Lloyd’s head was a fucking warzone. Tatum was everywhere—his green eyes, sharp and soft, cutting through Lloyd like a blade. That ass, round and perfect, filling out jeans like it was made to be grabbed. The way he moaned, raw and unfiltered, when Lloyd fucked him. Lloyd sat on the living room couch, camera gear strewn around, pretending to check shots, but his mind was on Tatum, not the photos. His jeans tightened, his 9-inch cock stirring, a traitor to the straight life he’d always known. Claire’s text from two nights ago burned in his pocket: Can we talk? Miss you. Who’s the new girl? She thought he was shacking up with a woman, and it almost made him laugh. He wasn’t ready to explain Tatum—not to her, not to himself.
The door clicked, and Tatum walked in, backpack slung over one shoulder, dark hair falling into his eyes. His tight tee hugged his lean frame, jeans low, moving with that cocky swagger that drove Lloyd insane. “Rough day?” Tatum asked, tossing his bag and dropping onto the couch, knee brushing Lloyd’s. The contact sent heat spiking through him, Claire’s text fading to static. Tatum was real, here, and Lloyd wanted him—wanted to make him moan, shake, lose himself.
“Rough enough,” Lloyd growled, voice low, hand landing on Tatum’s thigh, squeezing. Tatum’s grin was instant, green eyes glinting with that mix of challenge and want. Lloyd’s chest tightened. He needed to make Tatum feel good, to drown out the noise—Claire, his past, the word straight that felt like a bad fit. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, leaning in, and Tatum met him halfway, their lips crashing in a rough, hungry kiss. It was fierce, tongues tangling, Lloyd pouring every ounce of his confusion into it, Tatum giving it right back, hands clawing at Lloyd’s back.
They tore at clothes, desperate. Lloyd yanked Tatum’s shirt off, fingers tracing his lean abs, while Tatum ripped Lloyd’s tee away, exposing his chiseled pecs, dark hair trailing down. Jeans hit the floor, briefs next, Tatum’s thick, cut cock springing free, heavy in Lloyd’s hand. Lloyd groaned, stroking slow, wanting Tatum to feel every touch. “Fuck, you’re something,” he murmured, meaning it, his own cock hard, brushing Tatum’s thigh. They collapsed onto the couch, Tatum on his back, Lloyd between his legs, hands roaming, kissing hard, teeth grazing lips.
Lloyd’s mouth moved lower, kissing Tatum’s neck, biting his collarbone, licking down his chest, making him writhe. He wanted Tatum to feel worshipped, every moan a spark in Lloyd’s veins. His lips grazed Tatum’s inner thighs, hands spreading his legs, then higher, teasing around his cock, savoring the way Tatum’s hips bucked. Lloyd pushed Tatum’s knees up, settling him in missionary, their eyes locking—blue on green, raw, stripping Lloyd bare. He slid his cock in, slow, the stretch pulling a gasp from Tatum, Lloyd’s length filling him deep. They moved together, Lloyd thrusting steady, watching Tatum’s face, every moan a victory, every kiss a claim. Their lips met again, softer but desperate, tongues sliding, heat building.
They didn’t stop there. Lloyd pulled Tatum up, guiding him to the bedroom, needing more space, more time. On the bed, Lloyd pushed Tatum onto his back, kissing his stomach, then lower, tongue circling his hole, rimming him with slow, deliberate licks. Tatum moaned, loud, hands gripping the sheets, his body trembling under Lloyd’s mouth. Lloyd moved up, taking Tatum’s cock in his mouth, sucking deep, the girth stretching his lips, his second time but hungrier, wanting Tatum to unravel. Tatum’s fingers tangled in Lloyd’s hair, hips bucking, moans spilling out.
Lloyd climbed up, settling between Tatum’s legs again, missionary, their eyes locked, unblinking. He slid back in, deep, slow, every thrust a promise to make Tatum feel good. Their lips crashed together, kissing through every movement, tongues battling, soft gasps between. Tatum’s legs wrapped around Lloyd’s waist, pulling him closer, their gazes burning—green eyes raw, vulnerable, pulling Lloyd somewhere he’d never been. “Fuck, Tatum,” Lloyd groaned, thrusting harder, hand stroking Tatum’s cock, feeling its weight, wanting him to lose it. The intimacy was overwhelming, their kisses constant, eyes never breaking, like they were all that existed.
Tatum came first, spilling across his stomach, body shaking, eyes locked on Lloyd’s, a moan tearing from his throat. Lloyd followed, unloading inside him, groaning into a kiss, their lips fused, bodies trembling. They stayed there, tangled, panting, Lloyd’s hand on Tatum’s chest, feeling his heartbeat. The quiet was heavy, too real. Lloyd’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, Claire’s name flashing again: Please, let’s meet. Lloyd grabbed it, jaw tight, and typed fast: Move on, Claire. I have. He hit send, tossing the phone aside, done with her, done with that life. Tatum was what mattered—his moans, his eyes, his body under Lloyd’s hands.
Lloyd watched Tatum catch his breath, a freckle on his shoulder catching the light, his dark hair damp. He wanted to keep making him feel like this, always—moaning, shaking, his. But fuck, he’d been straight, hadn’t he? The divorce, Tatum’s confidence, that ass—it was rewriting him, and he didn’t want to stop. He leaned in, kissing Tatum’s neck, soft, almost tender, his chest aching with something bigger than lust. He couldn’t say it, not yet, but Tatum’s green eyes held his, like he knew, and it scared Lloyd as much as it set him on fire.
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