Page 132 of The Wrong Man

I keep my hand stroking up and down our cocks while I tease his hole.

He cries out. His head whips from side to side against the pillow.

“Dante!” he pleads.

My cock throbs. My vision whites out. For a moment I think I’ve shot my load, but thankfully I haven’t.

I ease a finger inside ‌Dylan. Quickly followed by a second.

He goes wild. Bucking, writhing. Crying out. It is by far the hottest thing I have ever seen.

Then suddenly he is batting my other hand away, and wrapping his fingers around my cock. He tugs on me. Firm, sure, confident. I grunt and see stars.

I move my hand to his cock. I stroke him while finger fucking him. And while he works my cock with his pale, freckled hand.

Cristo. This feels so fucking good. His ass is hot and tight. His cock is firm and silken, and oh lord, his hand on me feels holy. The perfect pressure. Perfect rhythm. Perfect friction.

I’m leaking profusely now. My orgasm is close. So close that I’m teetering on the very edge. It’s almost painful, but I don’t care. Dylan is going to cum first and that is final.

I grit my teeth and fight to keep my orgasm at bay.

I curl my fingers and find Dylan’s spot. I brush over it and make him scream. I tap it again. Once, twice, three times.

His back arches off ‌the bed. He clenches around my fingers. A gurgling, almost choked sound pours out of his throat as his cock throbs in my hand. I work it hard and fast and watch as ropes of cum spurt out of him and paint his belly.

In the throes of his ecstasy, his hand on my cock has fallen still. But he is still gripping me, and that’s more than enough. The sight of him in rapture like this would be enough on its own.

I shudder my way through my own orgasm. My cum joining his on his belly.

Then I collapse in a sticky mess beside him.

Reality drifts away for a while, while my lungs heave and I see stars. Aftershocks sparking through my veins.

Then slowly, like waking up from a wonderful dream, the world reforms around me.

We are lying tangled together in the enormous bed, the city lights painting patterns on the ceiling.

Dylan is draped across my chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. I have one hand in his hair, the other wrapped around his waist, holding him as close as I can. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of this. The weight of him against me. The soft sound of his breathing. The knowledge that he’s here, that he’s safe, that he’s mine.

“What happens now?” Dylan asks quietly, his voice still rough.

I consider the question. A week ago, I wouldn’t have had an answer. My life was the work, the family, the carefully maintained distance from anything resembling normalcy. I didn’t know how to want anything else.

But that was before Dylan. Before everything changed.

“Whatever you want,” I say. “I mean it. Whatever you need to be happy, I’ll make it happen.”

He pauses. Even his lungs stop. “I’m still a loose end.”

My arms tighten around him. “No. You are mine.”

Dylan exhales, his fingers resume brushing against my chest. “I want to go back to the bakery,” he says. “I miss it. I miss baking. I miss Sean and Teagan, I miss the early mornings and the smell of fresh bread and the customers who come in every day for their usual order.”

“Then we’ll go back to the bakery.” The answer is easy. The easiest answer I’ve ever given.

He lifts his head to look at me, something uncertain in his eyes. “And I want you there with me. Not lurking in the shadows, not watching from a distance. Actually there. Part of my life, my real life, the one I had before all of this.”

My chest tightens. The bakery. Early mornings and flour dust and ordinary people living ordinary lives. It’s so far from anything I’ve ever known.