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Ben Stirling

Damn, I’m having fun.

I’m having a really, really good, top-tier time this week.

It’s Thursday, and Luca has hockey camp, so he’s been out from nine until two every day since Monday. Jeremiah and I have been spending a lot of time together. A lot , a lot.

We’ve been doing a lot of things too—not all the things—but still, enough things that when Amy asked what I’ve been up to without Luca around, I couldn’t think of a single PG thing to say.

I text him as soon as I drop Luca off, and most days, he’s waiting on the swing for me when I get home. Clothes go flying the second I shut the front door. It’s still a giddy, giggling rush every time, but it’s a different kind of giddiness now. I’m not laughing because I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I’m laughing because I’m having so much fun.

We’ve spent hours in bed. Hours. I’ve stroked him off more times than I can count.

Each time I do it, I like it more than I did the last time.

I still have questions about what’s happening between us, and I still feel a vague sense of disbelief when I think about what’s happening in my life, but the questions I’m asking are changing. The answers are too. They’re morphing, metamorphosing every time I see Jeremiah naked.

The main question now isn’t what am I doing?

The main question is how did I not notice male beauty before?

Now that I’ve seen it, I can’t understand how I missed it. It’s everywhere. All over Jeremiah. His face, his neck, his hair. He’s gorgeous. His body is gorgeous too. Every time I undress him, I find something new I can’t get enough of.

I spent most of Monday on top of him with his legs wrapped around my waist. His head was arched back, throat exposed, and I must have lost at least an hour kissing him and rubbing my stubble against his. I was addicted to the sound. The soft, raspy scratch. The hardness of the hair on his jaw. The silkiness of the hair on his head.

After a while, I noticed his Adam’s apple. I hadn’t noticed it before. I mean, I’d seen it, obviously, but I’d never noticed it. Not really. I’d never noticed that when it rides up, bobs, and slides down, it might as well be spelling out the word S-E-X .

I licked it once, just to see what it would feel like on my tongue. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I didn’t stop until my full body weight was on him and our dicks were grinding against each other. When they touched, something clicked and rendered me unable to think of anything else.

On Tuesday, I told him to undress while I watched. He did as I asked, deliciously nervous and bashful but with an unmistakably horny glint in his eyes. He stood naked, with a hand hovering over his junk.

I said, “On the bed. On your back.”

As he lay down, his hands fell open, palms up, on either side of his head. It was subconscious. A sweet, submissive pose I didn’t ask for, but he gave me all the same.

Part of me melted. The rest of me solidified.

I told him to lie on his back yesterday to see if he’d do it again, the hand thing, and he did. Only yesterday, his head rolled to the side as I approached him, leaving his jugular completely exposed.

I nearly came on the spot.

I kissed him for ages to try to calm myself. I played with his nipples until they were dark pink before shifting my focus. I meant to run my tongue along the indents that grid his belly, and I did. I got to his navel, and then I meant to take his cock in my hand like I’ve done every other day since we started what we’re doing.

I didn’t though. I looked at it, stretched out and swollen, and I didn’t think. I didn’t think a single thing. My tongue extended on its own, and I licked a thick, broad stripe from his balls to the slit at his tip. As soon as I made contact, he bucked against me. Not his hips, just his cock. It kicked sharply against my tongue, and it was harder and hotter than I ever thought such a thing could be. The level of arousal it stoked in me is hard to describe.

I blew him yesterday, and I loved it.

I blew him again today, and best I can tell, I’m going to blow him every chance I get from now on.

We’re curled up together now. Sated and slow. Jeremiah’s on his side, facing me, and I have a leg thrown over him to keep him where I want him. Every time he tries to move, I clench it and trap him against me. It makes him laugh.

I can still taste him. In my mouth. Down my throat.

“Okay, okay,” I say, lifting my leg off and freeing him, only because I know he’ll be late to teach his yoga class if I keep him much longer.

I watch as he scurries around the room, retrieving his clothes and putting them on in the order he finds them. He currently has his T-shirt on, one sock, and nothing else.

It’s insane how adorable he looks. His cock dangles between his legs as he walks. It’s distracting, so I get up to hold it for him. Not to stroke it, just to cup it until he finds his underwear to do it for him.

Before I get to him, he turns, bends over, and searches under the chair in the corner for errant pieces of clothing.

The air in the room is sucked into a vacuum.

My jaw drops.

His ass is a thing of beauty. Pale and milky. Muscular enough that it dips ever so slightly at the sides. Fleshy enough that my teeth ache with the urge to bite down on something.

He straightens quickly, but the moment drags out. He’s standing now, hip cocked, one leg bent at the knee, looking away from me as he surveys my room thoughtfully. There are two perfectly curved cheeks peeking out from under his T-shirt, and a rampant heat spreads like wildfire under my skin.

“Jeremiah.” There’s gravel in my voice. Gravel and whatever it is that makes me find sweet, wild, wise, chaotic people with a meek streak completely and utterly irresistible. Jeremiah hears it, recognizes it, and doesn’t move except to turn his head toward me just enough to make eye contact.

I let my eyes travel down his back and settle on his ass.

“That.” I raise my hand and point a single finger at him. My speech is slowed. Thick like molasses. “I want that.”

His laughter is throaty and soft. Copper and tin. Like bells ringing.

He cocks his head at me, tilting it back so his eyelids are hooded.

Then he wriggles his hips purposefully.

His ass quakes gently from side to side.

I crash into him, catching him with an arm looped around his waist before he has time to run. His feet lift briefly, legs curling toward his body from the force of his laughter. My free hand is raised, middle finger dipped into my mouth before I have a clear plan of what to do next.

The second Jeremiah’s feet touch the ground, I touch him. My finger slides between his cheeks and finds its mark.

He yelps on contact. A loud sound that he bites in half and then into quarters. It bounces off the walls and hits me right in the balls. My cock stiffens.

I touch him again. Lightly. So lightly I’m hardly touching him at all. I’m just feeling him. Feeling where he opens and closes. He’s warm there. Puckered and tight. I stroke him, holding him tightly as he jerks and bucks against me, releasing him only when I remember he has a class to teach.

“I want that,” I say again. This time, gravel is mixed with whiskey.

He’s wild-eyed, pink-cheeked, and panting as he turns to face me. “It’s yours,” he whispers. “Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“Jeremiah,” I warn, “you shouldn’t say things like that to men like me.”

He considers me for a moment, breathing slowing, electric blue still burning bright. Then he raises his chin in defiance. “I’d let you do anything to me, Ben Stirling.”

I splutter, shocked and aroused by his blatant disregard for what I said as much as I am by his words.

“What did I just say?” My voice softens because this is serious. “I mean it, baby, you shouldn’t say things like that to anyone, okay? It’s too much power. You have to be careful. And responsible. You have to keep yourself safe. It’s more important than anything.”

“I don’t say things like that to anyone.” Defiance still gleams in sparkling pools. “I only say it to you. I never even thought things like that until I met you.”

I spin him around to discipline him, and he goes soft and gooey in my arms. There’s no struggle, no resistance. He knows what he did, and he accepts it needs to be corrected. Maybe he even wants it because he arches his back slightly, offering me a pretty blank canvas to paint handprints all over.

I swing my arm back in a broad arc, fully intending to bring my palm down hard, but I get stuck.

I can’t do it.

I physically can’t do it.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping to my knees, mashing my face into soft, warm flesh. “I can’t. It’s too sweet. This ass is too sweet.” I groan helplessly, injecting soft, wet kisses in between my words. “I should…I should spank you for that kind of talk. I should beat this little butt bright red for saying things like that when I told you not to… For being…naughty…and cheeky, and…disobedient…and…a whole lot of…other things…”

When I’ve made as much of a fool of myself as I can possibly survive, I let him squirm out of my grip and steer him by the hip so he’s facing me.

I’m on my knees. He’s on his feet. His swollen dick bobs lazily near my lips. It’s not a position I’m used to, but I find I don’t mind it.

I harpoon his cheeks with one hand and lick my finger again, my pointer this time. He knows what I want and gives it to me, shifting his weight and spreading his legs just enough to give me the access I need.

We look at each other, neither of us blinking, as I slide my finger into him. A tight knot slowly comes undone. He gives way with an audible gasp.

I gasp too. I can’t help it. His grip on me is intoxicatingly tight. And hot. There’s something inexplicably necessary about being inside him like this. Something that’s been missing. Something I’ve been hurting without.

I give myself a second to look at him, to appreciate what’s happening between us. His mouth is open, eyes vague and unfocused. I wait until they land unsteadily on me, and then I curl my finger inside him. His head flicks back hard.

The sound he makes is something I feel in my marrow.

When he finally looks at me again, neither of us says a word. We both know a decision has been made. A date set.

Tomorrow.