Page 6 of Tribute Act

He stepped up close to me, without touching. “So. What are you up for, Nathan?”

I met his gaze. “Whatever you like. Blowjobs, handjobs.” I paused. “Fucking if you like—if you have condoms.” I had my own condoms, but I wanted to make it clear that wasn’t negotiable.

Quirk of a smile. “I like . . . and I do. Do you have a preference for top or bottom?”

It was all a bit clinical, this sort of negotiation, but necessary.

“I’d prefer to top,” I said frankly. “It’s not a deal breaker though.”

His smile deepened. “I can bottom.”

His easy acceptance relaxed me. Sometimes I just really wanted to fuck. It didn’t matter whether I was topping or bottoming—it wasn’t about a need to penetrate or be penetrated. It felt more like, I don’t know, a need to immerse myself. Get out of my own head.

I took hold of his hips and moved in for a kiss, but he pulled back a little, evading my mouth.

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Everything okay?”

He flashed a grin at me. “Fine, but let’s get straight to the good stuff, yeah?”

I wanted to say that kissing was the good stuff, but it was obvious he didn’t agree and this sort of encounter called for compromise.

“Okay, sure,” I said easily, mentally shoving my disappointment aside.

I reached for the buttons of his shirt, and he didn’t seem to object to that move. He watched as I worked them free, then pushed the soft flannel off his broad shoulders, revealing a plain white T-shirt that he quickly ripped off and tossed aside. His spare, lightly muscled torso was pale, his small, dusky nipples already hard. A trail of dark hair arrowed down his belly, disappearing into his jeans. My mouth watered. I wanted to hit Pause. Have him lie still while I licked him all over, but he was already wrestling with the buttons of his jeans, and it wasn’t like I was going to complain. His urgency was fucking sexy, even though a part of me wished he would slow down and let me look at him properly.

He shoved his jeans and underwear down together, revealing more. Sharp hip bones; a nice, averagely sized cock, hard and red-tipped with need. A dark nest of pubic hair and the long, lean legs of a distance runner.

He kicked his jeans away, then peeled his socks off, sending them sailing over my head with a grin.

The whole strip took about ten seconds, and he didn’t so much as pause before reaching for the hem of my own shirt. A momentary panic seized me as I thought of his gaze on my own far-less-lean body, and I put my hand on his wrist, stopping him.

He blinked. “What’s wrong?”

Immediately I let go. “Nothing.” I forced a smile.

He studied my face for a moment, then gripped the hem of my shirt again, tugging upwards. I lifted my arms to help, but with the shirt being such a close fit, I got caught up in it once it was over my head, and couldn’t see for a moment. It was probably only a second or two at most, but with my eyes covered, I was suddenly horribly conscious of my undefended body, most especially the slight softness around my once-hard belly. I wrenched at the shirt, faintly panicky.

When I finally wrestled it off and tossed it aside, it was to find Mack watching me, an amused twist to his lips. “Got a bit tangled up there, did you?”

I felt my face heat. “Yeah. I must have put some weight on since I bought that shirt.”

Oh, fuck, no! Why did I say that?

Mack just grinned though. “Well, you look pretty good to me,” he assured me, and his eyes were so warm and appreciative that I couldn’t help but return his smile, despite my self-consciousness.

I reached for him again, intent on kissing him, but he lowered his head, busying himself with unbuttoning my fly. “I’m dying to see what you’ve got in here,” he told me as he began to push my jeans down, going to his knees in front of me.

Fuck, he looked good, kneeling naked on the thin hotel carpet. His shoulders were broad but he was rangy. It gave him a slightly ascetic appearance—as though he might be the sort of guy who forgot to eat occasionally, if he was busy with something else. Maybe playing that guitar. Not like me. I’m the prosaic sort that likes three square meals a day.

Mack eased my jeans down my legs. Mine didn’t slide off quite as easily as his. While he was tall and slim, I was of a broader, stockier build, maybe an inch shorter and probably a good bit heavier. My mum used to call me well-made when I was an overweight teenager, which was a nice way of saying that I had a body type that ran to fat if I didn’t watch my diet and exercise religiously.

But judging by Mack’s reaction, he liked what he saw.

“Hmm,” he murmured approvingly as he ran his hands up the back of my bare legs, giving his attention to my desperate thrusting cock. “Very nice.”

He stuck out his tongue and lapped at my tip. I groaned, touching my hand to his shoulder to balance myself. Christ, it had been so fucking long. Mack glanced at up me, grinning, then set to, licking a stripe up the length of my cock, then back down, right to my balls. He did it over and over, getting me wet and sloppy, and I moaned my pleasure—I’ve always been quite loud in bed and he seemed to like my noises, his enthusiasm rising in response to each reaction I gave him.

After a couple of minutes, I shifted my legs apart to give him better access and reached out to stroke his hair. When he pushed his head against my hand, I understood he liked it there and threaded my fingers into his dark, silky mop, loving the helpless groan of pleasure that elicited. Easy to see that little gestures of subtle dominance aroused him, his licking motions becoming ever more ardent when I tugged gently at his hair.