Page 21 of Becoming Us

I snorted. “What?”

He turned to face me again, my head still resting on his arm.

“You wouldn’t know—since you’re the exception—but usually, I’m just not that into sex. Or at least, I’m not when you’re not around. I can go weeks without thinking about it, not even jerking off. But the second you show up, it’s all I can think about.”

“Really?”

“I’m serious. I’ve been jerking off nonstop these past few weeks.”

That pulled a laugh out of me.

He looked sheepish. “Is that bad? Should I not say stuff like that?”

“It’s not bad. I’m just not used to you talking about it. You used to get really embarrassed, remember?”

“I’m embarrassed right now.” He dragged his hands over his face.

I tugged his wrist until he looked at me again. “I told you—you don’t ever have to be embarrassed around me.”

He gave me the softest look before nodding.

My lips twitched. “So, if you’re a sex camel, am I your oasis?”

My grin stretched as he burst out laughing.

“You’re the worst, Noah,” he said, pulling me back into his arms. “Sorry for pushing.”

A dull ache cut through the afterglow. “That’s alright.”

Atty kissed me again—once, then again—each kiss building, deepening.

“I missed you. I really missed this.” His words came between each one, and I let myself fall into it, into him. In how he needed me.

“Do you want to shower?”

He shook his head, capturing my lips again. “No. Stay. I want to go again.” His voice was hoarse and thick with want.

My brain short-circuited. His words went straight to my groin, and my spent dick twitched, valiantly trying to agree.

He slipped between my legs, grinding against me, his kisses sharper now, more intense.

“What do you want to do?”

“Just this. Can we take them off?”

Our boxers were still clinging to our hips. I nodded.

And then we were naked in his bed, rutting against each other and kissing messily, the minutes dissolving into hours until the world melted away around us.

Some time later, I slipped out of bed.

In this apartment, he shared the bathroom, so I padded over to it, wearing nothing but one of his shirts. Atty was out cold, sprawled across the bed—completely spent.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. I was a mess. Sticky. Covered in him.

My lip was split but not swollen. Or maybe it was, just a little—but kiss-swollen. A hickey darkened the left side of my neck, dead center. No hiding that one. Not in the middle of summer, anyway.

I smiled to myself tentatively.