Authors: Amy Lane
Malcolm was undone enough to let him, and he had to admit that since Owen hadn’t put on his boxers, the view of his naked backside, stretched and red as he bent over the couch and wiped it off, was a treat. He put his glasses back on, and in the new-found clarity, spotted the red marks on Owen’s hips and grimaced.
“Fuck,” he muttered, and Owen followed his gaze and straightened, grinning faintly.
“Not going to forget
in the morning, am I?”
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he muttered, tortured by having to explain. Didn’t mean to do that?
didn’t mean to do something in bed?
“I’m well aware,” Owen said, smiling that gentle smile again. He stood up and walked the dish towel to the sink, rinsing it out like he knew his way around. He draped the cloth over the spigot to dry, dried his hands and said, “Here, I owe you something.”
“What? A graceless fuck in a stranger’s flat?”
“Haven’t gotten one of those yet,” Owen said, taking Malcolm’s hand from its resting place on the counter. He picked it up, his hands cool and drying, and Malcolm still felt the heat and sting from smacking so hard. “I made a request, you followed through.” And with that, he pulled Malcolm’s hand to his mouth and placed a warm, wet, open-mouthed kiss on his palm.
Malcolm shivered, the tenderness of the kiss soothing all sorts of sting. Owen’s lips kept moving, and his tongue came out to tease the center. Then he pulled Malcolm’s finger into his mouth and suckled on that. He released the finger, teased the webbing with his tongue, and moved to the middle finger, laving that one too.
Malcolm gasped and tilted his head back, leaning against the counter and feeling strangely helpless to stop that gentle, playful caress of tongue and lips. Owen stopped, eventually, but not before all of the tension, the pain, of the last few embarrassing moments had faded away, and Malcolm was left, strangely relaxed and a little floaty, leaning against his kitchen counter.
Owen pulled back and placed a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth, and then reached around his shoulder, his chest brushing Malcolm’s as he did so. It was such a natural, intimate thing to do, after the almost frightening escalation into sex they’d had, that Malcolm leaned forward, just to prolong the contact—and then jerked back because he felt needy, and he was
“You left the orange juice out,” Owen said, pressing his groin and stomach intimately (and a little high up, actually) against Malcolm’s, and leaning back so he could raise the bottle to his lips. “You’re not a stickler for this, are you?” He tilted his head back and his throat worked as he took a couple of swallows.
Malcolm watched him, that neediness assailing him again, and when Owen grinned and offered him the bottle, he took it and swallowed the last bit in two gulps. He numbly set the bottle back on the counter and gave in to temptation, putting his hands on Owen’s lean, naked hips.
“You were right,” Owen said softly, feathering cool lips along his temple.
“It’s getting damn cold here in the kitchen. I’d love to take you to the bedroom, get under the covers, and kiss you some more. Or is that too personal?”
Malcolm swallowed and managed a crooked grin. “No, no—you’ll be on your way out of town soon. Nothing’s too personal for a stranger.”
He hadn’t quite meant it to hurt, just as a rationalization. He had planned for breakfast (but under different circumstances, admittedly), had calculated to spend a bit more time, all casual as could be.
He’d also had loads of fucks that left after the sex to catch the last Tube or bus. Those were fine, too. Especially on a work day (and really, what day wasn’t?). Getting up at six to be jogged, showered, suited, and booted at the bank by a quarter past seven for the news roundup from the research department didn’t really leave time to be terribly nice to some conquered piece of ass he’d brought in from God-knew-where.
Nothing’s too personal for a stranger.
But damn, Owen was the nicest stranger he could think of. “I didn’t mean it that way, you know.”
Owen nodded, like he’d just said something completely clear that didn’t actually bear repeating. “Bedroom?”
Kissing and touching. Yeah, he really wanted that. “Just going to brush my teeth. I have a spare toothbrush if you want it.”
They did that part in companionable silence, like some married couple, no squabbling over space in front of the mirror, and he couldn’t help but think that Owen looked good there, brushing his teeth slowly and deliberately, whereas Malcolm was what his dentist referred to as a “mad scrubber.” Maybe part of that irritation was just frustration right now, remnants of the embarrassment. He washed out his mouth and headed to the bedroom.
The large bed was made (this place came with cleaning service), the sheets all clean, because he liked nothing more than to sink, freshly-showered, into a completely fresh bed, whatever else he’d gotten up to the day or night before.
The Egyptian cotton sheets felt almost too crisp on his skin, at least for that moment until they took his body heat. He’d only shed his dress shirt and kept his boxers on. Owen, though, was still naked, and that suited him beautifully, too.
The touch on his chest was more politely gentle than tentative, and he almost sighed. It did feel good to lie back and not be expected to do much. He’d likely be able to go a second round, but right now, he was just relaxing, and how rare an occurrence was that while he had a hot guy in his bed.
Double spearmint taste in his mouth when Owen leaned over to kiss him, one hand stroking his face as he did, thumb nearly tickling his lip and the corner of his mouth. But it was the good kind of tickle. Malcolm smiled and relished the skin-on-skin feeling, the touch, even the eye contact. “Why are we here? I get you probably ended up in an overpriced shithole of a hotel—”
“I really like your mouth.”
The shape and feeling, maybe, not what was coming out of it. Malcolm smiled. He couldn’t help it. Damn, the guy was cute. Really cute.
“So you’re spending the night at my flat because you really like my—” Both of Owen’s hands came up, burying themselves in the curly mass of his hair, and Owen positioned him just
and then touched his lips harder, possessively, and his tongue swept in deeper, with authority.
Malcolm groaned, opened to him, surprised that someone who’d been so eager to submit to him could take the lead with such ease. When his blood had surged to his skin some, including a healthy dose all points south, and his breathing had quickened, and someone (him) had made a breathless moan into someone’s (Owen’s) mouth, Owen pulled back and placed gentling kisses on the corner of his mouth, his cheeks, his forehead, his chin.
Malcolm felt stranded, panting slightly for breath, as he clung to Owen’s shoulders (hard shoulders—not massy at all, but hard; Owen was no stranger to a gym) and tried to capture Owen’s mouth.
Owen refused to be captured. He kissed down Malcolm’s stubbled chin and pulled back, grinning.
“What?” Malcolm had never felt so vulnerable.
“You’ve got a good shadow here,” Owen said, scraping it with his thumb. “I’m jealous.” He flashed a powerful grin and brought a hand to rub across his own barely-stubbled jaw. “I tried to grow a goatee once. It came out more like a Chia pet. We called it ‘Chia beard.’”
Malcolm chuckled, resisting the temptation to put his hand over his mouth. He touched Owen’s cheek instead, liking the feel of the almost-smoothness under his palm. Owen had a long jaw and a narrow, pretty face. His eyes—plain brown at first glance, were dark and liquid and framed with lashes that were blond at the tips.
“Your face is too pretty to hide under a beard anyway,” he said, trying to sound older and decisive. Instead, he sounded . . . dreamy, but maybe Owen liked dreamy, because he smiled softly and lowered his head for another kiss. “Good chin, great jawline.” He traced it, fingernail scraping gently along the soft skin beyond the bone ridge. He liked to suck on that, bite a bit, depending on mood and timing. “Great body, too,” he added, wondering why he felt the need to compliment Owen. He liked him. No harm done, right? It wasn’t a competition, not in this case. If it had been, he’d have ended it by losing the game back on the couch. He could be gracious in defeat. Maybe. Try to. It wasn’t Owen’s fault. No, Owen had stayed around and was still touching and kissing him.
The kink seemed to be completely gone, which was fine. Right now, he felt mellow enough to kiss and explore and accept what Owen did to him. Which was to keep him relaxed and drifting in this very aware yet almost sleepy state, with some arousal thrown in. He pulled Owen close for another kiss, half-turned toward him, noticed him getting aroused too, Owen’s dick brushing against his thigh.
He glanced down, and Owen grinned, knowing exactly what he was thinking. “Do you only top?” Owen asked.
Malcolm hesitated. That tended to be his chosen role these days. First, tops got a
more play. A lot. At least from the casual hookup sites, so he’d slowly dressed up his profile to make himself look like an exclusive top. He wasn’t. Had never really been. It was just simpler, played into his image. And he really never wanted to encounter a business client who frequented the same sites and saw him being anything but in control.
“I’d really like to fuck you, but it’s okay if you don’t want to.”
Nothing’s too intimate for a stranger.
Malcolm’s heart was suddenly pounding. No risk here with Owen. The Yank would be gone soon enough. And if he really wanted—well, it was a way to say “sorry” for the first part of the performance. “Sure.”
He reached out to the nightstand, opened the top drawer, pushed the dildo to the side
(yeah, such a top in private too, eh, Malcolm?)
, and dug out the lube and a strip of condoms. He placed them to the side on the mattress, within easy reach for Owen.
Owen smiled faintly, seeming to pass no judgments at all. He placed a short, sweet kiss on Malcolm’s lips, and then . . . tended to him.
Malcolm was confused at first—Owen kissed the side of his neck, down his collarbone, between his gym-bunny pectorals, and Malcolm writhed. It was seduction, and for an absurd moment, he wanted to laugh.
The deal’s sealed, mate. Take me already!
But Owen didn’t. Each kiss was hard and purposeful and necessary, enough that he craved more and harder, and with every movement—his sensitive ribs, the soft skin and hard muscles of his stomach, the divot between his hip and his groin—he wanted more. He knotted his hands in Owen’s hair, thrilled there was enough of it to grab, with the solid intention of bossing this Yank around and making him head for ground zero, damn it, when Owen knelt at his side, teasing his inner thigh.
Owen’s left hand covered Malcolm’s chest, smooth, hard palm against all of that newly nibbled skin; and the right hand rubbed his thighs, behind his knees and, with a reach, his shins. Malcolm, aroused and humbled and a little frustrated, was suddenly being
and the sensation was so bloody fucking marvelous he wanted to cry.
Then Owen traced his length very gently with a pointed tongue, and he cried out. His erection, which had been returning in its own time, was suddenly very hard and very urgent.
“Oh God,” he panted, writhing from the playful touch of Owen’s tongue around the ridge of his uncut cock. “Oh God . . . are you just going to tease me to death?”
Owen lifted his head and Malcolm whimpered. Shame threatened to creep up and stall things, just when they were going so well, but . . .
Nothing’s too intimate for a stranger.
It became his mantra.
“I love your noises,” Owen confessed, and then made up for deserting Malcolm’s cock with his mouth by seizing it in his fist. His fingers were long and bony and hard, and reminded Malcolm of why he liked this side of bi sometimes more than the other. “It’s like you groan with a British accent.”
Owen engulfed the head of his prick with a hot, wet, tight mouth, and Malcolm didn’t even have the wherewithal to finish swearing. Owen chuckled with Malcolm deep in his throat, and Malcolm grunted and thrust deeper.
Owen wet two fingers then, sliding them inside his mouth at the same time, getting a little bit sloppy which usually Malcolm abhorred, and then skated them down the predictable path, over Malcolm’s testicles, down into his crease.
Malcolm bent his legs at the knees, spread them wide, feeling vulnerable and needy and all sorts of unaccustomed things. He felt those two fingers rubbing at his rim, softening it, getting ready to enter, and he shuddered, made another helpless animal sound, and spurted a little in Owen’s throat.
He pulled away, panting, “You almost made me come!” accusing and a little panicked—you didn’t
that to a stranger without permission. Quickly, because
he was ready,
goddamned ready, he rolled over onto his hands and knees and raised his ass, snapping, “Now stop fucking around and put on the bloody condom!”
The only response he got was something that felt like a rugby tackle, even if Owen would probably call it football. It involved a lot of strong body covering him and taking all his limbs and wrestling him over onto his back before he could protest or put up much of a fight.
“Shit, Owen,” he grunted. “Fuck me already.” He wouldn’t say “please,” although, granted, he might. Not far off, that. Shit.
“I will, but not like that,” Owen said close in his face, close enough that his vision blurred. Owen shifted again on his bed and opened Malcolm’s legs, pushed against his shins and moved between them.
At this point, Malcolm really didn’t care which way things were going; the only thing he cared about was watching Owen tear the foil packet and roll the condom over his dick. While Owen was busy with that, he grabbed the lube, squirted some in his hand, and was about to get himself ready when Owen stopped him, took the lube from him, and then pushed two slick fingers into him.
Malcolm hissed with pleasure, and the stretch a bit, but he really didn’t want to hear any more—