It only took a moment before I felt us grow slick beneath my fingers, and I found myself close to orgasm. Maxim was close too—I could hear it in his throat and see it in his muscles and feel it in the hot, swollen cock inside my hand. It got to me, that I could bring him to this panting, heated, untamed place, that it was my body, my grasp, my movement driving him to it. I loved watching him—so different than watching a woman, and yet familiar too. His body was like mine, and I saw all my pleasure reflected in it, as if he were a mirror.
I loved the hitch of his chest, the wideness of his shoulders tapering to the tautness of his waist, the angle of his back as he leaned slightly away and pushed his hips forward. I loved the rippling muscles on his stomach, the faint trail of hair beneath his belly button, the silver sheen to his skin in the dark. And I loved the agony on his face, the open mouth, the half-shut eyes, the struggle in his expression. Was he fighting it?
The thought pleased me, that there was torture inside him, that he was suffering for me somehow, and that I could relieve it.
“I want you to come,” I rasped through clenched teeth. “I want to watch you. I want to feel it in my hand. I want you dripping down my stomach.”
He spoke unintelligible words of anguish, maybe not even in English, his head turning to the side, as if he were still intent on lasting longer. His profile was so beautiful it made me angry.
“Now,” I demanded, stroking harder and faster, feeling my legs go weak as climax threatened. Fuck—I didn’t want to lose control before he did, but everything I did to him, I did to myself too. “Goddamn you, don’t deny me. Now. Now!”
He did what I asked, clutching me hard and rolling his hips as he came in silky, hot spurts, moaning something that was probably there, you fucking asshole in Russian. The thought of it—that I was dominating my own wayward desire by dominating its object—was arousing enough, but the sight of it—another man’s cum—hitting my stomach and chest, gliding over my fist, getting all over my cock, pushed me over the edge. Everything tightened and twisted and tensed before suddenly releasing in a roaring rush of bliss as I exploded all over both of us.
Madness. That’s what it was.
And I could no longer contain it.
Twenty
MAXIM
We stood there, breathing hard and dripping with each other, his hand still wrapped around us both. I blinked a few times, not entirely sure he wasn’t a ghost. Or maybe a dream.
But he stayed where he was, his hips solid and firm and real beneath my hands, his breath warm on my face. I didn’t want to move or speak for fear I’d break the spell. Was that the rapid fire of his heart I was hearing? Or was it mine?
“Uh. Sorry.” Careful not to get anything on the carpet, he let go of us both.
“Don’t apologize.” Disappointed, I took my hands off him, even though what I wanted to do was pull him closer. “That felt great.”
“Yeah.” He exhaled, his eyes closing briefly. “Give me a minute.”
He scooped up his pants and left the room, and I quickly used the hallway bath. Back in the guest room, I switched on the bedside lamp and tugged on underwear and the athletic pants he’d loaned me. The whole time, all I could think was, What the hell? Why did he keep apologizing? Was he going to brush me off again?
“Hey.”
At the sound of his voice, I looked up. He stood in the doorway, jeans on, no shirt. In contrast to the way he’d stormed in before, all fire and muscle, now he looked almost afraid to enter.
“Hey.” I smiled at him. “You can come in.”
He walked into the room a few feet, stopping well short of where I stood. Fidgeted. Shoved his hands into his pockets. “Look, I know you don’t want another apology or excuse, but I feel like I at least owe you an explanation.”
“Okay.”
“You must think I’m such an asshole,” he went on, “barging in here like that, saying those things to you.”
“I don’t think you’re an asshole at all.”
“You must think something,” he went on, running a hand through his hair, messing it up. Frustration edged his tone. “You barely reacted at all today when we talked about what happened last night. It was driving me crazy.”
“How was I supposed to react?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You said it meant nothing. You said you were drunk. You said to forget it. That’s what I was trying to do.” I hesitated, debating how forthright I should be and deciding to go for it. Maybe he wanted to hear this. Maybe it would make a difference. “But it’s useless, Derek. I’ll never forget what happened between us—last night or tonight. And I don’t think you will either. But if you really didn’t like it and want to pretend like nothing happened—again—no problem.”
His stubborn jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything for a moment. “I never said I didn’t like it.”
“So you did like it?”
He cocked a brow. “I think that was pretty obvious, don’t you?”
I had to smile.