Page 27 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)
“Not painful, just uncomfortable sometimes. Itchy.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry,” he says. His brow is furrowed, lips in a stern straight line, and I genuinely think he cares, not simply going through the motions and affecting concern so that I shut the fuck up already. “Well, you know, if yours isn’t so good, I can be your hole.”
I’m choking on shower water. Somehow I’ve breathed it in through all my facial orifices and I’m choking. And then I stupidly let myself cycle through every fantasy I’ve ever had featuring Mathias’s hole, and now I’m getting harder, and I’m still choking.
This is a great day for me.
He slaps me on the back. The sound is wetter, slappier, and echoier because of the water.
“You don’t mince your words, do you?” I say when I can finally breathe normal air .
No doubt my face is beetroot red. My cock is still hard through it all, though. Through the haemorrhoid chat and the naked near-death experience in front of the hottest guy I’ve ever known. The human spirit really is indomitable.
“Blame the ’tism,” he says.
“I keep pressing this water on button, but neither of us has actually washed anything yet.” And still neither of us reach for any products or loofahs.
“You’ve got mud on your belly,” he adds.
He’s right, I have a green-and-brown smear across my stomach and hip from when I tackled him and my T-shirt rode up. Embarrassingly, my dick is still shooting skyward. I rub away the dirt on my side—or attempt to. The grass stain doesn’t budge.
Mathias mirrors my movements, rubbing his hand down his own stomach.
His fingers slide and bounce over his neat little collection of muscles, but his motions don’t stop at his hip like mine did.
He keeps going, keeps his hand journeying south until he reaches his cock.
He palms his balls then moves his fist back up, gripping the base of his shaft.
He’s not fully hard, not yet, but it won’t be long until he is.
I tear my gaze up to his face, and he’s watching me intently—brown eyes narrowed, mouth parted, breaths rushing out.
“This is . . . just how I wash?” he says, breathless, but like a question. Like an invitation.
When I glance down again, he’s erect, and holy hell, he’s glorious.
It’s the prettiest cock I’ve seen in real life and better than anything I’ve ever witnessed on my decrepit old laptop.
He’s long, and thick, and smooth, with fat veins tracking down his dark skin.
Like me, he’s uncircumcised, and I have a sudden urge to drop to my knees for him and bury all of it in my throat.
I must have the greediest expression on my face because Mathias says, “Do you want to watch me . . . wash?”
Words fail me. I nod.
“We’re completely alone, right?”
“Nobody ever comes back to the club once they’ve left for the day.” My voice is a shadow of its usual self .
Mathias rubs his bottom lip under his teeth. “Good, because I want to watch you wash too.”
He waits for me, eyes trained on my face, his bite digging deeper. I wrap my fingers around my cock and I don’t know which of us groans. Perhaps we both do. The friction is delicious, and I fight the urge not to close my eyes and lose myself to it. I cannot miss a second of this show.
We both begin sliding our fists up and down. Long, slow strokes at first. I’m banking up images of Mathias touching himself, squeezing the head of his cock as his hand crests the tip, memorising the throaty moans he makes. It’s fucking unfair I can’t watch his face and his cock at the same time.
I’m not even aware of the sounds I’m making, the faces, I don’t care. Whatever I’m doing, Mathias is eating it up.
“Fuck, Owen. Holy fuck,” he whimpers, fist speeding up.
His cries echo through the shower block. They’re dampened by the deluge of water we have to keep restarting, and now I’m locked in a battle with myself not to finish too quickly. To wait for him. It’s a losing game.
I’m so fucking close, and he’s right there in front of me. Incredible. Naked and wet, fucking his own hand, panting into the downpour, gritting his teeth, eyes rolling upwards. He has one hand in his hair, his body stretched out in that delicious way . . . like a gourmet buffet ready to feast on.
He’s three feet away from me, and I’m desperate to close the gap and touch him, but I need—at a marrow-deep level—to watch this man come.
I need to witness him fall to pieces, splinter, shatter, and then slowly pull himself back to reality.
I need to know the faces he’ll make. See his jaw slacken, his brows furrow, his pupils dilate.
And the sounds. Fuck, I need to hear those too.
Does he cry out, or does he whine, or is he silent?
“Oh, fuck.” I’ve thought about him too much, worked myself too hard, and now I’m cresting that hill. I stop moving my fist, block Mathias’s perfect form out by closing my eyes, and wait for the rush of my building orgasm to subside.
“No, keep going,” Mathias pants. “I’m there too, fuck, and I really want to see—”
“Mr B?!” A whiny voice cuts through the shower cubicle.
It’s immediately followed by the hard slapping of feet as Orlando Oakham-Goodwin crashes into the steamy room.
“Are you in here—” He locks eyes with me.
Mathias and I drop what we’re doing and turn to face the wall. “Oh, god. Oh fuck, Mr B. I’m so sorry.”
Mathias and I try to hide ourselves under our palms, but Mathias is struggling. There’s too much of him, and I’m already grieving for a moment ago.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. Daze’s gonna kill me, but . . .” Lando grabs his backside and stumbles towards the twin toilet cubicles. “It’s coming out the other end now!” Then he barricades himself inside the end one.
I turn to Mathias. “We have approximately ten seconds to wash and get the fuck out of here.” I hate that I know this from experience, but we do not want to be around when the fallout hits.
Mathias is softening, and I am too. I’m desperate to march him outside into the yellow fields and finish both of us off, but of course it’s Sunday, and the pressure of a full day in the pub is already weighing heavily on me.
We wash in rapid time. Lando whimpers. His toxic fumes seep through the gaps in the stall, causing the entire locker room to become uninhabitable.
Mathias and I only have our underpants on, but we grab the rest of our things and change in the car park.
It’s gloriously sunny and warm for mid-April, and the area is empty of every vehicle except Lando’s sporty little Audi.
Even Daisy’s Fiat is missing. So much for making sure her best friend got home safely.
While we dress, Mathias and I don’t talk about what just happened.
We don’t even look at each other. I steal covert glances at him now and then, but his entire body is angled away from mine.
I want to kiss him, hold either side of his face in my hands and bring my lips to his, make up for the humiliation, but once more Orlando Oakham-Goodwin fucks everything up.
“You’re gonna need to call the plumbers again, Mr B.” He stumbles into the daylight, shielding his face from the sun as though he might combust like a vampire.
I do that parenting thing and mask my groan behind an eye roll. “I’ll send the bill to you. Get in the car. I’m driving you home. ”
“My dad’s gonna kill me,” he says, but he climbs into the back seat and curls himself up in the foetal position without any more protest.
His dad won’t kill him. He won’t give a fuck. Warwick Oakham II probably isn’t even in the country right now.
“Come on, I’ll drive us all home.” I motion my head to the passenger side and Mathias climbs in. He has to push the seat as far back as it’ll go. Conversely, I have to pull the driver’s seat forward. Lando’s legs are, if possible, longer than Mathias’s.
It takes the same time to drive back from the club as it does to walk through the fields, and I spend the entire fifteen minutes breathing in the scent of a clean Mathias and wondering—plotting—how to get him all to myself again.