Page 15 of Fire Me Up (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #2)

Gael

D ylan’s hands slid down my back, fingers tracing the groove of my spine with reverent precision. “Turn over,” he murmured against my ear. “Hands and knees. If that doesn’t bother your shoulder.” My pulse jumped at the command, a mix of nerves and raw anticipation flooding my system.

The mattress dipped as Dylan moved behind me. I fought the urge to look back, to see his expression as he studied my exposed body.

“Jesus, Gael,” Dylan said, his voice rough with desire. “You’re fucking perfect.”

His hands cupped my ass, kneading appreciatively. I dropped my head between my shoulders, embarrassed by how much I liked his touch, his praise—then let out a small sound as that position twinged.

“You okay?” One hand trailed down, fingers tracing the sensitive skin behind my balls, making me shiver.

I shifted, arching my back and settling my weight more on my chest. The position made me feel more exposed, more vulnerable. The rough sound he made was worth it. “Is this okay?” I asked. “Doesn’t hurt my shoulder.”

“That is fucking perfect. Ever had anyone touch you here?” His fingertip circled my entrance, not pushing in yet, just teasing.

I shook my head, unable to form words as heat radiated from that single point of contact. I’d touched myself there—especially while prepping earlier—but this was different. This was Dylan’s finger, Dylan’s touch. The difference was staggering.

“Relax for me,” he instructed. “Deep breath in… and out.”

I obeyed, inhaling deeply, then releasing it slow. As I exhaled, I heard the snap of a bottle cap, followed by the slick sound of lube. Anticipation thrummed through me, my cock heavy and neglected between my thighs.

“Cold,” he warned a second before I felt it—the cool slickness of lubed fingers returning to my entrance, circling with more intent now.

“Fuck,” I gasped as one fingertip breached me, just barely pushing inside. The sensation was foreign but not unpleasant: strange pressure, a slight burn that faded as my body adjusted.

“You okay?” Dylan asked, his free hand stroking my lower back, steady and soothing.

“Yeah,” I managed. “More. Please.”

Dylan chuckled, warmth rolling through me. “So polite when you’re desperate.” But he obliged, pushing deeper, past the first knuckle, then the second, until he was fully seated inside me.

The fullness—knowing part of Dylan was inside me—was delicious. Not painful, just intense, lighting up a part of me I’d barely considered before. He held still, letting me adjust, his other hand roaming my back, my ass, my thighs.

“You’re doing so well,” he praised, slowly withdrawing before pressing back in. “Taking my finger so beautifully.”

His words sent another wash of heat through me. I pushed back against his hand, wanting more, wanting everything. He set a gentle rhythm, fucking me with one finger until the strangeness melted into pleasure.

“Ready for another?” he asked, already reaching for more lube.

“Yes,” I said, the word a breathless plea.

The pressure increased as he added a second finger. The stretch burned more intensely, a delicious ache that made me groan. He moved slowly, scissoring gently to open me, careful and thorough.

“God, you’re tight,” he murmured. “Need to get you nice and open for me.”

I arched my back, changing the angle, and suddenly his fingers brushed something inside me that sent shockwaves up my spine.

“Fuck!” I cried, my whole body tensing at the unexpected lightning-bolt pleasure.

“There it is,” Dylan said, satisfaction threading his voice. He curled his fingers again, pressing that spot. “Your prostate. Not everyone enjoys it. You okay?”

“Fuck.” Words failed as I pressed back into his hand, begging for that touch again without saying it. Okay didn’t begin to cover it. It was electric, overwhelming, like nothing I’d ever felt.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Pre-cum dripped from my cock onto the sheets as Dylan laughed softly and massaged that spot with precise pressure. My thighs trembled with the effort of holding myself up while wave after wave crashed through me.

“Dylan,” I gasped. “I’m gonna—if you keep doing that, I’ll

He immediately eased off, withdrawing slightly. “Not yet,” he said. “I want you to come on my cock.”

The loss made me whimper, my body clenching around nothing. But he was already adding more lube, pushing three fingers into me this time. The stretch bordered on painful, but in the best way—a burning fullness that made my cock throb.

“Look at you taking my fingers,” he said, wonder in his voice. “So responsive. So fucking hot.”

He set a new rhythm, working three fingers in and out while deliberately avoiding my prostate. Just when I thought I’d adjusted, he’d crook his fingers, graze that bundle of nerves, and I’d cry out—then he’d pull back, leaving me gasping and needy.

It was torture—exquisite, perfect torture. Time slipped; everything narrowed to his fingers, his voice, the mounting pressure that never quite tipped.

“Please,” I finally begged, pride gone. “Please, Dylan. I need more. Need you inside me.”

He leaned over me, chest brushing my back as his fingers kept up their relentless tease. His lips skimmed my ear. “You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” he whispered. “All spread out for me, begging for my cock.”

I shuddered at his words, at the raw hunger in them. I’d never felt so vulnerable and so powerful at once. Making Dylan want me this much was intoxicating.

His fingers withdrew completely, leaving me empty and aching. I almost protested until his mouth pressed slow kisses down my spine.

“Turn over,” Dylan said, guiding my hip. “Let’s give that shoulder a rest. Besides, I want to see your face when I’m fucking you.”

I rolled onto my back, legs splayed in what should have felt like the most vulnerable position of my life.

But as Dylan moved between my thighs, eyes dark with hunger and something softer, all I felt was anticipation and trust. He slid a pillow beneath my hips, hands careful and practiced.

A towel went under the pillow—practical, thoughtful, so perfectly Dylan. My heart swelled at the small gesture.

“Comfortable?” he asked, stroking my inner thigh.

I nodded, speechless, watching him tear open a condom wrapper. The sight of him rolling it on—deft, unhurried—sent another wave of heat through me. He slicked himself generously, then positioned the head of his cock at my entrance.

“Breathe for me. Deep breath in, then exhale as I push in.”

I did as told, filling my lungs, releasing slowly as he pressed forward. The pressure was immediate and intense—so much more than his fingers. The stretch burned, a sharp ache that made me tense.

“Relax,” Dylan murmured, his free hand soothing over my stomach and chest. “You’re doing so well. Just breathe through it.”

I forced my muscles to unclench, focusing on his face instead of the burn: the concentration there, the thin sheen of sweat, the way he bit his lower lip, holding himself back. He was beautiful.

The head slipped past the tight ring of muscle, and I gasped at the sudden shift—burning and fullness together, right on the knife’s edge between pain and pleasure.

“Fuck,” I hissed, my hands fisting in the sheets.

Dylan froze. “Too much? We can stop

“No,” I growled. “Just… give me a second.”

A smile flickered. “Take all the time you need.”

He stayed perfectly still, strain tight in his shoulders, restraint in his jaw.

The ache ebbed as my body adjusted. I breathed again and nodded. “More.”

He fed me inch by inch, pausing whenever I tensed. Overwhelming—not just physically, but emotionally. To be filled like this, to be joined so completely, was more intimate than anything I’d known.

When he was finally seated fully inside, hips flush to me, relief hit like a tide. Not that the sensation vanished, but that I finally had Dylan—all of him—inside me. It felt right, like this was where he belonged. Where I belonged.

I pulled him down for a kiss, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it: gratitude, want, the swell of something bigger. He answered with equal fervor, tongue sliding against mine, his body trembling with the effort to stay still.

“Move,” I whispered against his mouth. “Please, Dylan. I need you to fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. He withdrew slowly, almost to the tip, then pushed back in with a controlled thrust that hit something inside me that set off stars.

“Holy shit,” I gasped, my back arching. “That’s

Dylan grinned, repeating the motion with devastating precision. “Found it again.”

Each thrust targeted that same spot, shockwaves radiating through me. The discomfort was gone, replaced by a rising pressure that curled my toes and stole my breath. I hooked my legs around his waist, changing the angle, taking him deeper.

“Fuck, Gael,” he groaned, rhythm faltering for a beat. “You feel amazing.”

I couldn’t answer. Thought scattered as he set a steady pace, each stroke pushing me higher, closer to a precipice I’d never approached. This was nothing like sex with women. This was transcendent, mind-altering, soul-deep.

“I’m definitely a fucking bottom,” I blurted, the realization punching through me with the same force as his cock.

Dylan barked a surprised laugh, warm even through the strain. “You think?” He thrust harder, proving his point. “Writhing like a little slut around my cock already.”

I moaned, my hands finding purchase on his sweat-slick back. “Should’ve figured it out sooner. Feels so good to be fucked. To let go.”

“Better late than never,” he said, shifting his weight, changing the angle again. He leaned in, thrusting deep. “I know you need to let go, baby,” he whispered, so quietly that I wasn’t sure it was intended for me.

It broke my heart anyway.

Deeper. Harder. The new trajectory nearly undid me. Each stroke felt like it sparked off my insides, pressure spooling tight at the base of my spine. My cock lay untouched against my stomach, leaking pre-cum across my abs.

Dylan’s face above me was focused heat—eyes dark and intent, lips parted, breath ragged. Sweat beaded on his brow, his hair falling across his forehead. I brushed it back, needing to see his eyes, to keep that line open.

The tenderness of it caught him off guard. His rhythm hitched, his expression softened, then sharpened again.

“Close,” he murmured, driving in with renewed purpose. “Want you to come with me.”

He reached between us, wrapping his hand around my neglected cock, and the dual sensation—his cock inside me, his fist stroking—was too much. Pleasure surged, a tidal wave I couldn’t outrun.

“Dylan,” I gasped, warning and plea all in one.

“Let go,” he urged, voice rough and earnest. “Come for me, Gael.”

His hand tightened, stroking in time with his thrusts, and the pressure peaked. My orgasm hit like a freight train—unstoppable, obliterating. I cried out, body bowing tight as I spilled over his hand and my stomach, wave after wave tearing through me.

Something about my release pushed him over the edge. He thrust once more, buried deep, and I felt him pulse inside me as he came. His face in that moment was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen—pleasure stripped bare, no walls.

It was a glimpse, but enough to spark hope. I slid my hands up his back, massaging tight muscles as I held him close.

We stayed there for a long moment, catching our breath. I kept massaging, not ready to let go, bone-deep connection humming between us. His weight was comforting, not crushing; his breath was warm at my neck. Finally, he eased out, both of us wincing at the sensitivity.

He tied off the condom and tossed it in the trash, then grabbed tissues to clean my stomach. The tenderness of it made my chest ache.

“Was that okay?” Dylan asked, uncharacteristically uncertain as he settled in beside me.

I turned, taking in his flushed cheeks, swollen lips, the concern in his eyes. “It was perfect,” I said honestly. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Relief flooded his face, followed by a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Good. That’s… good.”

He pulled me to him, arranging us so my head rested on his chest, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. It felt natural, comfortable—like we’d been sleeping together for years instead of minutes.

“We should probably shower,” he murmured into my hair, but he didn’t move.

“Later,” I said, too content to even think about it.

“Do you need to get back to your cat?”

“Not yet,” I said, though the truth was he was with Liv for the night and perfectly fine.

Dylan hummed, fingers tracing lazy patterns over my shoulder. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear was grounding. We were a mess—sticky with sweat and lube and whatever the tissues missed—but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

As sleep tugged at me, a thought rose through the haze of post-orgasmic bliss: I was falling in love with Dylan Kim. The realization should have terrified me, but wrapped in his arms, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.