“It doesn’t have to be complicated.” Benito knocked his head on Mickey’s shoulder. “We could stop seeing each other. Then you wouldn’t have to change your job.”
“I’d still be going to see your mum knowing I’d fucked her son in a sex club, though. It’s been inappropriate since we met, so don’t put it on yourself, okay? Even if we’d never seen each other again after that night, I’d have done this as soon as I found out you were connected to one of my residents.”
“What if you’d never found out, though? Then you’d still be helping all those people.”
“Yeah, well, now they’ll get someone else who can advocate for them without needing seventy-five grammar and punctuation apps to check up on them.”
Benito leaned back and shot Mickey a dry glare. “Don’t talk shit about yourself.”
“Make me stop.”
“How?”
“Put something in my mouth.”
Benito’s gaze darkened. “That escalated.”
“I’m not sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be.” Benito ghosted his hands up Mickey’s thighs until he came to the waistband of the soft sweatpants Mickey wore. No shirt. Benito skimmed the bare skin of Mickey’s abdomen. “I’ve been thinking about you since forever.”
“Forever?”
“Yeah.” Benito didn’t elaborate—he found better things to do with his mouth.
He kissed Mickey’s neck, then sank his teeth in, sucking hard enough to send pain-laced pleasure jolting through Mickey’s entire body.
It was going to leave a mark, but Mickey didn’t stop him. Couldn’t. It felt too good. He found bare skin of his own to play with, and his hands roamed beneath Benito’s T-shirt, tracing his lean muscles, and then the raised scar on his ribs.
Benito shivered, tensing, as though bracing himself for Mickey to ask him again how he got it.
Mickey didn’t. He wanted to know, but tonight the past was going to stay where it belonged. The present was this. It was them, alone with each other in Mickey’s kitchen with nothing between them but heat and too many clothes.
He gripped Benito’s T-shirt and pulled it over his head. Benito’s chest was a vision of smooth skin, dark ink, and that damn fucking scar. Mickey placed his palm over it. Benito closed his eyes, and something shifted between them—something permanent, that even if they never saw each other again, would never, ever change.
You got it bad, brother. And for once, the realisation didn’t scare Mickey. His worst fears seemed suddenly stupid. They’d come this far and the world hadn’t ended. No one had died. Not even me.
He claimed Benito’s mouth in a fierce kiss, and slid off the countertop, impacting Benito’s body with a thud.
Benito didn’t waver, and it felt symbolic. As if nothing Mickey threw at him could topple him over. He kissed Mickey back, and the bulge in his track pants grew harder, pressing against Mickey’s aching cock.
I want him. But everything they needed to fuck was upstairs, and Mickey couldn’t wait that long.
He spun them around, pinning Benito against the counter, then dropped to his knees, taking Benito’s track pants and underwear with him.
Benito’s cock sprang free, rigid and waiting. Mickey took a breath and sucked him down, opening his throat to swallow Benito whole.
“Jesus fuck.” Benito staggered, then gasped as Mickey began to work him, taking him deep and slow, sharp and fast, mixing it up until Benito was struggling to stay upright.
Dismantling him was hot as fuck. Mickey dragged it out, bringing him to the edge over and over, enjoying the desperation that built in Benito with every cruel swipe of his tongue.
Benito gripped Mickey’s face with sweat-damp hands. “You fucker,” he grit out. “I can’t—shit—”
Without warning, he came hard, shooting down Mickey’s throat with a tortured groan, blunt nails digging into Mickey’s scalp.
When it was over, he slumped against the counter, breathing laboured like he’d run a marathon. He glowered down at Mickey. “Was that fun for you?”
Mickey laughed. “Yup. And I’m going to have loads more fun, so eat all your dinner. You’re gonna need your strength.”
They messed around all night with lube and poppers, fingers and tongues, drinking beer in between and eating the pizzas Mickey had left in the oven while a film neither of them watched played in the background.
It was late when Mickey finally let himself coax Benito towards the bedroom.
They didn’t make it. Mickey fucked him on the stairs, driving into him from behind, sheathed with a condom snatched from his secret stash in a kitchen drawer, lost in the entrancing tension of Benito’s strong body as he held steady beneath him. He’s so fucking beautiful.
After, they stumbled to bed. Mickey fell asleep with Benito sprawled on his chest, but when he woke a few hours later, they’d shifted. Benito was behind him, curved around his body, hand resting on Mickey’s hip.
Mickey reached back and laced their fingers together. Benito sighed and ground his hips forward. The movement was fractional but fitted his cock so perfectly against Mickey’s body that they both moaned.
Benito laughed sleepily and braced himself to move away. “Sorry—”
“Shh.” Mickey held him in place. “I like it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Not with everyone, but definitely with you.”
Benito circled his hips again, a little harder this time, his body waking up and aligning with wherever his head was at. His length hardened, adding pressure and friction to his movements.
Amazing pressure and friction.
Mickey inhaled a shaky breath and went with it, cutting himself free from the last remaining ties to earth. He arched his neck, giving Benito access to his throat, and pressed back against Benito’s dick, inviting him, without words, to do whatever he wanted.
Benito groaned. “You’re fucking killing me.”
“Don’t die, bro.”
“I don’t want to. I want—I want to fuck you. Is that okay? Or have I read this wrong?”
“You haven’t read it wrong.”
Benito shuddered and nuzzled Mickey’s neck. The gesture was sweet and intimate, and hotter than hell. Mickey’s pulse banged against his eardrums, chaotic and loud.
“I want it,” he blurted, in case he hadn’t been clear.
Benito disappeared for a moment, rolling away to fumble in Mickey’s drawers. He came back with lube, a condom, and poppers.
He pressed the cold metal bottle into Mickey’s hand. “If you need them.”
There was no doubt in Mickey’s mind that he would. He wasn’t a natural bottom, and it had been . . . fuck, he didn’t even know, since he’d last taken a dick inside him, and Benito was big.
Thick.
Hard.
Fucking hell.
Benito rubbed Mickey’s forearm. Mickey had missed him returning to the space behind him and moulding their bodies together again. “We don’t have to, you know. I love what we already do. I fucking need that shit in my life.”
Mickey hummed. “I need it too, but I’ve been dreaming about being with you like this. I want it—I want you.”