Page 16 of One Hot Summer

Chapter Eight

GRIFFIN

A dam draped across my chest, a sleep-heavy weight that pressed me into the mattress and made it hard to remember why I’d ever spent a night alone.

His bare thigh was slung over mine, skin hot and smooth, and his hand was curled under my ribs in a way that was both possessive and vulnerable, like he was afraid he might lose me in the night.

His head was pillowed on my biceps and his hair stuck to my arm with a sheen of dried sweat.

I could feel every exhale against my skin, each breath a humid tickle.

I lay there for a while, not moving, just listening to his breathing and feeling the steady drum of his pulse against my side. Outside, the mountains were blue and hazy with morning fog, but in here the air was thick and still, our world reduced to the square footage of a single unmade bed.

I’d never been a sentimental guy. Most of my relationships, such as they were, had been defined by the ways we left each other, by all the tiny silences that crept in before the inevitable fade-out.

But this… this was a kind of hunger I’d never experienced.

Not just for his body—though God knew I wanted that—but for the easy way he fit against me, the lack of apology in his touch.

He’d gone from an intrusion to an addiction in less than a week.

I slid my hand down the length of his spine, feeling each knot under my palm, and watched him stir.

He blinked up at me, eyes unfocused, then yawned so wide I thought his jaw would unhinge.

His morning face was a mess—red marks on his cheek where it had pressed into my arm, hair going every direction at once—but I didn’t think I’d ever seen anything so fucking beautiful.

“Morning,” I whispered, kissing the top of his head.

He grunted, squinting at the clock on the nightstand. “Is it legal to be up this early?”

I snorted, tightening my hold on him. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

He shifted, burrowing closer, and nipped at the skin over my heart. “Last night was different,” he said, the words muffled by flesh. “Last night you had your tongue in my ass before the sun even set.”

“Correction,” I said. “It was after sunset. I’m not a total animal.”

He rolled his eyes, but I could see the smile working its way up from the corners of his mouth. “You’re definitely at least fifty percent animal.”

I let my hand drift down to the curve of his ass, tracing the fingerprint bruises I’d left there.

He arched into the touch, then wriggled his hips, grinding against my thigh until I was hard again, straining against the sheets.

Adam noticed, of course he did, and reached between us to stroke me, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.

“Fuck,” I breathed, letting my head fall back. I didn’t even try to fight it. I just let him take what he wanted, because it was the easiest thing in the world to want him back.

He climbed on top of me, straddling my hips, his cock already half-hard and leaking against my stomach.

He kissed my chest, the hollow of my throat, the underside of my jaw, each touch getting wetter and hungrier.

By the time he reached my mouth, he was grinding down hard, his ass rubbing over my cock with desperate friction.

I kissed him back and let my hands wander.

He wasn’t shy anymore. He bit my lip, sucked my tongue, moaned into my mouth like he needed me to breathe.

I could have fucked him right then, quick and rough and half-awake, but I wanted something else.

I wanted to draw it out, to see how long I could keep him shaking and gasping before he broke.

I flipped him onto his back, pinning his wrists above his head with one hand, and licked a path up the length of his neck. He arched, bucking against me, but I just held him tighter. “Stay still,” I said, voice thick with sleep and want.

He whimpered, but he obeyed. He always obeyed, at least for the first few seconds.

I moved down his body, kissing every inch, letting my stubble scratch against his sensitive skin until he was pink all over.

When I got to his nipples, I bit down gently, and he yelped, then laughed, then yelped again when I did it to the other side.

“You’re such an asshole,” he said, but there was no heat in it.

“That’s not what you called me last night,” I murmured, then took his cock in my hand and stroked him, slow and deliberate. He was already slick, and it didn’t take much to get him leaking even more.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, squirming under me.

I loosened my grip, switching to feather-light touches, just to torture him. He groaned desperately, trying to rut into my palm, but I held him down.

“Please,” he pleaded, sounding wrecked. “I need—fuck, please.”

I grinned, letting go completely, and watched him try to process it. He looked up at me, pupils blown wide, face flushed with need.

“I want to fuck you,” I said, low and rough. “Will you let me?”

He nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. “You don’t have to ask,” he said, and the honesty in his voice nearly undid me.

I reached for the lube on the nightstand, slicked myself up, and lined up at his hole. From the way he gritted his teeth as he pulled his knees higher giving me everything, I figured he was still tender from last night.

I pushed in slowly, watching his face the whole time.

He winced at first, but then the pain faded, and he started to rock his hips, meeting me thrust for thrust. I fucked him slow, dragging it out, letting the tension build until he was babbling nonsense, begging for more, harder, deeper.

I gave it to him, pinning his hips down and slamming in until the bed rattled and the headboard banged against the wall.

He bit his knuckles to keep from screaming, but I pried his hand away and kissed him, swallowing every sound.

He came first, shuddering under me, cum painting both our stomachs.

I followed barely a minute later, spilling inside him and collapsing on top of him, both of us gasping for air.

We lay like that for a long time, glued together with sweat and cum, hearts thundering in tandem.

I traced lazy circles on his chest, and he hummed, eyes drifting shut again.

“I could get used to this,” he said, voice hoarse.

“Me too,” I replied, tensing a little as I realized how much I meant it.

When the urge to move finally became too strong to ignore, I rolled off him and padded to the bathroom. I grabbed a warm washcloth and cleaned us both up, then pulled him back under the covers.

“Let’s go somewhere today,” I said, sudden energy sparking in my veins. “I saw a sign for horseback riding on the drive up. Ever done it?”

He laughed, the sound still breathless. “I’ve never been out of the city before, remember?”

“Perfect. I’ll teach you.” I grinned, already picturing him in the saddle, all gangly limbs and terrified expressions.

He groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “You know I’ll probably suck at this. And you’re not allowed to make fun of me, right?”

“No promises.”

He flipped me off, but there was a smile hidden in the gesture. “Fine. But if I die, you have to tell my professors it was your fault.”

“You won’t die.”

“I might.”

“Fine. If you die, I’ll have a statue of you bronzed and displayed at the NYU student center,” I joked, already grabbing my phone to book a reservation.

“You’re a prince among men, Griffin Price.” He snorted, then climbed out of bed to get ready.

We showed up at the stable around noon, both of us wearing jeans and T-shirts and looking every inch the city boys we were. The woman at the counter gave us a once-over and tried very hard not to laugh.

“Ever ridden before?” she asked.

I nodded. “It’s been a while, but yes.”

She looked at Adam. “And you?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not unless you count those mechanical ponies outside supermarkets.”

She gave him a wry look then had us both sign waivers before leading us out back to meet our horses.

Mine seemed easygoing and calm, a big chocolate colored gelding—aptly named Hershey.

Adam’s was a smaller chestnut named Pumpkin, who looked like she was already plotting his death.

I helped him mount up, hands on his hips, and tried to ignore the way his ass looked in the tight jeans.

He wobbled in the saddle, nearly tipping over, and glared at me.

“Stop laughing,” he muttered.

“I’m not,” I lied, grinning ear to ear.

He stuck his tongue out at me, then grabbed the reins in a death grip.

The instructor gave us a quick lesson, then sent us out on the trail alone, probably figuring we couldn’t get into too much trouble in the next hour.

The path wound through thick forest, sunlight filtering down in green-gold beams. The horses knew the route, so all we had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride, but Adam was clearly terrified, hunched over like the saddle was going to buck him off at any second.

“You’re doing fine,” I assured him.

“I think my balls are permanently rearranged,” he replied, voice high and panicked.

“Relax,” I said. “Lean back. Let your hips move with the horse.”

He tried, but every time Pumpkin picked up speed, he squeaked and grabbed the horn like it was a lifeline.

We rounded a bend and came to a clearing, the view opening up to miles of rolling hills and distant peaks.

We stopped our horses and Adam turned to me, face red and sweating. “Is it too late to walk back?”

“Way too late,” I said, then reached over to adjust his stirrups. “Here, let me help.”

I slid off my horse and walked around to his side. He watched, wary, as I adjusted the leather, then ran my hands up his calf to make sure his leg was straight. He shivered but didn’t pull away. “Better?” I asked.

He nodded, eyes wide.

I gripped his thigh, just above the knee, and squeezed. “You look good up there.”

He smirked. “You like the view, huh?”