He huffs, and I whisper, “You got this.”
He unloads the clip, hitting the target once.
Everyone whoops, and Whit cracks a smile at me.
He looks so fucking cute with that rare smile that I grab the gun and set it down before pulling him into me and nuzzling his neck. He smells like Whit, but with a hint of gunpowder and rain. It’s hot.
“Get a room,” Sem shouts before unloading his gun into the targets. He cackles like a nutcase.
“Had enough?” I ask, and Whit nods. And because I can, I grab his hand, and we walk back to the house in silence.
When we end up in the bedroom, we stare at each other.
Something crackles between us, and then he’s on me, roughly pushing me against the wall.
“Damn,” I mutter as he peels my shirt off and tosses it onto the floor.
“Not going to fold that?” I tease, and he cups me roughly, my smile fading into a gasp.
“I shot a gun today,” he tells me, unbuttoning my pants.
“No one forced you. That was all you,” I say, and he pushes my pants and boxers down in one fell swoop. I kick them off my ankles and stand before him, my cock straining toward him, my balls swinging between my thighs. I’m entirely naked except for my backward ballcap.
He eyes me, taking me in, and then his eyes shoot up to meet mine.
“There are many things I’m doing with you that I’ve never done before,” he admits, wrapping his hand around me, one finger at a time, and I arch into him when he finally makes a fist.
“That so?” I manage to gasp as he works me quickly to the edge.
Those magic fucking hands, twisting and squeezing me just right.
“Yes, Caleb. That’s so.”
I’m panting, my hands grasping onto his shoulders, holding myself steady while he works me to a crescendo.
“Whit,” I moan. I’m so close, so ready to burst. “Please.”
And then he reaches and cradles my balls, and I burst into his hand. He catches it all, and then his phone rings as I’m coming down from my post-orgasmic haze. It ruins the moment. Shatters it really. Gone is the Whit with blown-out pupils and reddened cheeks. Instead, he’s glowering, annoyed with this entire situation. Was he hoping to let me return the favor and the ringing phone ruined his plans.
Damn, I hope so. I have been dying to get my hands on him.
“Ignore it,” I tell him as he wipes his hand off with some tissue.
“I can’t,” he tells me, his shoulders tense, his breathing stilted. And then he grabs his phone and begins to speak in Romanian.
So, it’s his parents, I think as I watch him tap his fingers against his thigh.
If it’s possible, his shoulders rise even more. They’re almost at his ears now. He turns away from me, his voice clipped, almost angry.
I tug on my boxers, sit on the edge of the bed, and listen. Part of me wants to go and wrap my arms around him because he just seems so agitated, but I don’t know if that will make it worse. Does he even want me touching him when he’s annoyed? Guess I could try, yeah? I’ll never know unless I try.
So, I push up from the bed and walk up behind him, wrapping my arms around him and resting my chin on his shoulder.
He stiffens for a moment but then melts into me. And I love that’s he’s letting me do this. I like it more than I probably should.
He continues to speak into the phone and then listens for a moment. The man on the other end does not sound happy or kind.I don’t like his dad. He sounds like a shithead.
My hands spread across his chest, and I press him into me, wanting to ease some of the frustration his tone denotes. Wanting to soothe him. It helps a little. His shoulders lower slightly, his body not as stiff against mine.