Page 58 of The Haunted Hotel

“The worst, ughhhhhmmmh.” The next word out of my mouth is a garbled mess when he wraps his warm palm around my dick and strokes firmly.

“Fuck,” he moans and I shove his boxers down his thick, hairy thighs.

Taking his cock in my hand, I start up my own rhythm, making sure to run my thumb across the sensitive head and gather up the drops of precum to make the glide more intense.

He takes my mouth again, his tongue plunging between my lips to taste me. We hump frantically at each other. Fuck me, he’s addictive. There’s no civility, so finesse, just a desperate need.

I let go of his dick and push his shirt off his shoulders, dragging the material down his arms only to have it tangle at his wrists. I fumble with the buttons, but the fabric is damp and twisted, and I don’t have the patience. Neither, it seems, does Morgan. He grabs the sleeves, first one, then the other, and rips the whole thing off, flinging it to the floor.

My dick twitches at the fierce desire in those dark eyes. He slides his hands down and cups my arse, grinding his hard cock against mine, then lifts me. I wrap my legs around him, trying awkwardly to shove his boxers further down his thighs with my feet.

Suddenly, he pushes away from the wall and turns us around. Clinging to him, I continue to devour his mouth, which is my new favourite thing in the world, while he does a kind of shuffling waddle towards the bed with me in his arms. Looking down, I see his boxers tangled around his ankles, and I snortout a laugh as we tumble to the mattress in a mess of mouths, groping hands, and grinding pelvises.

God, this man. It feels like I’m on fire.

“Morgan.” I’m back to panting his name like the desperate little hussy I am, begging against his lips. “Morgan, please.”

He groans long and loud and ruts against me, our dicks sliding together with all kinds of delicious pressure and friction. I practically see stars when he wraps his fist around both of us and begins to stroke, but as damp as we are with our collective precum, it would be better with lube.

Something unexpectedly smacks Morgan in the side of the head, causing him to release my mouth and glance up. “Ow, what was that?”

We look down to see a small bottle of lube lying on the sheet next to us.

“Where did that come from?” Morgan frowns in confusion.

“Just go with it,” I breathe heavily, taking his mouth again. I pat the sheet blindly to pick up the bottle.

After flicking it open, I pour some into my hand, then reach down between us. He moves his hand and I take over. Both of us moan loudly, and I begin a slick but firm stroking motion, my thumb gliding over the heads of both our dicks. Morgan undulates against me, humping into my hand and grinding against my dick.

I cry out into his mouth as I spill over my fist and soak his cock with my cum. That seems to push him over the edge, and he lets out his own strangled cry while a pulse of hot liquid coats my fingers.

He collapses against me, his face buried in my neck, his hot, panting breaths against my skin.

I like it.

I like the weight of him, the feel of his heart thundering against mine and the dampness of our mingled orgasms slickbetween us. After a few moments, he rolls onto his back beside me. He takes another couple of slow breaths and lifts his head weakly.

“I’m still wearing my socks.”

I follow his gaze and chuckle when I see his boxers dangling from one ankle. Rolling onto my side to face him, I wipe my hand on the covers and tuck it under my cheek.

“I better remember to wash the bedding myself tomorrow. I don’t think John the Maid will be happy at the state of the sheets.”

Morgan snorts. It’s loud and unattractive and absolutely perfect. The kind you can’t keep in when you’re happy and something is funny.

“Oh my god, can you imagine his face when he sees the lube and cum stains?” Morgan is still laughing as he turns his head to look at me. His eyes dance with mirth and his smile is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re so gorgeous when you smile,” I mutter, lifting my other hand to trace his lips and the curve of his cheek with my fingertips.

“I don’t know about that,” he says. “I guess I don’t smile much.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I did, I think, when Warren and I were younger. Less responsibilities.”

I bend my elbow and prop my head on my hand so I can gaze down at him as I run my fingers through the thick chest hair scattered across his firm pecs.

“I know you take your responsibilities very seriously, but don’t you ever… I don’t know, just have fun?”