I pulled him to his feet. “Carbs for dinner it is then.”
“And also carbs for dessert.”
I laughed. “For you. I look at food and gain weight. You can eat all the carbs you want, apparently. I don’t fancy two hours on the dreadmill to work it off.”
He always laughed when I called it that. Now he smiled, not a laugh, but at least it was better than his pouty frown. “You can spend two hours working me over if you’d prefer.”
“I would prefer that, very much.”
He sighed, still smiling. “Well, my day just improved exponentially.”
He was such a brat. And yes, even at thirty-one years of age, Malachi could still be a brat, and I would hope he’d still be one in his eighties. Nothing would make me happier if he was old and grey, still wearing funky-coloured boots and a matching Hello Kitty or Miss Sunshine shirt, with his quick wit, sassy mouth and wicked sense of humour.
He was a brat in the bedroom too. Always mouthing off until he got what he wanted. And what he wanted was to be face down on the bed, sprawled out and spread wide, and drilled into the mattress.
I hardly minded giving it to him.
When we got home, I unlocked the front door and held it open for him. It was hot and humid, typical Sydney weather in December. I set the air conditioning going while Malachi scooped up Mr Bojangles and gave him a quick cuddle. Mr Bojangles was a gift from me to Malachi when he moved in with me and missed Buster Jones, his old neighbour’s cat.
Mr Bojangles was a rescue cat and Malachi adored him. I gave the cat a quick pat, then kissed Malachi. “Why don’t you go run a bath, and I’ll start dinner,” I suggested.
Malachi hummed and sighed happily. “Have I ever told you how much I love that you look after me?”
“Yes, you have,” I replied, kissing him again. “But you can tell me again.”
“I love you, Julian.” He leaned up on his toes and kissed me. “I love how you look after me, and I really love how you’re going to fuck me for two hours later.”
I scoffed. “I think your expectations far exceed my capabilities.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I want to fall asleep a sweaty mess, unable to move, unable to think, and I know you know how to do that.” He smirked over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs before he coddled Mr Bojangles. “Daddy knows what I need, doesn’t he?”
I smiled watching him disappear upstairs. Yes, I knew what he needed and I knew exactly how to give it to him. And knowing he would be in the bathroom making himself ready made my body thrill at what was coming.
By the time I served dinner, I was already half-hard in anticipation. It didn’t help that he was wearing only a black silk robe, smelling fresh, his black hair damp and brushed back.
I missed the flair of colour he used to wear in his hair. That streak of blue or purple or bright red that he’d match with his outfits. He stopped dyeing it before his 30th birthday, saying he was too old to act so young.
I understood. I just missed it.
I liked running my hand through Neon Purple strands, or Solar Orange, Teal Teaser. It was too easy to fist a handful of it when I was fucking him from behind.
“Julian?” Malachi was looking at me, his head tilted. “You okay?”
I realised then I’d been so lost in my thoughts, my fork still in my hand. “Yes. I’m fine.”
His smile turned smug. “You thinking about anything in particular? Because you have a look in your eyes that I rarely see outside of the bedroom.”
I growled and pushed my plate away. I met his gaze and licked my lips. “I’m thinking about being buried inside you and the look in your eyes when I fill you with come.”
Malachi blinked and swallowed hard, his lips parted, licked-wet. His chest heaved and he gently laid his fork down. Then he stood up, letting his robe fall open, revealing his very naked body underneath. “Where do you want me?” he asked, his voice just a whisper. “Bent over the couch or in bed?”
I was fully hard now. My cock was uncomfortably confined in my trousers, and the couch was closer . . . but the bed was more comfortable for him.
“Bed.”
He whimpered as he turned and made his way up the stairs. I took a second to control myself before I followed him up. When I walked into our room, he was bent over the edge of the bed, a towel over the covers, with his robe pulled up, reaching around to rub lube over his hole.
Fuck.
I took his wrist and brought his hand up over his head, leaning over him, pressing my hips against him, letting him feel how turned on I was.
“That’s my job,” I whispered into the back of his head. “I take care of you.” He whined and I kissed the nape of his neck. I ran my hands down his ribs, to the small of his back, then over the curve of his arse. I took over, lubing him up and gently stretching him with my fingers until he was writhing and mumbling impatient complaints.
So I popped the button on my trousers and unzipped the fly. I pulled my cock out and applied a stream of lube before pushing the cockhead against his entrance.
He gripped the covers, readying himself, lifting his hips a little, waiting . . .
I pushed into him, his tight warmth drawing me in. He threw his head back and groaned through the breach.
He was used to me now. He could take me like a champ, and he loved it. He craved it. And I loved giving it to him.
We’d long forgone the use of condoms and it had taken our sex life to a whole new level. I’d never gone raw with anyone before him, and he’d never received it before me.
There was no feeling like it, and knowing he took my seed made it hotter, made it better. There was something primal in me, marking him like that, that I got off on.
He belonged to me.
Or it made me belong to him, I wasn’t sure.
Both.
“Fuck, Julian, yes,” he breathed as I pulled back and pushed in, deeper, all the way.
I gripped his hips and leaned forward, knowing by his reaction that I was now pressing in at a different angle. His knuckles were white as he fisted the bed covers, as he arched his back. Letting go of his hips, I wrapped my arms around his chest and lifted him upright. His knees found the mattress to take his weight, but he was impaled on me. He groaned, almost a wail, before he stroked himself.
“Malachi,” I grunted, not sure how long I could hold out for.
He was too hot, too tight, too much.
He lurched forward, his whole body jerking as he cried out, coming onto the towel. So I drilled into him, prolonging his orgasm and speeding toward my own.
When he cried out the final time, his body going slack on the bed, I held his hips, and with a last thrust, I came inside him.
He whined as he took it, feeling every pulse, every drop. It was this hot, this perfect, every time.
I wanted to stay inside him forever. I wanted to be one with him, this deep, this complete for the rest of my life.
I pushed him further up the mattress and pressed my weight onto him as I lay down. We caught our breath, and when I began to pull out of him, his hand on my hip stopped me.
“Stay.”
“Mm.” I kissed his shoulder, his nape, the shell of his ear. “You want more?”
He smiled before pressing his face into the bed covers, and he rolled his hips a little.
Christ.
It didn’t take much, considering I was still buried inside him. Any sensitivity soon became pleasure, and gentle rolls of my hips became thrusts. Knowing I was fucking my come further into him made me push even deeper.