Page 29 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)

Mathias

Owen hooks his thumbs inside my waistband at both hips and gazes up at me—hazel eyes with blown-wide pupils, and pink cheeks. “Is this okay?”

“That’s a really stupid question,” I reply, and immediately worry I’ve offended him. “Of course it’s okay.”

“Good,” he whispers, and wiggles my sweatpants and underpants down.

And then all I know, all I feel and see and sense, is the wet warmth of his mouth on me. I guess Owen is not the type of guy to play with his food before he eats it.

Like white noise, the sensation cancels out everything else.

I’m aware that we’re on the top step of my new house and Owen’s old home, framed in the doorway, bay trees on either side of me.

I’m aware that anyone could drive past us right now.

Anyone. It’s the only road in and out of Mudford-upon-Hooke.

I’m aware that sometimes people take their dogs for late-night walks in the fields surrounding these two lonely buildings, and the front step of Fernbank Cottage is fully visible from the street.

But I also cannot seem to locate any fucks to give.

Owen Bosley has my cock in his mouth, and nothing else matters.

If anyone decides to go for a midnight stroll right now, well, I guess they’re in for a show.

The porch is our stage, the motion-activated security light our super trooper, and Owen is the puppet master.

He’s gentle at first, testing out my size, my preferences, and alternates between sucking and flicking his tongue over the head. It’s already too much. Everything is too much, and I’m ready to fold.

Owen doesn’t have much hair for me to thread my fingers through, so I hold on to the back of his head with one hand, and use my other arm as a gag, biting down on my forearm to stop myself from crying out and attracting attention.

It’s not working. I’m usually pretty quiet in the bedroom, but Owen has me making all manner of moans and whimpers.

He pulls off me, glances up. His cheeks are pink, mouth wet. “Fuck my face,” he asks. No, not asks . . . commands. “Use me. I want to choke on your cock. I want to not be able to breathe.”

“Okay, but . . .” I begin, using the pause to catch my breath. “I won’t last long.”

“Good. I like knowing I do this to you. I need to know that you can’t control yourself around me.

” Owen guides my hands from where I’m using them to brace myself against the doorjamb to either side of his face.

“Not just yet, Wild Card,” he pants, and jiggles his belt open, unbuttons and unzips his jeans, and reaches in to free his cock.

He pumps his fist achingly slowly and his eyes roll closed. “Ready?” he asks. I nod, and he swallows down my cock until I’m nudging the back of his throat .

Owen gazes up at me, locking his hazel eyes onto mine. He gives me a look that only has one meaning . . . “Go. Move. Fuck my face. Cut off my air supply.”

I’m humping him before I even realise I am. I hold his face steady and buck my hips, sliding out and all the way back into his mouth. My crown knocks against something solid and Owen makes a muffled little yelp.

“Do you want me to stop?” I ask, worrying about hurting him.

He shakes his head the tiniest amount, but enough to spur me on. I begin thrusting, my pace already building. I steady his head, his mouth exactly where I want it, where it feels incredible—hot and soft and slick—and I fuck it.

Owen’s hand works furiously on his own cock. The fingers on his other hand dig into the back of my thigh. I hope they leave bruises. I’ve never hoped for anything like that before.

Our paces build in sync. It’s too good to keep going, but I can’t stop.

Use me.

His words echo through my mind. It’s enough to walk me right up to that edge.

“Owen, I’m gonna come. Oh fuck, I’m gonna come. Owen.”

Tears stream from his eyes, but he doesn’t seem bothered.

I swipe them away with my thumbs as I hold his face steady, and when he looks up and catches my gaze again, I fall.

Tumble right over. And for a few seconds, I’m weightless, sightless, burdenless.

There are no Cents, no Bengals, no booing fans.

Nothing exists but Owen and the whimpering mess he’s reduced me to.

Owen moans onto my cock like he’s enjoying this as much as I am. Like he’s the one having his soul sucked out. He swallows, pulls away, and glances up again.

“Fucking hell, Wild Card.”

I don’t respond. Can’t. Words are not wording right now.

Maybe they never will, and honestly, I’m fine with that.

I try to kneel beside Owen, but he stops me with a hand on my stomach, then buries his face into the crease of my hip, pillowing his forehead against my lower abdomen.

And then he’s crying out into my flesh, his back spasms, and his hot release splashes over my bare feet and ankles.

“Mathias, Mathias, Mathias,” he says over and over, the volume of his voice dropping with each repeat of my name until he’s whispering it.

I thumb the soft, recently-shaved hairs on the side of his head while he gradually floats down from his orgasm.

“Shit, I’ve made such a mess,” he says, observing the welcome mat. It might be ruined, I’m not sure, though it’s kind of ironic that most of his jizz splashed across the word come.

“It’s fine. I’ll clean it up.” I pull my pants and sweatpants back up and help Owen to his feet.

He wraps his fingers around my neck and guides my lips down to his. Instantly, his tongue is in my mouth, sliding against my own. I can taste my cum on him, and it’s . . . hot, sure, but there’s something else there. Something a lot more tender.

And aching.

Why am I aching?

“Do you want to come inside?” I ask.

“Why not?” he replies. “Since I’ve already come outside.”

“That’s funny.” Though I’m not laughing. Owen doesn’t seem to care. He’s laughing enough for the both of us. “Tea or beer?”

Owen tucks himself back into his jeans and follows me into the house. “Ooh, I could murder a cup of tea right now.”

In the kitchen, I wet a paper towel and clean my feet, then I wash my hands and put the kettle on.

We’re quiet for a while, but it’s the most comfortable silence I’ve ever existed inside of. I don’t need to scramble around for something to say, and Owen seems more than happy to keep the peace.

“Do you want to watch a film?” I ask him. I pour boiled water into the mugs, and sugar Owen’s tea.

He nods. “Sounds great, but I’m picking the movie this time. ”

Owen chooses Labyrinth . He wants to ask if we can try cuddling again—I see the desperation in his eyes—but I’m not there. Not sure I’d ever reach that point, even if I were staying in Mudford and we had years ahead of us. I get the sense he knows this, though, and he doesn’t ask.

“What about . . .” I put a pillow on the coffee table for Owen to prop his feet up on, and I snuggle down on the sofa, resting my feet in his lap. “Is this okay?”

He smiles, tries to hide it by chewing on the corner of his lip, then gives up and beams at me. “Yeah, cool.”

Five minutes into the movie and Owen’s asleep. His head lolls back on the couch cushion and sonorous snoring echoes through the living room.

I should probably send him home, let him sleep in his own bed and get to sleep myself. I have training at nine tomorrow, bright and early. But I don’t move him. I spend the rest of the one hour and thirty-six minute long film just being near him.