Page 8 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

EIGHT

Gimmie Moiré

L ocky and Adriana were trying to calm Jared, whose twitchy footsteps were echoing through the cavernous lobby, all sharp lines and blaring white lights. Office buildings in San Francisco generally went one of two ways—friendly, open-aired lofts, or sterile steel hangers—and the entrance to Dellacor Industrial was definitely the latter.

It was a decor that made Jared’s polka-dot tie and double-breasted suit stand out even more. The look wasn’t helped by the crumpled paper bag he was huffing on, something Locky had only seen in movies.

“Buddy,” said Locky, as Jared paced circles around the gray leather lounges. “We’ve talked about this. You’ve got great skills and great references. And the fact they want to interview you shows they’re interested.”

“Yeah,” said Adriana, trying to keep pace with Jared’s frenetic speed. “And we went through interview questions like a million times yesterday. They worked for my interview with White Stone, and they’ll work for you too!”

Jared pulled his face from the paper. “They won’t work for me! What if they ask something we haven’t prepared for? What if they hate me and think I’m weird and I screw everything up!”

“Jared,” said Locky, stepping delicately into his path. “Did you like working at SunSpark?”

Jared looked up from the floor and nodded, the bag crinkling as it inflated.

“And what did you like about it?”

Adriana plucked the bag away and basketball shot it into a nearby trash can, leaving Jared with nothing but a guilty look. “I just... I liked putting things in order. The green energy industry is growing so fast, and there were always new deals and new clients and new contracts. I liked finding order among the chaos.”

Locky reached over and straightened Jared’s tie. “Well, Dellacor is big into 3D printing. A leader in an exciting new industry. Lots of new deals and new clients and new contracts. So tell them exactly what you just said, and I promise they’ll love it.”

Before Jared could respond, a woman appeared by the elevators, calling his name.

Locky patted Jared’s chest companionably, feeling the pounding heartbeat beneath. “You got this, buddy. I know you do.”

When Jared was gone, Locky and Adriana slumped onto the lounges—careful to avoid a Tupperware cake carrier. They shared an exhausted look, having spent the better part of two days helping Jared prepare, including several interventions to stop him canceling the interview altogether.

Not that Locky had minded the distraction.

It had given him an excuse to not see Benedict.

Not that Benedict had done anything wrong! Even if Locky did get skin-prickles and butterflies thinking about their long day of baking. Of running fingers up each other’s forearms. Of the final words Benedict left him with:

What if I really liked where that conversation was going, Mr. Sorenson?

Locky gulped at that memory—at the way Benedict had said it. Because, yes, Locky had started all this. He’d changed everything between them with his suggestion .

But now, Locky didn’t have the first clue what to do. Benedict was interested in where that conversation was going —helping Locky break his sexual drought. But how would it happen? And when? And how was Locky supposed to behave now?

He had a social media session booked with Benedict in a few days’ time, and he was already nervous about how their dynamic would shift. Like... should Locky waltz in wearing nothing but a jockstrap and just go for it? Or should he wait until Benedict made the first move? Or was he supposed to just act normal and go with the flow?

Locky’s ten years of abstinence had never felt so obvious. Because he didn’t have the first clue how to flirt anymore. It used to be so easy! Walk into a club, find someone with a vaguely appealing face, and just go for it. But now Locky knew that he’d be overanalyzing every look and touch and tone of voice.

It wasn’t like he wanted to rush things along. This was new and sweaty and scary. But this current situation, where the sex might happen at any moment, was putting him on edge.

“What’s the cake for, Boss Man,” said Adriana, lazily tapping the plastic container with an acrylic nail.

“You remember Grace in marketing? It’s her thirtieth wedding anniversary. What? Don’t give me that look. She was there when I started, and she was always lovely to me.”

“Are you going to cycle cakes around town forever?”

“Not forever . Just until everyone is settled into new jobs.”

Adriana clicked her tongue, her expression somewhere between disbelief and admiration. “You really are something, you know that?”

Locky looked away awkwardly. “It’s nothing. Everyone would do the same thing.”

“No,” said Adriana, giving him a gentle flick on the forearm. “They really wouldn’t.”

* * *

There was no phrase in the English language worse than act natural. Particularly when Locky had completely forgotten how his hands worked.

Seriously, where did he normally put them? Jamming them by his side made him look like he was hiding in a broom closet. Crossing them in front of his apron made him look like a toddler apologizing for breaking Granny’s best vase. And shoving them on his hips made him look like he was about to launch into a rendition of I’m a little teapot .

“Wow, so natural!” said Benedict, looking up from his chunky digital camera, the one he’d been wielding for the last half hour around the Pizza My Mind kitchen.

“I told you I’d be terrible!”

“No, come on, you look great! The pinstriped business shirt and rustic apron is a very sexy vibe.”

Locky tried to stomp down the blush before it started. It felt like he’d spent their last few meetings as a KitchenAid.

If anything, Locky’s twitchiness was worse than he’d anticipated—a twitchiness that Benedict didn’t seem to share. Because why would he? Benedict had already told him the situation. Locky wasn’t going to open his store, so he was low risk. That meant Benedict wasn’t going to get nervous about this arrangement. He could be as relaxed and flirty as he liked.

Which might have been why Benedict seemed particularly playful today. Like everything carried a little more meaning.

It would have been frustrating—well, it was frustrating—but it would have been even more frustrating if that playfulness wasn’t so damn effective. Because after ten years, the last thing Locky wanted was some slick nightclub bad boy, strutting around with an impersonal chat-up line and treating him like a piece of meat. He wanted someone who understood his situation. Someone who could make space for things to go wrong or be awkward or for Locky to freak the fuck out.

“Do we have to do social media?” Locky groaned, after far too many shutter clicks. “Couldn’t we finish the menu development? Choosing pies for the permanent menu actually sounded fun.”

Benedict scooted around, grabbing different angles. “And we will, Mr. Sorenson. But the social media package takes time to finish. So it’s better to start now.”

Locky huffed, not even trying to pose anymore. Because what was the point of social media?

He hadn’t stayed with his therapist long enough to pinpoint exactly what his mental disorders were. General anxiety disorder? Sure, he got nervous about certain things, but not persistently enough to tick that box. A phobia of spending money—or chrometophobia as Dr. Jenkins had said with his smug little smirk? On himself, absolutely. It wasn’t an accident that he rode a third-hand pile of rust everywhere, or that he paid cut-price rent to a friend when he could’ve started his own mortgage years ago. But that didn’t explain his lack of concern spending money on other people, like buying good coffee for the nightly meeting or donating to Evelyn’s charities or treating his team to a celebratory lunch at the end of a major project.

In fact, the only thing Dr. J had completely ruled out was a social anxiety disorder—assuring Locky that his fear of getting a boner in public was more of a justifiable aversion to getting fired for lewd conduct.

If anything, Locky liked being around people. Preferred it, in fact. He even liked crowded spaces, which let him fade into the noise and momentum of an area.

In those first few months after he found his sobriety, he would often just sit in the mall food court with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of normal life around him, mundane conversations and the clacking of trays and the notices over the speakers—the sounds of people who woke up and went to work and didn’t stumble into a stranger’s bed at 4 a.m.

But, as social as Locky was, social media had never appealed to him. Because how did sending messages over the internet create friendships? How did posting photos of your breakfast bring people together?

“And this will definitely be private?” Locky asked, over the endless camera clicks.

“Yup, I’ll make up a website and create the social media profiles, but I’ll set them all offline, ready for you to take over down the line—and yes, I know you don’t have any intention of actually doing that.” Benedict scrolled through his handiwork on the camera screen. “Right, that’s enough stills. Time for some video!”

Locky threw back his head. “Seriously?”

Benedict slid Locky the box of ingredients they’d brought from the apartment. “Come on, grumpy pants. The website will look more professional if there’s video of you getting all cute and artisanal.”

Locky grumbled as he unpacked, again having to supress the blush at Benedict calling him cute . “Couldn’t we have done this back home?”

“Trust me, the white-and-silver vibe will make everything pop. Plus, the owners begged Tris to give you a free day in here. They seem pretty desperate to get a tenant in.” As if on cue, a beam of sunlight drifted through the window. “Oh, that’s perfect! Just pretend I’m not here. Try to?—”

“Act natural?”

“ Exactly! ”

* * *

“Huh?” said Locky, the half-kneaded dough running thick and sticky through his fingers.

Benedict stared at the camera. “Crap. It looks like we’ve got moiré.”

“What the hell is moiré?”

“It’s a camera thing. Fine patterns can sometimes go weird on video. See?”

Locky could indeed see the problem, although it wasn’t the first thing he noticed. The framing of the video was surprisingly beautiful, with the white walls and golden sunlight making everything look far more professional and high-end than he’d expected . The only problem was the way the pinstripes of his business shirt were blurring into one hideous splodge. “Oh, God. Is there some button you can press to make it go away?”

“Unfortunately not. Sorry, I should have told you to wear a solid color.”

Locky stared at the screen. As much as he hated having his picture taken—and he really did—there was something almost magical about the image playing back. The colors seemed even warmer than real life, like honey had been brushed over every surface. The ovens in the background faded off into a beautiful blur. And the way he was centered at the bench, with his apron flour-dusted and his sleeves rolled up...

Locky realized that he’d never seen himself bake before. And right now, in this video, with the sunlight and the framing and the way he was kneading the dough, he just looked... right .

He looked like a real baker.

“So we can’t do anything to save it?”

“Sorry, it’s just one of those things. But we can set up at your apartment. Change clothes there?”

Locky glanced out the window, at the golden light that wouldn’t last long. And then he looked at Benedict, wearing his light gray suit. He wasn’t wearing a tie today, which was new for him, but he was wearing a crisp white business shirt, without a single pattern or pinstripe to be seen.

“Could we... maybe swap shirts?”

To Locky’s surprise, Benedict immediately tugged off his jacket, revealing the swell of his broad chest and shoulders. “Great idea! Quickly, let’s try and keep the light.”

As Benedict reached for his shirt buttons, Locky tried to speak—to explain that he hadn’t meant getting naked it front of each other right here!

But he was too late.

Benedict had already removed his shirt.

And Locky forgot entirely about the video.

Sunlight glowed across Benedict’s neck and shoulders, silhouetting a strong and stocky chest with tight black curls of hair roaming over his full belly, as if directing the eye to wander over all his masculine heft. His arms were pure bulk, not toned exactly, but adding beautifully to the width of the man. And yet, despite the allure of Benedict’s exposed skin, Locky’s gaze was drawn to something else entirely.

Something he hadn’t expected.

Something that set his stomach aflutter.

“Your nipples,” said Locky, gulping at the two glints of steel among the obsidian. “You... you have them pierced?”

Benedict had already undone the top button of his suit pants when he’d freed his shirt, revealing a peek of bright red waistband. But now he paused from his haste, taking in Locky’s expression.

And suddenly his demeanor changed. Before he’d been undressing as function, to swap clothes quickly and not lose the light. But suddenly he was grinning.

Suddenly he was hungry .

Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, thought Locky, as Benedict stepped closer. Is it now? Am I ready? Do I even want this?

His cock answered the physical part of the question for him, rising rapidly beneath the apron, like a loyal soldier called to war.

Locky’s skin prickled as Benedict walked toward him. So big and handsome and with such intent in his eyes. Eyes that wanted to touch Locky. To kiss him. To consume him.

Locky’s dick throbbed hard at that, confirming that it wanted those things too. And yet, against that urgent arousal were other thoughts. Darker thoughts. Thoughts about what might happen afterward—of the bad habits he might fall back into.

Benedict stopped mid-step, clearly seeing the conflict on Locky’s face. But rather than disappointment, he smiled—not with the ravenous glare of moments earlier, but with a gentle, beautiful understanding.

Benedict took a cloth from the counter and wiped Locky’s hands free of their remaining flour. Then he leaned down and kissed the back of each hand.

His lips were broad and soft as marshmallows. His touch was as warm as a purring cat. And when he looked back at Locky, his eyes seemed to carry a little of the season with him. “Just because we push boundaries together, doesn’t mean you have no voice, Locky. I want you to feel empowered to take risks. But I never want you to feel obligated.”

Guilt smashed through Locky, that his conflicted expression had ruined?—

Benedict squeezed Locky’s hands. “No, no,” he said, in a voice like cinnamon sugar. “Never feel guilty about your fears—because that might stop you from speaking. And I want to hear your voice, okay?”

Locky pushed away as much of the guilt as he could, finding some small measure of relief. He’d never had anyone talk to him like this before. To acknowledge his fears so openly. To invite him so intimately into the moment. “Okay,” he said through heavy breaths, before adding, “do you... know the green, yellow, red system?”

Benedict’s knowing expression made Locky’s cock pulse beneath his apron. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises, Mr. Sorenson.”

“It wasn’t always my thing!” he stammered, his mind racing at what it meant for Benedict to be immediately familiar with a system of kink consent. “But if other people were into that kind of stuff... I was pretty open to it.”

“Well, I definitely know the system,” Benedict said, stepping closer, like a jigsaw piece sliding into place. “And I am definitely into that kind of stuff.”

Locky gripped the back of his own neck, hot and already sweating. “Really?”

Benedict almost purred. “Oh yes. And if I remember my training, Mr. Sorenson, green means I’m okay for now. Yellow means that I’ll stop what I’m doing, but stay with you in the moment, waiting for you to tell me what you need. You’ll use that if you need a second to think, or if you aren’t sure, or if things are moving too fast. And red means I’ll stop entirely. I’ll step back and the play will be over.” Before Locky could object, Benedict laid another soft kiss on the back of each hand. “And I promise I won’t be angry if you make that call. These words are your tools, Locky. Your powers. And I want you to feel like you can say them without fear. I promise that I’ll respect those words, if you can promise that you’ll use them?”

Locky drifted on the staggering lightness of Benedict’s understanding. “Yes,” he whispered. “I promise.”

“ Excellent ,” Benedict chuckled. “And I know this must be a lot for you. So we don’t have to do anything today. Just because I take my shirt off doesn’t mean we have to?—”

Benedict had made to step away, but Locky shocked himself by slipping a hand behind Benedict’s broad back, holding him in place. It hadn’t been a conscious choice. It was instinct. Because this man—so kind and so caring—was far too beautiful to let walk away.

Locky’s heart pulsed as he glanced from chest to eyes—the final decision heavy in his heart, knowing that he could just let go, that he could save this for another day.

And yet, right now, so close and so possible, Locky didn’t want to wait another moment. Because ten years had already been far too fucking long.

“I don’t know how this will go, Benedict,” he whispered, stomach twisting as hard as his cock pulsed. “I can’t even tell you what I want, or don’t want, or what I’m comfortable with. And I don’t know if I’ll be any fucking good at this. But... green .”

He’d expected Benedict to ask if he was sure. But instead, the bigger man eased himself back into the crook of Locky’s thighs, grinning wide and wicked.

And Locky realized why Benedict hadn’t second guessed him. Because Locky had said green. And those were his words to wield. His power. His control.

Just like Benedict had told him.

Just like Benedict had promised him.

And Locky knew right then, with a certainty he couldn’t explain, that Benedict meant what he had said. And that he would respect his words: be they green or yellow or red.

The knot in Locky’s stomach relaxed as Benedict hooked fingers under the straps of his apron, running knuckles slowly from Locky’s chest to the back of his neck. That touch sent little sparks through the cloth, like metal against a grinder.

How long had it been since someone had touched him like this, so delicate and so full of promise?

Locky let out an involuntary exhale as Benedict slid thumbs up his neck and toward his jaw, easing Locky’s face up. Making him look at the man in front of him. Making him want the man in front of him.

And sweet Mother Mary, he did . In this moment, Locky had never wanted anything more. He wanted Benedict to teach him. To show him. To remind him of the pleasure he’d denied himself for so long.

“So,” said Benedict. “You like my nipples, huh?”

“Yes,” whispered Locky, his voice low and hot.

Benedict glanced down to see the impact he was having on Locky’s body, very obvious, even through his apron. “You like them that much?”

Locky nodded, forcing back the instinct to cover his bulge. That conflict was strong, but the moment won out. Because Benedict wasn’t ashamed of seeing Locky’s reaction. If anything, he looked fucking thrilled.

Benedict leaned in and Locky’s heart flipped like a pancake on a skillet, thinking Benedict was going straight in for the kiss. Instead, Benedict brushed past his lips, hot cheek against hot cheek, beard thick against his own. Benedict’s skin radiated warmth, smelling of sweet, pink musk.

Benedict’s lips moved in tiny circles on the path to Locky’s ear, “Why do my nipples make you so fucking hard, Locky?”

Locky’s skin crackled at the closeness, at words so dirty and so raw. “Because you’re not supposed to pierce that part of your body.”

“Why?” said Benedict, running hands back down the neck loops of Locky’s apron, slowly tracing across his shoulders and chest, before stopping at the edge of Locky’s pectorals.

Benedict’s thumbs rubbed knowingly at that spot, just an inch from each nipple. Locky’s shoulders twitched as Benedict eased his thumbs under the apron cloth, closer and closer to the sparkling center of nerves, but not yet touching them.

I’ll get there , Benedict’s thumbs seemed to say. But where’s the rush? I’m going to take as long as I like with your body, Mr. Sorenson.

Out loud, Benedict said, “So piercing there is naughty , huh?”

Sharp shivers ran through Locky.

Naughty.

The word he hadn’t let himself be in a very long time.

Locky brushed his cheek back against Benedict’s, wanting more than a passing touch. Wanting to feel that skin press hard against his own. “Yes.”

Benedict growled at Locky’s enthusiasm, a rumble that made Locky want to give himself over even more. To do whatever the man wanted. “Want to know something even more naughty?”

Locky’s whole body shook as his mind raced with possibility. “What?”

“My cock’s pierced too.”

Locky jolted as a tongue tip traced the edge of his earlobe. And he jolted even harder as Benedict’s thumbs completed their journey, finding his hard nipples under the apron.

That touch sent crackles of unfamiliar pleasure through Locky, and he bucked his hips on impulse, feeling the slick of precum glide beneath his foreskin, sliding gently back and forth with each movement against his denim cage.

The sensation against his nipples was so sharp and so unfamiliar that he almost couldn’t stand it. Locky was suddenly brutally aware of how long it had been since he’d felt anything like this. Since he’d allowed himself to feel anything like this. It was a rage and a rapture that had been imprisoned for far too long.

“Don’t... don’t you feel that all the time, though?” Locky whispered through the bolts of pleasure. “Wouldn’t a cock piercing make you want to do this all day long?”

Benedict dragged his cheek back until the two of them were forehead to forehead. Locky’s own vision was filled by Benedict’s hungry gaze. And somewhere deep inside Locky yearned for that hunger. The way those eyes were wanting him. The way those eyes were devouring him.

“All fucking day,” Benedict growled. “Every time you’ve ever seen me, I’ve been primed to fuck you.” Benedict pressed their noses together, until their lips were just inches apart. “Just like now .”

Locky whimpered at the reality of the words. At how horny Benedict looked. “Like... now?”

“I’m so fucking hard for you right now,” Benedict said, shameless with his arousal, grinning like the demon in his dreams. “Just like you are for me. Right?”

Locky nodded, unable to deny it. Not wanting to deny it. Because he wanted Benedict to know the effect he was having.

“ Good .”

Benedict’s fingers moved slow from Locky’s nipples, brushing over Locky’s belly and pausing to take in his curves. The man’s growls intensified as he did so, making Locky feel more desired than he ever had before. What little he could remember of his past experiences had been fast and furious affairs. No one had ever savored him before—taken their time on his body, like they never wanted the moment to end.

Benedict ran knuckles down Locky’s hips and over the substantial curves of his ass, before finally coming to rest on the edge of Locky’s thighs, where the apron was bunching over his bulge.

Benedict’s thumbs brushed that fabric threshold, like guards patrolling a city wall. The touch was intimate, promising the next direction of their play. Promising something that Locky hadn’t experienced in ten fucking years.

The bigger man looked deep into Locky’s eyes as he leaned in. Their lips almost touched, stopping just before the kiss took place. He was so close now that Locky could taste his breath, sweet as caramel and clove. “Do you want to feel my pierced cock, Locky?”

“Yes,” he said, faster than he’d meant to. The voices of dissent were still there in his head, like always. But that stare, so close and so intimate, was louder than they could ever be, anchoring Locky to this moment and this man.

“And I can touch yours?”

“Yes!” Locky said, urgently. And to his shock, there was no doubt in those words. Because he wanted Benedict’s hand around his cock. Just like he wanted his own around Benedict’s.

“Can I kiss you, Mr. Sorenson?” said Benedict, his hands already sliding under the apron’s hem. Each fingertip was spread against Locky’s thick thighs, drawing toward his target.

And rather than respond, Locky did what felt right. What he’d been wanting to do for far too fucking long.

He kissed Benedict.

Benedict grunted in surprise, before kissing him back, firm and fiery.

Warmth swelled through Locky, huge and hot and bigger than his body could contain. In one burning instant he felt more complete than he could remember. All this time, all those teasing touches, had been like electricity arching between two distant rods. But now they were entwined in their contact, bolts bright and blue and making the air buzz.

Benedict’s tongue came next, hasty against Locky’s own, spiking an urgency that Locky didn’t know he had. Because, suddenly, it was like there wasn’t enough time to do everything he wanted.

Benedict thrust his hand beneath Locky’s apron, wrapping fingers around Locky’s bulge. He slid his grip up the already wet denim, gasping at just how far he had to go to get to the tip.

Benedict’s touch, even through his jeans, made Locky’s foreskin glide against the mess of precum in his underwear. He squirmed hard at the sudden sensation, but didn’t break the kiss. Wanting both parts of the man—his mouth and his hand.

Locky returned the gesture, finding Benedict’s cock jutting out of his half-open fly, slicked and thick in his own underwear, already hard beyond description. Locky ran his thumb along the underside of Benedict’s shaft, reaching his cut cock head through the thin fabric, flared and rigid.

And then, with his own tiny gasp, Locky found the piercing—solid steel and far hotter than he’d thought it would be, even through Benedict’s underwear. It was a ring, a little thicker than he’d expected, closed under his thumbprint by something like a ball-bearing. To Locky’s surprise, it rotated effortlessly under his touch. The soft cotton and the slick of precum making the ring glide at even the slightest twitch.

The effect was instant.

Benedict broke the kiss, shaking involuntarily and muttering tiny oh, God -s under his breath. Locky relished that—the way those tiny movements, his tiny movements, could bring this man to heel, making it so Benedict could barely string words together without shaking.

Locky moved the ball slowly around to Benedict’s urethra, then slid it back to just below his frenulum, allowing the full circle to move back and forth in its slippery rotation.

Benedict’s eyes fluttered with each twist, like he didn’t know where he was anymore. Like he was completely overtaken by the sensation.

Locky held Benedict’s gaze, marveling at the intensity of his reaction. At how the precum grew heavily beneath his touch, so wet that it started dripping in thick, clear strings, even through the fabric.

Benedict seemed barely able to keep his eyes open, jolting hard at the sensation. The bigger man reached around Locky’s neck and pushed their heads together, already coated with sweat. “You... are so fucking good at that, Mr. Sorenson.”

The pressure around Locky’s midsection eased as Benedict undid the apron. His hands were impatient now, snapping open Locky’s fly—his cock so hard that the lightest touch made the buttons pop apart.

Benedict pulled Locky’s waistband out and down, causing his cock to bounce out into the free air. The precum was overflowing against his furry belly in clear, salty strings.

But it wasn’t free for long, because Benedict immediately gripped around Locky’s cockhead, sliding his thumb under the foreskin.

And now it was Locky’s turn to jolt.

Benedict’s touch was firm—no light flicks or gentle grazes. Instead, he pressed hard against the sensitive triangle of skin on the underside of Locky’s glans.

Locky kissed Benedict hard at that, swallowing gasps of pleasure as Locky returned the favor, tugging Benedict’s underwear to his knees with an audible slap of dick against belly. Benedict’s cock seemed even thicker in Locky’s bare hand—so girthy that he couldn’t close his fist around it.

That hard flesh pulsed as Locky slid his hand along the shaft in fast strokes, slicked wet and with plenty more precum drooling out with each pump.

Locky knew that he should slow down and let the moment play out. But ten years of frustration where boiling inside him, sizzling at just how fucking hard Benedict’s cock was under his attention.

The piercing rotated under his wet palm, each stroke sending it back and forth inside Benedict, making the man whimper and swirl his hot tongue faster around Locky’s mouth.

Benedict returned that perfect punishment. He gipped Locky’s foreskin and slid it down, exposing his pink glans, prickly and sensitive and desperate for more. No sooner were they out than Benedict glided the foreskin back up, sending a pulse of intense fire down Locky’s shaft and deep to his balls. That fierce sensation was so unfamiliar, so forgotten, that Locky vibrated at how overwhelmingly complete it felt—sharp and soft and sensitive all at once.

Faster and faster they stroked each other, like they were fighting to make the other lose control first. Their tongues were a singular storm as they both struggled to maintain their composure, gasps and growls and mad mutters into each other’s mouths.

Locky stroked Benedict faster with each groan, relishing the power of his girth and the hardness of his head. Locky couldn’t get enough of it. He wanted to feel every bulging vein. He wanted to squeeze every inch of smooth and sensitive skin.

That ferocity made Benedict reciprocate, sending the slide of foreskin back and forth in fast flicks.

Soon they were fisting each other’s cocks, both of their knuckles soaked with strings of dancing precum.

It was a foolish war for Locky to wage. No matter how horny Benedict was, he didn’t have ten years of frustration pent up inside him.

Suddenly Locky felt the pressure build in his balls. It came on fast and ferocious—far quicker than he’d expected—the pleasure morphing from low threat to imminent explosion in a matter of seconds.

“Benedict,” he warned, realizing how close he was to the edge. Each word was a struggle against the sensation. “We should... we should slow...”

But before he finished the sentence, Benedict kissed him back hard, grabbing a handful of Locky’s hair as their tongues blurred together.

And to Locky’s surprise, Benedict lost the battle.

Benedict grunted hard across Locky’s tongue as the first jet of cum splashed between their bodies and across their chins. The sheer force of the shots took Locky by surprise, but he jerked the man’s cock even faster, causing bolt after bolt of salty warmth to blast across their cheeks and beards and up onto their lips, the shots somehow growing in volume and force.

Benedict held Locky’s head in place as he kissed him with an outstretched tongue, leaving hot air between their lips. Suddenly, one of the cum jets smacked against the underside of their tongues.

That taste of boiling cum—primal and filthy and so long forgotten—sent Locky over the edge.

His first shot slapped hard across Benedict’s chest like cannon fire, sending beads of cum splashing everywhere. But that was the only shot Locky felt in full, because everything after that blurred into volcanic fury. Benedict held him close as tectonic explosions rocked Locky’s whole body, deep from his pulsing balls and through his rock-hard cock. All Locky could feel was the fury of the pulses, the blissful sensations so hot and sticky that he couldn’t stop. Each soul-shaking blast soaked the cavern between them, like someone had flung a bucket across their chests.

Locky tried to speak, to apologize, but Benedict only stroked him harder, kissed him harder. The man was growling at how much Locky was cumming, and that only made him shoot harder, spraying huge blasts that made his whole body feel like he might implode into this moment. Into this man.

Because all this imprisoned bliss needed to be freed from his aching balls. It needed to roar to life. It needed to scream from his body, all the deprivation and neglect banished in a moment of pure ecstasy.

When the sensation at last stilled, Locky opened his eyes, having to blink a few times to refocus against the intense haze.

Benedict looked back at him, panting and drenched with both of their enormous loads.

And Locky wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone smile so brightly.

* * *

Benedict’s room was neat and ordered and cold—the opposite of how Locky felt right now.

Because there was nothing neat about the sensations across his skin, the remnant stickiness in his beard, even though he knew he’d washed himself clean.

Just like there was nothing ordered in his mind, twisting confusion and wrenching disorientation. The way he’d given himself over to the furious heat of his carnal urges. And yet, that terrible shame was battling against great air-punches of pride for having the courage to break his drought.

Just like there was nothing cold through Locky’s soul right now. Not with Benedict here, holding him tight beneath the sheets.

Locky’s frame was folded into the bough of Benedict’s body, strong and secure. One arm was wrapped over Locky’s heart. The other held him by the belly, fingers running gently through his sandy fur.

And even though Benedict had offered for Locky to stay over—and even though Locky didn’t want the embrace to end—he still felt guilty for needing Benedict’s touch, protecting him against whatever might happen next.

“It’s okay if you want me to leave,” whispered Locky, praying that Benedict wouldn’t take up the offer.

And instead of kicking him out, Benedict kissed the back of Locky’s neck. The hands around his chest squeezed tighter, holding him steady against the confusion and the chaos. “You care so much for other people, Locky,” said Benedict, his voice as light as a prayer. “Isn’t it time someone took care of you ?”