Page 7 of Ripe & Ready (Friction Fiction #1)

On one side, there’s a little wooden shelf with an assortment of tiny hotel soaps and complimentary loofahs because every hotel in the jungle is also a spa.

The brass knobs beside them catch the last bit of sunlight as it filters through the trees, casting this glowy, golden light that makes everything look. .. borderline cinematic.

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. It’s way too romantic for what I’m about to do to this man with my mouth.

Derek steps over to the trio of hotel pumps. Soap, shampoo, conditioner all labeled in that vaguely expensive font that whispers luxury. Definitely not Papyrus, I’ll tell you that.

He pumps out a generous amount, works it into a lather, then turns to me with this look on his face as if I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted and then, because apparently he’s trying to kill me, he starts washing me. Hands slow, sure, gentle.

His fingers move across my chest as if he’s trying to memorize every inch, filing away all the parts of me he’s never gotten to experience until now and the whole time, his eyes stay locked on mine.

He’s so soft and easy, and stupidly beautiful and he’s giving me that look you only dream of.

This is exactly where we’re meant to be.

Even if it took us forever and fifteen years of emotional repression to get here.

.. we’re here now and that’s what matters.

It’s... a lot. Emotionally. Physically. Existentially. Because if he keeps looking at me like that, I might actually believe I deserve it.

“How long has it been?” I ask.

“Since what?”

“Since you realized you liked me. More than… you know. A friend.”

He tilts his head, thinks for a second. That same smile still pulling at his mouth.

“I think I always kinda have,” he says. “I couldn’t ask that of you. I thought… if I kept showing up, over and over, maybe one day you’d come around.” He shrugs. “And you did.”

I turn, giving him access to my back. He rubs the soap across my shoulders, then slow, steady strokes down my spine that make it really hard to focus on anything besides the heat pooling low in my stomach and the fact that I’m one mildly poetic sigh away from losing it completely.

“I wish you would’ve said something.”

“I could’ve,” he says, voice soft. “But small things scare you. Big things terrify you. I didn’t want to risk pushing you too far and losing you completely.”

That lands. Hard.

Because he’s right. My fear wasn’t holding me back. It was holding him back too.

Maybe if he’d told me how he felt, things would’ve changed. Maybe that moment on a slide in North Carolina was the start of it all with him always being the one to remind me I do have a backbone.

But it doesn’t matter.

I missed out on years of his love because I was afraid. Not him.

“You should ask for what you want, Derek,” I say, trying to keep my voice even, but I’ve been practically holding my breath since he first touched me. “You don’t know what people are willing to give unless you ask.”

He goes quiet. His hands still, then slowly retreat, and he takes a step back. Even with hot water pouring over both of us, I feel the absence of his touch immediately. My skin misses him before my brain even catches up.

“You think so?” he asks after a second. His voice is thoughtful, a little unsure in a way I’m not used to from him.

I nod, trying not to over-explain, which is wild because me holding back? Growth.

“You do more for people than anyone I’ve ever met,” I tell him, and that’s not me being in love with him. That’s just true. “If you asked… if you let people show up for you the way you show up for them? I really think they would.”

I pause. “I know I would.”

He hums low in his throat, something thoughtful flickering in his eyes. “Okay, then.”

One of his hands glides down my back. Lower. Fingers sliding between my cheeks, slow and deliberate, tracing lazy strokes against me that make my knees threaten to buckle.

I groan, pressing into him.

“I want this,” he whispers.

His lips press against the curve of my neck.

“I want you.”

Another kiss. Lower this time, between my shoulder blades at the center of my spine.

“It’s us, Andy. It’s always been us.”

His hand moves over my shoulder, down my chest, then wraps around my throat. Not rough, but so sure. He tilts my head back, guiding me to look at him and then he kisses me, and with his lips on mine and time weighing down on us I know that from this point on there’s no holding back.

The distant sounds of the jungle filter into the open-air space. Something wild beyond reach. The scent of body wash hangs in the steam, light and tropical. Coconut, I think.

Hot water rains down on us, warm against our skin, the droplets snaking along our bodies. They slide down slowly, weaving paths across our chests, our backs, racing toward the hardwood and disappearing through the grate beneath our feet.

His cock rests against me, thick with intent.

Like that, everything else disappears.

He nips at my ear, tongue dragging heat down the side of my neck. His hands are everywhere. Firm, claiming, rough in a way that makes me ache. One wraps around my cock, stroking with maddening ease, like he already knows exactly how to unravel me.

I can’t take it anymore.

I spin to face him, eyes locked on his, and drop to my knees. It’s not even a decision. It’s instinct, devotion, need.

I want him. All of him. In every way I can have him.

He’s already under my skin, in my chest, carved into every layer of my being, but now I want to be ruined by him completely.

And he lets me.

My lips part and I take him past my lips slow and careful then deeper and deeper still, until I feel the full weight of him stretch my mouth, settle heavy on my tongue. My nose brushes the soft hair at the base, and the scent of him hits me all at once. Soap and sweat. It’s intoxicating.

Above me, he gasps. One hand moves into my hair, not pulling, but threading. Fingertips tracing my scalp. It’s steady. Grounding.

I stay there, still, for a second, breathing him in. Letting it sink in that this is real. That he’s here. That I finally get to have this, have him, in a way I’ve only played out in late-night fantasies for years.

I rock my head back and forth, one hand stroking him with enough twist in my wrist to match the rhythm of my mouth. My cheeks hollow as I move, tongue circling the head, lapping at him, working him deeper with every pass.

The taste of him hits me. Sharp and bitter pre-come that floods my senses. This is my favorite flavor. Bottle it. Sell it in stores. I’d buy it in bulk and embarrass myself at checkout.

With my other hand, I cup his balls gently, and he groans. Low and rough. Coming undone one breath at a time.

When I pull back a little to peer up at him, cock still resting at the tip of my tongue, his breath stutters, and I feel that unspoken everything between us.

All the tension, the missed timing, the fear, the want.

.. unspooling in the heat between our bodies.

It’s been waiting for this exact moment to break free.

Then he hauls me to my feet. Like actually hauls, zero hesitation. He spins me around, pressing me forward.

“Grab the wall and spread your legs,” he says, and holy hell. His voice is gruff and serious and charged, and I swear I feel it ricochets right through me. It hits my already aching cock like a jolt of electricity. I might actually black out.

I turn to face the wall, widening my stance and pushing my ass out, arching my back to give him everything. Full access.

“Good boy,” he says, and smacks my ass.

Hot damn! The sound that comes out of me? I don’t think it’s ever existed before. It’s new. Untested. Scientists will need to name it.

This man is going to end me .

A second later, he’s behind me, dropping to his knees and burying his face between my cheeks. His tongue laps at my hole with furious strokes before pressing in.

I choke on a breath. My knees almost buckle. Jesus Christ.

Has anything ever felt this good?

No. No, absolutely not.

Fuck… this is only foreplay.

He savors me like no one ever has. Tongue teasing, obnoxiously good. I’m shaking, arching back, pressing into him ready to to suffocate him with gratitude. A low chuckle vibrates against me and yeah… he knows exactly what he’s doing.

No guy has ever done this this well. Not even close. Honestly, I owe a few exes an apology for pretending. Derek has me seeing God, stars, and probably a few of my ancestors.

I draw away, my chest rising and falling in sharp bursts.

“I need you to fuck me.”

The corners of Derek’s mouth twitch upward. “Oh really?”

“Yes. I think we’ve both waited long enough.”

“I agree,” he says, voice a gentle murmur then his gaze drops, and something shifts. “One small problem.”

Wait… what?

I can feel how badly he wants this. Literally. Pressed into my hip like a damn homing beacon. His dick is writing checks his mouth apparently doesn’t want to cash. So what’s the holdup?

I go full mental rolodex. Did I say something weird? Did I misread this? Did I hallucinate the past fifteen minutes? Are we not on the same page here? Because my body is in go-mode and he’s over there looking suddenly… logistically concerned.

“I’m on PrEP,” I blurt out.

No lead-in. No context. I’m emitting nothing but panic and vibes.

Derek blinks. “Oh God,” he says, shaking his head, clearly trying not to laugh. “I know. Me too. We tell each other everything. That’s not the issue here.”

“Right,” I say quickly. “I thought that was the problem?”

“It helps a lot of things,” he says gently. “But it’s not the issue.”

“What is it?”

“I didn’t think we’d be doing this,” he says, sheepish. “And, uh… unless you packed supplies... I didn’t.”

I freeze. Oh.

Oh!

I wince, already knowing where this is going.

“I kinda don’t have any lube.”