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Charlie stayed over, and I woke up with him in my arms. We spent a lazy Sunday morning snuggling and drinking coffee.
No big deal.
I am the vision of cool, calm, and collected.
And if I immediately rang my mum the second he left, then… so what.
Sarah Nelson deserves to know what’s going on in her son’s life.
The kinky, mystic advent calendar excluded. Obviously.
Charlie turns up. We hug, we kiss, we take each other in before making our way to the kitchen for a pre-sex cuppa.
‘You look… tired?’ I ask, stirring our tea. I noticed it the moment I set eyes on him—he doesn’t look any less beautiful, just less perky.
‘Are you saying I look like shit?’
I know he’s joking, but fuck—absolutely not.
‘N-no,’ I stutter out. ‘Of course not.’
He smiles and nuzzles into my side, his head settling on my shoulder.
‘It’s just been the Mondayest of Mondays, that’s all.’
‘You know you don’t have to come over all the time, right?’ I say, picking up our mugs to take them to the lounge. ‘I could… come to yours?’
I’m not sure how that’ll land. Charlie’s never mentioned me visiting his place before. I know he doesn’t live alone, but beyond that, he doesn’t really say much.
Still. Nearly New Year. New me and all that. Might as well start this honesty lark early.
‘Oh, honestly I’m fine,’ he says easily. ‘I like coming over and spending time with you.’ He pauses, then adds with a grin, ‘And the extracurricular activities are… a bonus.’
He follows me into the lounge, and I tamp down the flicker of disappointment trying to surface. But—as usual—either he can read my mind, or he’s just frighteningly in tune with my overzealous emotions, because he continues—
‘But yeah, it’d be nice for you to come to mine one night. If you want to, of course.’
I place our mugs on the coffee table and pull him into a firm, meaningful kiss.
‘A little mess can be part of the fun,’ Charlie says. Our enthusiasm for the calendar has waned slightly, but I think snuggling on the sofa can have that effect.
I just shrug. My comprehension of the last cryptic prompt was likely a fluke… and I’m fine with that.
‘Cum play… or other things, I’m assuming.’
I nod, trying—and failing—to hide the pulse of arousal that shoots straight to my cock.
‘I mean,’ he adds, casual but careful, ‘we can choose our own if you like? It’s not really my thing.’
‘Sure.’ I do an extremely shit job of hiding my disappointment, so I temper my voice—pitch it a little higher, try to sound convincing. ‘Yeah, that sounds good.’
Charlie looks at me, one eyebrow lifting. He’s clocked it, which sends my stomach into a spinny nightmare. My pulse picks up as I wonder if he’s going to call me out… or let me get away with it.
‘Oh…’ he says slowly, the word drawn out with understanding. ‘But it’s your thing.’
I mean, I wouldn’t say it’s a thing—but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t something I’d been thinking about.
Charlie, as understanding and patient as always, doesn’t judge my—let’s call it—fantasy.
In fact, he’s encouraging, telling me it sounds hot.
We’re stripped off and lying in bed, kissing—my hands roaming slowly over any soft skin I can get hold of.
Our lips move slow and unhurried. He takes his time kissing down my neck, lingering, mouth warm against my skin, his hands exploring too.
Neither of us push further. We keep our touches slow and sensual, simply enjoying the feel of each other, my belly fluttering at his gentle exploration.
My cock aches—rock hard—but the need builds gradually, a slow-burning heat in my groin that grows with every drawn-out second.
I run my fingers through his hair, nip lightly at the tip of his ear.
It’s perfect.
‘I love it when you touch me like this, Nick,’ Charlie rasps, in one of the rare moments we’re not kissing.
I take his nipple into my mouth, and he gasps.
‘It’s like you worship me—my body, it’s—’ He cuts himself off when I suck gently.
I can feel his stomach muscles tense under my palms, breath pushing out through pursed lips.
He’s right. I am worshipping him.
‘You deserve to be worshipped,’ I manage, caught up in how utterly perfect he is—every inch of him.
I’m kissing and licking my way down his body, his fingers finding their way into my hair, fiddling gently with the strands there. I love the way he touches me like that—like he’s reminding me he’s there, caring for me, enjoying what I’m doing.
I kiss along his stomach, down over his hips. God, I love the jut of his hip bones, before I look up at him, silently asking for permission.
He smiles, nods, and then I hear his head tip back against the pillow, followed by a short, sharp gasp as I take him into my mouth.
I spend some time licking around the head of his cock, slow and firm, exploring with my tongue. If I concentrate, I can feel every raised, throbbing vein along his shaft, the heady taste of him on my tongue—fuck—he’s intoxicating.
It starts off leisurely, both of us enjoying the slower pace, but then his gasps grow louder—so many fucks slipping from him as his fingers tighten.
I follow his lead, picking up the pace, sealing my lips around him, bobbing up and down—slow at first, then gradually faster, swirling my tongue as I go.
His hands scrabble for purchase—into my hair, over my shoulders—before grasping at the air.
‘Fuck, Nick. You are so fucking good at that,’ he says, biting his bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth. His hand flattens on my head, like he wants a little control.
I reach for his wrist and press it more firmly against my head. He gets the hint.
‘Fuck, you’re perfect,’ he says with conviction—and for a moment, I believe him. My brain is too occupied to protest.
Then he starts to push me down, while thrusting up in a rhythm, edging closer and closer to the brink. I’m revelling in the pressure of his hand guiding me down onto him, even as it starts to get overwhelming.
I say overwhelming—but I’m enjoying every. Single. Second.
‘F-fuck, Nick, I’m gonna—’
I swirl my tongue, pressing firmly along the underside of his shaft.
He grabs my hair in his fist. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ he chants, broken up by rough grunts.
I’m sweating, my jaw aching in the best way possible. Trust me when I say I could come from this alone.
But I won’t. We have plans—but fuck—
When I push down further, grab his thigh, and dig my fingers in firmly, he’s writhing—and then he’s coming down my throat.
‘Jesus, f-fuck,’ he huffs as he tenses, pushing my head up and down of his own accord, seeing himself through it.
I keep him in my mouth, swallowing what I can, then holding the rest of his come there.
It’s hard—my instinct is to swallow, especially when my tonsils have practically been assaulted—but I resist.
I shuffle up his body until I’m straddling him. He’s flushed and blissed out, sunk into the pillows, catching his breath.
I can’t hold it any longer. I lean over him, dribbling, letting it spill over his chest, along the exposed stretch of skin at the base of his throat.
I’m letting it fall slowly. He doesn’t stop me—too consumed to do anything but breathe—but I’m focused, and it’s so fucking hot.
I feel in control. Like I’m marking him. Like I’m making him mine.
My cock’s leaking as I watch the drips of liquid trail across his skin in a watery pattern, settling in the dips of bone against flushed, heated flesh.
I’m mesmerised. And before I can even think about stopping, my hand is on my cock and I’m working myself—
getting off on the sight of Charlie laid out beneath me, covered in a mix of our fluids, undone.
I run my fingers through it, revelling in the feel of his collarbone beneath my fingertips—it’s my favourite part of him. So delicate. So sharp and pronounced.
I like the way his skin is taut there, soft and inviting.
The dips of bone feel welcoming, like they fit the pads of my fingers perfectly.
I swipe the slick across him, swirling my fingers through it.
I run my palms over his chest, hands slippery, and then I wrap my covered hand around myself and use it as lube.
The thought of Charlie’s spend coating me, helping me feel good, leading me to orgasm—my eyes squeeze shut—fuck.
I can feel it building, and when I look down at Charlie—who’s more with it now—he’s watching me intently.
His tongue peeks out at the corner of his mouth, like he’s finding this impossibly hot, his blissed-out expression fixed on me as if I’m doing something impressive.
Our eyes lock, and an overwhelming urge to mark him with my spend surges through me.
‘You’re beautiful,’ I mutter, my focus narrowing entirely on him.
‘So are you,’ he replies, his voice a sing-song of contentment.
‘I love that you’re marked up like this.’ I brush a fingertip through the spend on his chest, I love the feel of it.
He bites his lip, following my movements.
‘Oh my god, I want to come over you so bad.’
My hand is moving faster, firmer.
‘Then cover me, Nick,’ he says, egging me on.
The pressure hits hard and sudden, a sharp, burning need racing through me.
‘I want you to cover me…’ he says, voice low. ‘Here.’ He drags his own finger slowly along his collarbone, and I’m spellbound by the movement—slow and reverent—and then I know I’m doing it.
I want to cover him, to have myself all over him. Painting him like a silky-smooth canvas.
I want to see it pooled in the dips there—oh fuck—that does it.
I’m coming, my body tensing, face contorting.
I gasp, and Charlie gasps too, the sound echoing in my ears. When I regain some coherent thoughts, I cover him in a pattern across his chest, over the jut of his collarbones, and I feel a deep, aching satisfaction at the sight of myself on him.
Of him beneath me, just taking it, letting me.
It feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced before—so natural, so primal—like I’ve just committed myself to him. Claimed him.
I’m panting—heaving, actually—trying to catch my breath, feeling wrecked in the best way possible. Maybe a little melty inside from the sight of Charlie covered in my come, but mostly I’m just trying to recover a few brain cells from the goopy pile they’ve currently become.
Then I notice Charlie.
He looks dumbstruck, and for a brief, panicked moment I wonder if my quirky little fantasy of coming over his sexy-as-fuck collarbones has somehow put him off.
But before I can spiral into a hundred different theories about what’s running through his mind, he murmurs, ‘That was—’ He lifts a finger. ‘So fucking hot, Nick.’
His voice is strained. Then he dips his finger through the mix on his chest and brings it to his mouth.
Oh. My. God.
R.I.P. Nicholas Nelson, because I think I just fucking died.
I’ve recovered—just about—from my near-death experience, and I think Charlie is especially pleased with himself, because he looks as smug as ever. We’re both sticky, covered in sweat and bodily fluids alike after I collapsed onto him, our chests pressed together.
It was kind of gross, but also a bit feral in the moment—kissing like our lives depended on it again. Alas, our refractory periods get in the way of another, come-induced sex session.
So we lie here, sweaty and tangled, and I decide a shower is probably on the cards before Charlie has to leave me again. I try not to think about that part too much.
‘Come on, Mr Spring,’ I say drowsily. ‘I think we need a shower.’
We’re still draped over one another, neither of us particularly keen to move.
‘Hmmm,’ he hums in agreement. ‘Together?’
My stomach flips at that, and I do my best not to burst with excitement.
Calm and collected Nick answers.
‘Of course.’