Page 13 of Fire Me Up (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #2)
Gael nodded, breathing ragged as he raised his arms to give me access. I dragged my tongue across his chest—salt and skin—then zeroed in on a nipple. I took it between my teeth, gentle bite, soothing lick. His whole body shuddered; a broken moan escaped him.
“Sensitive,” I noted, filing it away. “I like that.”
I switched sides, my hands mapping him—abs, obliques, the sweep where back met ass. All muscle, all heat, all mine in this moment.
He braced his arms above his head, offering himself in a way that made my knees weak. I pressed my face into the warm hollow of his armpit, inhaled his clean, masculine scent, then tasted. Gael trembled.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, his free hand clutching at my back.
I grinned against his skin and explored with my tongue, cataloging the quicken of his breath, the way his hips pushed for friction. His fingers slid into my hair, holding me closer.
“More,” he demanded, voice rough. “Show me more.”
The bass thumped through the walls as I returned to his nipples, sucking one into my mouth while my hand pinched the other. Gael’s head tipped back, eyes shut, lips parted, soft sounds spilling out.
His cock strained against those shorts, a damp spot blooming. I pressed my thigh between his legs, gave him something to grind on, and he took it, movements growing frantic.
“Dylan,” he panted, eyes flying open to meet mine. “I need—I want
I knew exactly what he needed. What we both did.
“Bathroom,” I growled, grabbing his hand. “Now.”
We crashed through the door, still kissing, still groping like teenagers.
The fluorescents buzzed harshly after the dim corridor, but I didn’t care.
The room was empty. I dragged him to the largest stall at the end; the lock clicked and suddenly we were alone in a space barely big enough for one person, let alone two grown men desperate for each other.
I shoved him against the partition, pressed my whole body to his. “Is this okay?” I heard my voice—rough, wrecked.
“Fuck yes,” he said, hands dropping to grab my ass and pull me tighter.
Graffiti, distant bass, ugly lighting—far from the comforting setting I’d imagined for his first real gay encounter—but the urgency made it perfect. We couldn’t stop.
I ground against him, friction obscene and glorious. He turned, bracing his hands on the wall, pushing his ass back into me. Through his shorts I felt the perfect curve—firm, round, begging to be squeezed.
“Please,” he whimpered, so needy it sent heat through me. “Dylan, please.”
I reached around and palmed his cock through the fabric, groaning at how hard he was, how big. I’d suspected; feeling the thick outline against my hand was something else.
“Fuck, you’re huge,” I murmured into his neck, nipping gently.
His hips bucked; his breath broke into fast pants. “Need more. Need to feel you.”
I spun him to face me and kissed him hard as my fingers fumbled his button. He did the same to mine—clumsy, urgent. When I shoved his shorts over his hips, his cock sprang free and I froze, staring with undisguised hunger.
Gorgeous—thick and long, the head already slick. My mouth watered; my own cock throbbed painfully in my still-fastened jeans.
He noticed my staring and actually blushed, color spreading down his neck. “Is it… is it okay?”
“Okay?” I laughed, breathless. “Gael, you’re fucking perfect.”
I shoved my jeans down, freeing my cock. His eyes widened; his tongue darted to wet his lips. For a heartbeat we just stared, both breathing hard, both wrecked.
Then he reached and wrapped that big hand around me. My brain short-circuited. His grip—firm, not too tight, calloused heat—was perfect.
“Like this?” he asked, voice gone husky.
“Just like that,” I managed, hips jerking into his touch.
I reached for him in return—heavy, velvet-soft over steel. We kissed again, messier, all tongue and teeth and shared breath as we stroked each other.
Something bumped his shoulder and he winced, a quick flash. “Wait,” I gasped, pulling back just enough. “Together. Let me.”
I pushed his hand away, spit into my palm, then wrapped my fingers around both our cocks, pressing them together. The feel of him hot and hard against me made me dizzy. Gael’s head thumped back against the partition; a broken moan spilled out as I started to stroke us in tandem.
“Fuck, Dylan,” he groaned, thrusting into my grip. “That feels so good.”
I watched his face—raw pleasure written there: the flush, the parted lips, the flutter of his eyes before they locked on mine. He looked wrecked, desperate, beautiful.
Pre-cum slicked my hand, making every pass easier, wetter. I twisted on the upstroke, teased the sensitive heads, and his whole body shivered.
“I’m not gonna last,” he warned, voice frayed. “It’s too good.”
“Then don’t,” I urged, speeding up. “Let go, Gael. I want to see you.”
His fingers dug into my shoulders, hard enough to bruise. I wanted the marks.
“Dylan,” he chanted, my name a prayer. “Dylan, Dylan, fuck
His cock pulsed, and he came—hot stripes across my fist and our stomachs.
The sight of him undone—head thrown back, muscles taut, face glazed with pleasure—pushed me over.
I buried my face against his shoulder as my orgasm hit, biting down to muffle the groan as I spurted over my hand, mixing with his release.
Wave after wave crashed through me, more intense than anything in years.
From a fucking hand job.
For a long moment we just stood there—my head on his shoulder, his good arm banded around my waist—breathing hard.
I was still holding our softening cocks, my hand sticky with both of us.
Reality seeped in: I’d just jerked off with my best friend’s brother in a club bathroom.
Like high school—too horny to wait for a bed.
“Fuck,” I managed, letting go and reaching for toilet paper. “That was…”
“Yeah,” Gael said, voice rough. “It really was.”
The stall felt even smaller as we cleaned up and hauled our clothes up. Our elbows knocked; I stepped on his foot; he winced—shoulder and all.
“Sorry,” I said, balling up toilet paper and tossing it. “Not exactly the most comforting setting for your first… frotting hand-job situation. But—hot intro to casual gay sex, I guess.”
Gael laughed, slightly strained. “Frotting?”
“Getting off rubbing our dicks together.” I looked up, trying to read him. Something had shifted. There was tension in his eyes, a flicker of panic.
“You okay?” I asked, worry cutting through the haze. “Did I push too far?” The old, nagging fear clawed at my chest.
He nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. “No. You were great. I just—I should probably get home. It’s late, and I need to check on Bacon.”
“Bacon?” I frowned, thrown by the whiplash. “I thought Liv was watching him.”
“She is, but He raked a hand through his hair, not meeting my eyes. “He gets anxious when I’m gone too long. Separation anxiety. Vet says it’s common in rescues.”
Bullshit. I knew it. But before I could call him on it, he’d already unlocked the stall.
“This was great,” he said, too bright, too casual. “Really educational. Thanks.”
And then he was gone, the bathroom door swinging shut before I could process it.
I leaned against the stall, post-orgasm high crashing into confusion and worry. What the fuck had just happened? One minute Gael was coming in my hand, making sounds that said he’d loved every second, and the next he was running like the building was on fire.
Had I taken things too fast? With that thought, an old, nagging fear clawed at my chest, making it feel tight. I closed my eyes and took a few deep, slow breaths, pain from the past creeping in.
I shook it off, reminding myself that this was why I kept things casual. This needed to end. But not before I gave him one last lesson.
And I ignored the way my heart ached at the thought of not seeing Gael anymore—not dancing with Gael. Because I did what I had to do to protect myself.