Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 3

make it look a little classier than a beach bum's crash pad. Which. You know. It is.
    As we walked, I tried to remember the state I'd left it in. No dishes in the sink, I knew that—one fuckup and the roaches pounced. But clothing strewed, my piles of crap around the Xbox, paper, gum wrappers, pens and stray cords. How many bath towels? Had I watered Jade or was she shriveled and dead?
    And how the hell long had it been since I'd last washed my sheets?
    None of that ended up mattering, of course. He wasn't there to inspect my housekeeping, and as for the sheets—well. They got washed the next day, didn't they? (Yes. Eww.)
    I turned my key in the lock and pushed. The door sticks, and I always have to give it a shove. I breathed a sigh of relief that the place didn't smell as mildewy as it could sometimes—and then got shoved back against the wall.
    Tomás kicked the door shut with his boot, gave it a final push until the latch clicked. Then clamped my head between his large hands and kissed me.
    Oh yeah . I knew this kiss. Greedy, hot and hard. Knew how to respond, tongue battling his, sucking. Hips pressing forward. Fuck me. This one would fuck me, wouldn't he? On the floor, ass in the air. That'd be hot. I'd remember that for a long time.
    He hissed something—couldn't tell what, and then said, "Cama."
    Well, okay. I could do that, too, you know. We'd set the goddamn bed on fire. Because I already knew. All sex is good; even mediocre, it's good. But this—when he touched me, flames licked up my spine. Already, my cock ached, needy in a way that drove all sense from my head. Been a damn long time since I'd wanted it this bad—like the first time you actually get what you want—a man, hard and tough and whiskers against your skin—and the way you think your balls will burst if you don't get him in you, right the fuck now.
    We stumbled to the bedroom. Short trip. And fell onto the bed. I pushed away long enough to strip my shirt, wriggle my hips and shuck my shorts. He took a moment getting his boots off—sexy black ropers. But then he was up, straddling me. He undid the buttons of his shirt and it slid down his shoulders, white against tan.
    Fucking Jesus H., those shoulders. Dark hair furred the hard rise of his pecs and arrowed down his sternum to disappear into his waistband. I might have whimpered, I don't even know. Hope not. When his hands came down, big and warm around my waist, running up along my sides, over my chest—I bucked. Because, damn . He settled in, grinding his still-clothed ass into my dick, effectively immobilizing me, which Jesus, only made my state worse.
    It was as if—and I know, this is so nifty-dot-org, but I swear—it was as if he worshiped my body, hands all over, lips and tongue, and I'd never had anyone do that before. Not like that. Touching me, running palms up my arms and pinning my wrists over my head as he licked at my nipples, tugging at the sparse hairs with his teeth. Whenever I ground against him, he pulled away, denying me the friction. My dick bobbed stupidly. Leaked all the hell over my stomach, making little snail trails as it wept its frustration.
    Then he went still. Letting my arms go, he trailed his nose down my chest, breathing deep, smelling me. I squirmed, anticipating a hot mouth finally, finally slurping over my glans. He took a deep breath in, smelling me. And sat up. Frowned. Like he was thinking.
    "You were with someone."
    I was what?
    "I smell him on you."
    Wha—? "You've got to be kidding me." I propped myself on an elbow. Buzz kill. "I work in a gay bar. Spunk flies."
    I realized later that may have come off as a denial. But denial hadn't even occurred to me, I was just seriously flummoxed. Spunk does fly—mine, theirs, Jesus, why else would anyone go? For the music?
    "Mmm." Tomás seemed to shrug it off. Which, yeah, okay, that was better. Because for a moment, the comment had seemed so 'out there'—the thought had flashed through my head that I'd hooked up with some seriously loco-en-la-cabeza motherfucker who was going to beat the shit out of me.
    Or try. I'm tougher than I look.
    I peered up at him, but he was focused on unzipping his jeans. He stood and let them fall to reveal—precious fucking beautiful bounty, aiming straight at me like a goddamn cannon. Another long one—not quite the snake as mine, but fatter. Could stretch me to hell and back, make me scream as it butted my gland. I tore my eyes away to get an eyeful of the whole.