Page 96 of Bare
‘I’m looking at you.’
‘You’re looking at me differently.’
‘How?’
‘Like you’ve decided something.’
Neil put his wine down. Stood. Crossed the sofa. Took Rory’s wine and set it on the table. Then he straddled his lap, knees either side of Rory’s thighs, hands on his shoulders, and kissed him.
His thigh muscles braced against the sofa cushions. Rory’s quads hard under him, tensing with surprise. The height advantage, looking down at Rory, his face tilted up, changed something fundamental. Every previous encounter had been Rory leading or mutual. Tonight, Neil’s hands.
Rory made a sound of surprise against his mouth.
‘Shut up.’ Fond, not harsh.
Rory’s hands found Neil’s hips. Reflex. The instinct to guide, to steer. He gripped harder, pulled Neil’s hip forward, trying to set the pace.
Neil caught his right wrist. Brought it down to the cushion beside Rory’s thigh. Held it there.
Rory’s breath caught. His wrist flexed against Neil’s grip.
A beat where he wasn’t sure. Where the loss of control wasn’t pleasure yet. Just loss.
‘Tell me if you want me to stop,’ Neil said. Low.
‘Don’t stop, Neil. I want this.’
Then the flex stopped. His fingers opened.
Button by button. The shirt off the shoulders, down the arms. The T-shirt over his head. Neil’s mouth on the nipple ring, the exact pressure he’d learned draws the hiss. He got the hiss. Down. Stomach. The trail of hair beneath his tongue. He released the wrists to work Rory’s belt, the buckle stiff, brass tongue that required both hands.
The jeans open. He pulled them down, Rory lifted his hips. The boxers followed. Neil slid off his lap. Knelt between Rory’s legs. The sofa cushion rough under his knees.
His mouth on Rory’s cock. The weight of it on his tongue, the salt-skin taste he’d learnt to crave. Rory’s hand in his hair. Not pushing. Gripping. The fingers tightening every time Neil took him deeper.
Rory’s breathing went uneven. His stomach muscles locked. His thighs trembling against Neil’s shoulders. Close.
Then Rory’s hand pulled him off. Firm. A fist in his hair that drew his head up.
Neil looked at him. Mouth wet. ‘What...’
‘Stop.’ Rory’s voice was wrecked. His cock flushed dark, spit-slick, twitching against his stomach. He was breathing through his teeth. ‘I don’t want to come yet.’
‘You were about to.’
‘I know.’ Rory sat forward. His hand moved from Neil’s hair to the side of his face. Thumb across his bottom lip, wiping the spit. His eyes were blown. ‘I want to fuck you. If you want that.’
Neil’s stomach contracted.
He’d thought about it. Lying in his own bed, hand on himself, Rory’s body above and behind. He’d thought about it in the shower. In the car. During a Year 9 comprehension exercise on a Tuesday afternoon in February, which was the most inappropriate time and the time his body had chosen anyway.
‘Yeah.’ His voice didn’t sound like his own. ‘I want that.’
Rory moved fast after that. Bedroom. Both of them naked, Rory’s hand on the back of Neil’s neck, guiding without pushing. The bedroom low-lit. Lamp on. Bed unmade from this morning.
Rory opened the drawer. Condom. Lube. The cap click that Neil now associated with this room and this man.
‘On your front or your back?’
