On His Knees
I told myself I was over it. That whatever spell Zack had cast, it was broken now. That I was fine.
He’d motioned me over—reeled me in with that look, that voice, that body—and then just turned away. Like he’d already done what he needed to without actually doing anything at all. Like he’d known exactly what I was feeling—and wanted me to sit with that.
And so I had. I’d just stood there, stunned, trying to process how fast he’d flipped the moment and how easily he’d left me standing alone, flushed and speechless in the middle of the park.
One second I was locked in his orbit, trying to breathe through whatever he was doing to me. The next, he was moving on, walking toward some hot girl with a gym bag and all the curves I figured someone like Zack would go for.
He hadn’t even glanced back.
I had stood there longer than I should have, pretending it hadn’t rattled me. That I wouldn’t replay every second of the encounter as I walked home, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened—and why it gripped me the way it did.
That was three days ago. And I was still checking my phone like an idiot.
I kept telling myself it didn’t matter. That I didn’t care who he flirted with. Or who he let touch him. And definitely not who he fucked. I was still trying to convince myself I didn’t even like him like that. Not really.
But every time I thought of Zack, I opened our chat thread. This afternoon was no different. I told myself I was just checking. Just making sure he hadn’t followed up. Just proving that I didn’t care.
I tapped the screen. Watched the thread open. Nothing new. My jaw tightened as I started typing.
Simon: You having fun with her?
I stared at the screen, waiting. Nothing. No dots. No sign of a reply.
I scrolled for a bit. Checked the weather. Closed and reopened the app—still nothing. But the message had been read.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
I got up and made a sandwich I wasn’t hungry for. Took it back to the couch, phone in hand the whole time.
By the time I took the first bite, the reply finally came in.
Zack: Sure.
I stared at it. One word.
He’d made me wait twenty minutes for that. No explanation. No smile. No follow-up. Just sure. Like I’d asked about the weather. Like I hadn’t been spiraling since the moment he walked away.
My fingers moved again—faster this time.
Simon: You fucking her?
The second I hit send, I regretted it. It was too raw. Too obvious. But I didn’t unsend it.
This time, his reply came quicker.
Zack: I think you know the answer to that.
And I did.
But that wasn’t why it landed the way it did.
It was the tone. The way I felt his entitlement—tight in my chest, hot in my gut. Because I could hear him saying it. Could see the look on his face when he did. That calm, stare that made everything feel inevitable.
He’d been the same way with me. With his body. Standing naked in my living room, cock hard, voice low, like I’d already agreed.
Help me out.
And I had. I’d just stroked him. Watched his head fall back. Felt him come—all over me.
I shifted on the couch, pulse unsteady. My skin felt too tight.
Why the hell did I let him get to me like this?
He didn’t push. He didn’t even ask.
He just let me want him.
My thumb hit the screen harder than it needed to.
Simon: You’re a cocky fuck!
Zack: You sound upset.
Simon: You’re just a player! That’s all this is to you.
Another pause.
Zack: You wanna come over and talk about it?
Then, a follow-up:
Zack: 504–12 Milgreen Ave
I stared at the screen.
He wasn’t even pretending to chase. Just dropped the address like it was inevitable. Like of course I’d show up.
The arrogance of it—Fuck.
And still… My thumb hovered. I didn’t reply. Just copied the address and dropped it into Maps.
Thirteen minutes. On foot.
I tossed the phone onto the bed like it was proof of restraint. Told myself this was stupid. That he was probably already half-naked and smug, waiting.
I wasn’t going. I wasn’t playing his game.
But I was already pulling on my shoes.
~~~~~~
I just needed to clear my head. That was the story. No destination. No decision. Just stretching my legs. A way to bleed off whatever was still buzzing under my skin.
My route took me by his building. I passed without slowing down. And kept going.
Two blocks later, I looped back.
Did it again. Slower.
By the third pass, I wasn’t fooling anyone.
Zack’s building sat quiet behind a row of trees, pale brick and clean windows catching the soft gold of afternoon sun. The air was warm, still, almost too perfect—branches swaying just enough to rustle their leaves, the smell of cut grass drifting from somewhere nearby. It was the kind of day that should’ve felt easy. Weightless.
But my chest was tight. My legs buzzed. And his building was just there. Waiting.
Still, I hesitated.
In the vestibule, I stared at the numbers. Then jabbed the button before I could change my mind.
The inner door lock buzzed and clicked. No voice came through the intercom.
He didn’t ask who it was. He knew.
I stepped inside.
The building was quiet. Dimly lit. Concrete floors, echoes in the stairwell. I climbed slowly at first, then faster, trying to outrun whatever the hell I was doing.
Five floors up, there was no turning back.
My pulse was hammering. I wasn’t winded, but my body felt hot, tight, confused. Like I had shown up for something I wasn’t ready for.
His door was just down the hall. Apartment 504.
The hallway lights hummed overhead.
I paused, just outside it.
The door was ajar. No music. No sound. Just that quiet sliver of invitation.
What the fuck was I doing?
I could still leave. Head back down, vanish into the night, pretend this never happened.
But I just stood there… Until I reached out and knocked—quiet, cautious.
No answer.
I gave the door a gentle push. It eased open to a dim, quiet space. Just the hush of an apartment expecting company.
I hesitated in the doorway, my pulse already picking up.
Then stepped inside.
The air was warm. Still. Afternoon sunlight spilled across the hardwood, stretching past the entry tile and into the open space beyond. It caught the edge of a couch, the corner of a coffee table, the curve of a gym bag slouched beside the wall—like everything had been lit with intention.
The kitchen sat off to the right—clean, quiet, every surface untouched.
It felt like walking into someone’s silence.
I let the door click shut behind me. Took another step.
And then he appeared.
From a hallway just past the kitchen, he stepped out—shirtless and barefoot. His hair was tousled. His muscles still riding that perfect pump—full and high across his chest and shoulders.
He didn’t speak at first. Just leaned against the doorway behind him, one arm raised to the frame, watching me.
My breath caught—and I hated how fast. How hard. Like something in me had just been waiting for the excuse.
He watched me for a beat. Then the corners of his mouth tugged, not quite a smile.
“Was starting to wonder if you’d actually come,” he said. Low. Calm.
I stared at him. My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He didn’t close the distance. He just stood there, holding the silence like it was all part of the game. Letting me feel it.
And I did.
His scent hit me next—fresh, natural, pleasant. Just... him. Warm skin, sun, something quietly magnetic. Raw. Unfiltered. Male. Immediate.
It didn’t just rise around me, it settled. Sank in deep.
Zack smirked. A lazy curl at the corner of his mouth, like he’d already won something.
The light caught him just right. His skin held a deep, even tone, stretched tight over thick shoulders and broad, sculpted pecs. Every muscle stood out in stark relief, like he hadn’t cooled off from his last set. His whole frame looked pumped and ready—biceps full, chest high, every inch dense with power. Veins traced their way across his arms and up over his delts, subtle but insistent. Even standing still, he looked like he could move mountains.
The ridges of his abs were brutal. Deep, symmetrical, drawn tight across his core like they’d been etched for the sole purpose of making me stare. His posture only made it worse—standing there like he knew exactly how good he looked. like his body was meant to be seen. Straight spine, shoulders slightly back, chest forward, pelvis tilted just enough to frame the line that disappeared into his trunks.
It felt obscene.
Not just his body—but what it did to me. The way it made me feel. Like I’d been wired wrong. Like he could stand there, half-naked, and turn my whole sense of self into something that pulsed and throbbed and wanted.
And he wasn’t even trying.
He just was.
I took in all of it. My mouth was dry. My chest felt tight. My pulse had kicked into overdrive—loud in my ears, quick beneath my skin.
And all he’d done was stand there.
This was Zack. Twenty-one years old. Seven years younger than me.
The kid I used to babysit. The one who’d follow me around on his bike, who used to fall asleep on the couch with a juice box still in his hand. I used to carry him to bed, for fuck’s sake.
Now he was standing barefoot in front of me—six-foot-two, jacked, effortlessly radiating confidence. Built like something sculpted. Every inch of him a man.
And I couldn’t make sense of it. It wasn’t just his size. It was the presence.
The way he looked at me like he already knew where this was going. Like I’d arrived exactly when he expected—and he didn’t need to lift a finger to pull me in.
I kept telling myself it was just shock. That anyone would react like this to someone that beautiful.
But it was more than his looks. It was the way he had shifted the dynamic between us, turned them inside out. He had done so without warning and without permission. He used to look up to me. I was the one who used to set the rules, who called the shots, who knew better. Now I was the one trying to keep up. Trying to find footing in a moment he seemed to own without effort.
He didn’t have to flex or fill the silence. There was nothing casual about about him but everything he did felt natural and earned. He carried the quiet certainty of someone who knew what he looked like, knew what effect he had, and didn’t need to push. Just by being there, by letting me take him in, he made it clear: the moment belonged to him. I was just passing through it, trying to make sense of ground that no longer felt familiar.
And layered over all of that was the simple, inescapable fact: he was twenty-one. Seven years younger than me. Young enough to make me feel reckless. Old enough to undo me. The gap had always been there, but somehow, standing in front of this version of him, I was unravelling. Just by being near him. Some part of my confidence, my sense of who I was, it all felt different since that night in the pub. He was no longer the kid I remembered. He’d become this. And now I couldn’t look away.
I didn’t know what that said about me.
I cleared my throat. Tried to act neutral. Tried to take control of the situation.
“We need to talk.”
Zack’s eyes twinkled. “Do we?”
He stepped toward the living room, a silent invitation in the shift of his body.
I followed. The floor was cool and smooth underfoot, dark wood. The space was streamlined and well kept. Minimal but curated. Like everything in it had been chosen, not just left there.
As I got closer, I kept staring at him.
Until now, I’d mostly kept my eyes above the waist—chest, arms, the way he moved. That had been enough to short-circuit me on its own.
But now, up close, I couldn’t avoid the rest.
He stood shirtless, in a pair of short, tight black trunks—low and tight enough I couldn’t tell if they were gym shorts or underwear. They hugged him like a second skin, clinging to the dense curve of his glutes and riding high on thighs so thick they could’ve belonged to a statue. His quads flared with every shift of weight, each muscle group cut and impossibly full, probably bigger around than my waist.
And then there was the outline—thick and pronounced, framed perfectly by all that size. It twitched once, and I didn’t know if it was deliberate or if he just didn’t care.
He watched as my eyes stayed there longer than they should’ve.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “You sure you’re here to talk?” he asked, tilting his head—not quite mocking, but close.
“I—yeah,” I said too fast.
Zack nodded slowly, like he didn’t believe a word.
He crossed the room without a sound, every muscle moving with practiced ease. The smooth line of his lats. The curve of his ass under those shorts. I tore my eyes away like it made a difference.
He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. Took a long pull. Then turned, still calm, still quiet, like none of this was unexpected.
“So,” he said, letting the silence stretch. “What do you wanna clear up?”
~~~~~~
I didn’t sit.
I kept moving—crossed the space between the kitchen and the window, arms folded tight. The place was spotless. Every surface, every detail, too put-together. It made the air feel heavier somehow—like I was the mess, like I’d brought the tension in with me. Like I didn’t belong here, and he didn’t mind.
Zack stood near the fridge, casual as ever, sipping from a water bottle like we were just catching up. Then he shifted his weight and crossed one ankle over the other—loose, unbothered. The motion made one quad flex, high and hard beneath the fabric. It also pulled his trunks tighter across the front, framing everything with just enough pressure to make it impossible not to look.
I forced my gaze back up. Shook my head, like that might clear it. Get a grip, I told myself. I’m not here for this.
But my skin still buzzed.
I was upset. Upset about the other day, the girl, the flirting and how calm he always was. Then, how he’d just assumed I’d show up, here, tonight. And now, to make things worse, he was standing there, looking so fucking perfect. I wasn’t necessarily at my best. Maybe I should have let it go, but I couldn’t.
“You think you can just…” I stopped, swallowed. “Just motion me over like you did outside the gym, vanish, and then act like nothing happened?”
He didn’t blink. Just raised the bottle again, took a long sip. His bicep swelled with the motion—thick, full, veined—and I stared. I couldn’t not.
Then he exhaled lightly through his nose. “You’re talking like I dragged you here against your will.”
His eyes flicked down, then back to mine. A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. “But it’s you who came to me.”
I flinched. Not because he was wrong—because he wasn’t. Because he saw it all before I did.
His words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. The weight of them landed anyway.
And I hated how easily Zack stayed ahead of me, like he already knew how this would go. Like he was watching me figure it out in real time.
He let the silence stretch, like he wanted me to feel it. He left me standing there, staring. Feeling small and exposed. Coming apart.
Then he spoke, calm and steady—just setting the record straight.
“That first night, I said I’d text. I did. You didn’t answer. You ghosted me.”
He paused, staring until I had to look away. And that’s when he claimed his second victory.
“So if anyone walked away, it was you.”
He took another sip. His eyes never left mine.
I stared, unsure what to say. Again, trapped by his logic that was every bit as ruthless as the muscles behind it.
He slowed, letting the cold bottle rest against his abs, where water beaded and clung. The kind of abs you see in fitness ads—deep, sculpted lines that captivate you, if you let yourself.
He held the bottle there for a beat longer than necessary. Watching me watch him.
Then came the smirk. Subtle. Merciless.
Of course, he knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly what it did to me.
He dragged the bottle slowly up his chest—across one pec, over the sharp line of his collarbone. It was calculated. And I watched like I was under a spell. The kind of slow flex that rewires something deep in you.
The tight curve of his pecs, the trail of condensation, the way the muscles shifted under his skin like they were alive. My heart was pounding. I was hard. Throbbing. The kind of arousal that didn’t ask permission. I was fully clothed, standing upright, and still somehow helpless.
My thoughts scrambled. I knew exactly what he was doing—and still, it took everything I had to turn away. Just to preserve a shred of dignity.
I stood there, humbled by how badly I wanted him. By how easily he’d pulled that reaction from me. My jaw clenched. My hands gripped the windowsill. I stared out at nothing, willing my heart to slow down. I couldn’t look at him. I wouldn’t. Not yet.
The silence stretched, thick and unrelenting.
I needed to say something. Anything. To get control of this conversation.
“You just came into my home,” I snapped, still facing the glass. “Got what you wanted. And left.”
It was louder than I meant. Sharper. The words hit the air before I could decide if I meant them. Maybe it was the only thing I could say to keep from falling apart.
Behind me, I heard him move—slow, deliberate. Coming closer. I didn’t turn. I couldn’t.
“Simon,” he said, voice low, steady. “You didn’t say no. Not once.”
The words sank into me. Cold and clean. Like truth always is.
My hands clenched tighter on my arms. I stared out the window, jaw locked, heart racing.
He waited. Let the silence settle again before pushing further—his voice dropping, almost gentle now.
“I’m guessing you’ve replayed it a few times since then.” A beat. Then, lower still. “Maybe even jerked off to the memory.”
My chest tightened. Heat flushed up my neck. He wasn’t mocking. Just stating it—like it was obvious.
I stayed silent. I couldn’t trust my voice.
“Your hand on my cock…”
His words slid under my skin like heat. My breath hitched.
Another pause. Longer this time. Like he wanted me to sit in it.
“You just sat there,” he said finally. “You let me come all over you.”
Then softer. Almost smug. “Don’t act like you didn’t love it.”
My throat closed. I still couldn’t answer.
I was reeling at how much of it was true. And how badly I still wanted more.
Zack moved past me, slow and quiet, like none of it had rattled him. He cracked open the window. Cool air drifted in. It didn’t help.
He turned back, voice still level.
“So what exactly are you upset about?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
“You’re not mad because of anything I’ve done.” Zack tilted his head slightly, eyes steady, unblinking. “You’re embarrassed. Because of what I make you feel.”
One brow lifted—slow, deliberate, cocky as hell.
It hit harder than I was ready for. My throat tightened. My chest burned. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, that he didn’t know me—but I couldn’t. Because he did. He knew exactly how rattled I was, how off-balance I’d been from the second I laid eyes on him again.
He was just watching me quietly, like he already owned the moment. Like the assessment didn’t cost him anything—but it was going to cost me everything.
I swallowed hard. Looked away. The words sat heavy in the space between us. I hated how much truth they carried.
Then… slowly, he let his fingers drift down his torso. Starting just below the collarbone. Over one pec. Across the ridges of his abs. Down to the waistband of his shorts. Slow. Intentional. A slow, perfect line. Like he knew exactly what I’d follow.
“I’m the first guy you’ve ever touched, aren’t I?”
The words landed like a slap.
I gasped—too sharp, too fast.
My pulse jumped. My skin was burning. I didn’t know if it was from the words or the way he moved.
I tried not to look. I already had.
I shook my head, too quick. Like it meant something.
But everything in me was already off-balance.
I shifted again, hoping to steer things back to safer ground.
“Are you even… gay?”
That earned a smile. Not surprised. Just amused.
“I don’t need a label,” he said. “I’m not interested in boxes. I’m interested in what feels good.”
Then he took a step toward me.
I didn’t move.
Another step. Close enough now to see the veins tracking across his upper chest, feeding into the dense cut of his shoulders. His skin looked tight over every inch of him, like you could trace the muscle fibers beneath with your fingers.
His scent hit me all over again.
Exactly what I’d been trying not to remember.
He looked down at me, head slightly tilted.
“You wanna keep pretending you’re not aching for more?”
I stared at his chest. His arms. The way those shorts clung to him like they didn’t want to let go.
Zack’s voice dropped, low, smooth, unhurried.
“I bet you’ve been hard since you got here.”
I sucked in a breath. Still didn’t move.
He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, and looked straight through me.
“You think I haven’t noticed?” His tone edged toward a smirk. “You’ve been squirming since the second you walked in.”
Then, slowly, he stepped in, close enough to feel the heat off his chest. One hand lifted, easy, unhurried. He touched my arm. Just a light drag of his fingers down to my wrist. Then lower. He brought my hand toward him, guided it, until it pressed against the thick, twitching shape inside his trunks.
My breath hitched. He didn’t let go.
His voice dropped to a whisper, right at my ear. “I want that mouth.”
He didn’t kiss me. Didn’t move again.
Just stood there, like he’d already stripped me bare.
~~~~~~
Zack’s PoV
Simon just stood there. Stuck. Processing what he was feeling. Trying to redraw the lines again, the ones he swore he wouldn’t cross.
His breathing was uneven. He was beyond flustered, he was at war with himself. Every part of him was tense, holding back. His body wanted one thing. His mind wasn’t ready to follow. But looking at him, I was feeling good about how this would end.
I stood there, quietly. So far, patience had gotten me further with Simon than pressuring him ever could, and I wasn’t about to change that now. He had to reach the edge himself.
Then he stepped forward.
I watched him. The way his whole body hesitated—like he wasn’t sure if he was about to bolt or break open. His hands twitched. His weight shifted. But his eyes never left mine.
He came closer.
The tension rolled off him in waves—limbs stiff, breath shallow—until he stood right in front of me. Chest rising. Jaw tight. I kept my hands easy at my sides. Let him feel the energy between us.
I let it hang for a moment. Let him feel the weight of what was happening.
Then I shifted my weight, rolled my shoulders forward, and let my chest tense—slow and deliberate. The muscle swelled, thick and carved. His eyes dropped. Stayed there.
Yeah. I thought so.
“Simon, you need something, don’t you?” I said, voice low. “Or are you still pretending you don’t?”
His lips parted. Barely.
I dipped my chin just enough to make it clear.
I kept my pecs tensed, enjoying the stretch across my chest, the heat it pulled to the surface.
And I could feel it—his reaction. Not just to my body, but to the energy between us. The way I stood there, still, calm, holding the line.
He was trying to process it like he still had a choice. But we both knew. It was only a matter of time. So I gave him a careful nudge.
“This time… maybe you should use your mouth.”
His eyes snapped up.
I didn’t look away. I let the silence press in around us, let him feel how badly he wanted me—and that I wasn’t going to take the step for him.
It happened in a breath. A flicker behind his eyes. That moment when resistance slipped and need took its place.
Simon leaned forward—slow, cautious, like even now he couldn’t quite believe what he was doing. His breath warmed the center of my chest before. Then I felt it. His nose, brushing low between my pecs, followed by the soft pressure of his face as he let himself rest there.
He inhaled deep.
Like he needed to savour my scent. Like he was anchoring himself with it.
He moved in slow circles at first, nuzzling into the curve of my chest, turning his head slightly as his lips traced the lines of muscle. I kept still. Let him explore. The edge of my inner pec tensed under his mouth.
“Yeah,” I murmured. “You’re good at that. Worshiping muscle. Worshiping me.”
He froze. Just for a second. Like even the word made him question what this was.
But he kept going.
His lips parted, and I felt the slow drag of his tongue across the center of my chest—lapping gently at the thick slab of muscle like he wanted to memorize it. There was nothing rushed in him now. Just his mouth and tongue, drawn to the muscle he couldn’t stop needing.
He skimmed the underside of my pec, then traced inward, zeroing in on where the flesh was fullest, most sensitive. And that’s where he found it.
My nipple—already hard, already waiting.
He hovered there, breathing against it, like the heat of his mouth alone might be enough. Then he closed his lips around it and sucked, slow and deep.
The sound that left me was low, rough, and completely unplanned. It just tore out of my chest, because fuck. There was no holding it in.
I reached for him without thinking, my hand slipping into his hair, not to guide him—just to keep him there. To feel his face pressed against me, his mouth wet and open and hungry.
He moaned when I pulled him tighter. Not just with his throat—with everything. His whole body leaned into mine, hands tightening around my arms like he couldn’t stand the distance.
And I let him. Held him there, my fingers curled deep into his hair. His mouth working. His tongue circling.
Letting himself worship. Letting me enjoy it.
I felt the heat building. Pressure pooling low in my gut.
Then I pulled him against me, slow but firm, pressing his face harder into my chest. My cock throbbed, fully hard now, trapped between us, grinding up against his abs as I held him close.
He didn’t flinch. If anything, his breath caught like he knew exactly where this was going.
I grinned.
“There are other ways to put that mouth to work.”
My hand slid from his hair to the back of his head, guiding him down. Not roughly, just a nudge.
Simon lowered himself slowly, the weight of it settling into his knees. Still fully dressed. Dropping in front of me while I stood there, cock straining against my shorts, hard and waiting.
I watched it land. That moment when he let go completely. His hands slid to my quads. His breath hitched. His face was flushed, lips slightly parted, eyes wide but steady. He knew what he’d just done. Crossed a line. Another one.
He hesitated at the waistband. Just for a second. Looked up, like he needed to see something in my eyes.
I didn’t say a word. Just let him have it.
He peeled the shorts down slow.
My cock sprang free—thick, fully hard, heavy. The head slapped softly against his cheek.
He gasped.
I stepped out of the shorts and kicked them aside, never taking my eyes off him.
When he finally looked up, I held his eyes, let him see everything.
Then he opened his mouth.
When his lips wrapped around me, I groaned. Warm. Wet. Just the right kind of pressure. He gagged once trying to take me deeper, then recovered. His fingers pressed into my quads, looking to ground himself. My thighs tightened. He noticed. Moaned around me.
God, the sound… he just wanted this.
I let one hand rest at the back of his neck, pulse ticking up as the memory hit.
Ten years ago, I looked up to Simon. He felt like a big brother—cool, calm, always in charge. I wanted to be like him. That chill confidence. The smarts.
But that wasn’t this. I wasn’t that kid anymore. Now I was the one calling the shots. The one he couldn’t stop thinking about. The one he came back for.
And here he was—on his knees, moaning on my cock, mouth slick, lips stretched, giving me everything.
His eyes were glassy. His chin gleamed with spit. He pulled off just long enough to breathe, chest rising, strands of saliva still connecting us. Then he dove back in, slow this time, like he wanted to hold onto the way I filled his mouth.
His rhythm changed. Less steady. More desperate. Like he needed it now, needed to feel me again, deep. His whole body rocked with each motion. I felt myself thicken against his tongue. My cock jumped when he gagged. He let it happen.
I slid my hand to the back of his head. Threaded my fingers through his hair—warm, damp, soft in my grip—and held him steady.
“Look at me,” I said, low.
He did so. Eyes wide, lashes wet, overwhelmed. And still, he kept going. That look made my stomach tighten. My cock gave a heavy throb and I felt slickness surge, more pre coating his tongue.
“Breathe through it.” I whispered. “You’ve got this.”
He nodded faintly, barely more than a twitch. I kept my grip firm. Held him steady as I eased in deeper, inch by inch. Watched his throat tense. His jaw shift. Watched him want it—want to take me.
He gagged again—his throat spasming around the head of my cock—and fuck, that almost undid me. He was straining, trembling, trying to take more than he could. And wanting it anyway. I could see it in his eyes. The flicker of panic mixed with something deeper. Craving. Hunger. Surrender.
I stroked his nape with my thumb, steady and slow, coaxing him to stay open for me. And still, I pushed deeper. Not fast. Just sure.
His eyes pleaded. And I didn’t let go.
“Yeah…” I murmured. “Just like that.”
Then I thrust—slow, controlled—all the way in. Felt the base of my cock press flush to his lips. Felt his nose flatten against me. I groaned, deep and low, chest shuddering from the pressure.
His throat worked around me. Gagging again. Trying.
That’s when I saw it—the flush climbing his chest. The subtle tremor in his thighs. His hips started to jerk in tiny pulses—almost nothing, but I saw it. Felt it. That involuntary movement told me everything.
He was overwhelmed. Taken over.
And still, he didn’t pull away.
“Shit…” I muttered, the sound low, reverent. “You’re really giving it to me, huh?”
He looked up again. Eyes glassy. I held his gaze, let him see what he was doing to me.
A grin tugged at the corner of my mouth—slow, hungry. He was right there. Teetering.
He moaned around me. The sound vibrated through my cock and deep into my gut.
Then came the twitch—a sharp, helpless jolt. His thighs locked. He whimpered.
A shudder. And another.
His whole body tightened. His face flushed deeper.
And then he came—fully, uncontrollably. I felt it in the way his hips seized and stuttered, the way he gasped through his nose, trembling, spent.
He stayed there, lips still parted, chest rising and falling in small, shaky breaths. His eyes fluttered closed—like it was too much, too fast, too real.
And fuck, watching him break like that—
That was it for me.
My abs clenched. My grip tightened.
I came hard, spilling into his mouth in thick, desperate pulses.
And he took it—every drop. Swallowed. Gagged once. Then swallowed again, slower this time. His hands clung to my quads for balance, fingertips digging in like he needed something to hold onto.
I stayed there, buried deep, still throbbing. Still leaking. His lips were stretched tight around the base, his throat working softly now as he breathed through his nose.
I looked down. My cock twitched again. He didn’t flinch. He just stayed with me. Held me. Let it happen.
Only when the twitching stopped did I ease back, careful and slow.
When I pulled out, a trace of it still glistened at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t wipe it. Didn’t move.
Simon just stayed there. Breathing hard. Chest still trembling.
~~~~~~
Simon’s PoV
I stayed on the floor longer than I needed to.
My breath was slowing. Mouth still slick. Chin sticky with what I hadn’t managed to swallow. I could feel it drying along my jawline. I wiped it with the back of my hand, then looked down.
My thighs were trembling.
I didn’t want to stand up. Not yet.
I could still taste him.
Behind me, Zack walked to the kitchen. No glance back. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of his bare feet on the hardwood.
The faucet ran. Zack leaned down and drank straight from the tap—no glass. Of course he did. Then he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, casual as ever, like this was a normal afternoon for him. I watched the roll of muscle across his back, the way his chest expanded and settled, slow and deep.
He hadn’t said a word.
Not until he was halfway across the kitchen again. Then, without turning around he says, “You can stay if you want.”
I blinked.
My lips parted, but no sound came. My voice felt buried under everything.
“I’ve got time,” I said finally. Quiet. Just above a whisper.
It wasn’t really an answer.
It was an admission.
The phone buzzed behind him on the counter. He glanced at the screen, then answered.
“Yeah… Can’t tonight.”
A pause. His voice dropped slightly as he glanced at me.
“Something’s come up.”
Another pause.
“Yeah, maybe another time.”
Then he hung up and set the phone down like it was nothing. He turned toward me again. Effortlessly comfortable in his skin.
“That was my Saturday night,” he smirked, eyebrows raised in quiet expectation. It was obvious he had just cleared his night… and I was the reason.
He grabbed his phone and checked the screen. “Five-thirty,” he said, half to himself. Then, glancing over, added with a grin, “Worked up an appetite.”
My cheeks flushed.
He didn’t push. Just looked back at the phone, casual. “Spicy or not?”
His tone made it sound simple. Like we were already settled in. Like everything else had already been decided.
A gulp caught in my throat. “Not,” I said, softer than I meant.
He nodded once and kept scrolling—composed and naked, looking very pleased with himself.
I stayed there, watching him. Still unsure what this was, what I was doing. But not backing away. Something in me wanted to understand it. Wanted to understand him.
And for now, that was enough to keep me here, with Zack.
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