's trying to memorize them through touch.

I mirror his desperation, my own hands eager to feel skin instead of fabric. We shed the rest of our clothes in a frenzy, tossing shirts and jackets aside without caring where they land.

When Cooper pushes me back against the stone wall, both of us finally, completely naked, the contrast edges on overwhelming. Cold stone against my back, Cooper's burning skin against my front. His chest is broader than I realized, defined muscles covered in smooth skin that begs to be touched.

There's a light dusting of hair across his pecs, trailing down to a thicker line that leads to his cock. His body is a fucking work of art, and I can't believe I get to touch it, taste it, claim it as mine.

His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin before he sucks hard enough to mark me. The thought of walking around tomorrow with Cooper's bruises painted across my throat makes my cock leak against his stomach.

"Mine," he growls against my neck, and the possessive edge in his voice makes something primal unfurl in my chest.

"Yours," I agree, and mean it in ways that probably should scare me.

Cooper steps back just enough to reach into the pocket of his discarded jacket. The loss of contact makes me want to grab him and pull him back. Then, I see what he's retrieving.

A small bottle and a condom packet land on top of an old wooden crate nearby.

"Jesus Christ, you just carry those around?"

He shrugs, completely unbothered by my incredulous tone. "Just in case."

I let out a strained laugh that sounds more like a cough. "In case of what, exactly?"

"In case I'd get lucky tonight." His eyes find mine in the dim light. "Guess I got luckier than I thought."

I stare at the supplies like they're going to bite me. This is happening. This is actually fucking happening, and I have no idea what I'm doing. The porn I've watched didn't exactly come with instructional guides, and the few fumbling encounters I've had with girls didn't prepare me for this.

Cooper gives himself a few long, slow strokes, and my mouth goes dry watching the way his hand moves along his length. His cock glistens with pre-come and whatever's left of my saliva, and I want to reach out and touch, but I'm frozen.

"You ever been with a guy?"

The question echoes in my brain. How can he even seriously ask that? Because right now I feel like I'm wearing a neon sign that says 'clueless virgin about to embarrass himself.'

I laugh, but it comes out harsh and brittle. "Do I look like I've been with a guy?"

"That's not an answer."

"No." The word feels heavy. "You?"

"No." He looks up at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "But I've thought about it. You have no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about your mouth, do you?"

Heat floods through me. "Jesus, Cooper."

"How many hours I've spent wondering what you'd sound like if I made you come."

My cock throbs at his words, but there's this sense of terror that dims my arousal. What if I'm terrible at this? What if I hurt him? What if—

Cooper reaches for the bottle of lube and hands it to me. I take it with fingers that shake like I'm having some kind of medical emergency.

The bottle is warm from being in his pocket, and the label is worn like it's been handled before. Which raises questions I don't want to think about right now.

"Are you sure? Because I have no fucking clue what I'm doing."

"Then we'll figure it out together."

Something in his voice makes me look up. He's watching me with this expression I can't quite read—patient but hungry, like he's willing to wait as long as it takes but he's also about to crawl out of his skin.

He steps closer and kisses me. Soft this time, different from the desperate devouring from before. His lips move against mine like he's trying to calm me down. And it works. Some of the panic recedes, replaced by that familiar heat that seems to live in my bones whenever he's near.

When he breaks the kiss, he spins us around so he's the one against the wall. The movement is so smooth I barely register it until his back hits stone and he's looking at me with that same patient hunger.

Then he turns around.

My breath catches in my throat. Cooper braces his hands against the wall, and the muscles in his back flex under smooth skin. I can see every line of him—the curve of his spine, the dimples just above his ass, the way his shoulders bunch as he settles into position.

"Use your fingers first," he says, and his voice carries easily in the basement's acoustics. "Stretch me open."

Stretch him open. Right. Like that's just a thing I do on Friday nights.

"What if I hurt you?"