This chapter is told from the POV of Chris
Jason’s fingers dug into my hips, keeping me pinned to the couch. The command was a low, dangerous vibration against my lips. “Tell me what you’re thinking. Exactly what you’re thinking. I want every detail.”
My mind was a chaotic swirl of sensation and memory, the feel of him on top of me blending seamlessly with the phantom weight of another man. I could smell Jason’s familiar scent—clean sweat and fabric softener—but in my mind, it was mingled with the primal, musky aroma of Max. I was burning up from the inside out, my skin slick with a sweat that had nothing to do with the day’s climb.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice rough with desire. His fingers dug into my hips, holding me in place as I rocked against him. “Tell me what you want him to do.”
I leaned forward, my lips brushing his ear. “I want him to fuck me right here,” I whispered, my breath hot against his skin. “I want you to watch him spread me open. I want to feel every inch of him, Jason, and I want you to see my face when I take it. I want him to make me scream.”
A sharp, approving growl rumbled in Jason’s chest. His hand slid from my face, down my neck, his thumb pressing against my hammering pulse.
“Now you’re thinking about him taking your ass, aren’t you?” he snarled, his voice dropping into a register I’d never heard before. It was laced with jealousy and a dark, intoxicating thrill. He manhandled me, tearing off my shorts and underwear. My cock was hard and aching, anticipating what was to come. Max grabbed my cock roughly, stroking it while he draped his body over mine, his weight a delicious prison. His lips were at my ear. “You’re thinking about his cock, aren’t you? That big, thick fuckstick he’s so proud of. You’re imagining it’s him spreading you open. Him shoving it into your tight little hole.”
“He’s not here,” Jason breathed, his chest heaving. “But I am. And you’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I gasped, arching my back, offering myself to him.
He released my cock abruptly, leaving me gasping and empty. I watched, dazed, as he shoved his own jeans and briefs down just enough to free his hard length. He was beautiful, thick and veined and mine, but the fantasy wasn’t about him. Not entirely. He spat into his palm, a crude, animalistic gesture that sent another jolt through me, and slicked himself.
A possessive darkness flashed in his eyes. He reached down and wrapped his hand around my cock, his grip almost painfully tight. “Then think about him while I fuck you. Think about his big cock while you take mine.”
The command, so perfectly twisted, so exactly what we both needed, shattered the last of my control. Yes. God, yes.
He didn’t wait for a reply. He fumbled for the lube we kept tucked beside the couch, slicking himself with a frantic haste that was so unlike his usual controlled preparation. He was lost in it, consumed by the fantasy we were building together.
He positioned himself, the blunt, slick head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I was completely exposed, utterly vulnerable, and so turned on I thought I might cum from the pressure alone.
“You ready for him?” he growled, the words a brutal, beautiful parody.
I nodded, my voice gone, lost in a wave of anticipation.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his breath hot on my neck. “Tell me you want his cock.”
“I want it,” I whimpered, pushing back against him, begging silently for the intrusion. “Please, Jason. I want Max’s cock.”
The use of his name, the plea for another man, was the final key. With a guttural groan, he thrust forward, burying himself inside me in one smooth, brutal motion. The air exploded from my lungs in a punched-out gasp. My vision whited out for a second, the sheer fullness overwhelming. It was Jason, my Jason, the man I loved more than anything, but the fantasy he’d unleashed in my head was too powerful. My body convulsed around him, and I cried out, a broken, ecstatic sound.
“Fuck, Chris,” he groaned, his body shuddering atop mine. He was buried to the hilt, his hips flush against my ass. He didn’t move, just let me feel every inch of him. “You’re so tight. So fucking hot for him.”
He began to move, a slow, deliberate withdrawal before driving back into me. Each thrust was a claim, a punishment, a reward. The couch creaked beneath us, a rhythmic counterpoint to our ragged breathing and the slick, wet sound of our joining.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, his pace quickening, becoming less controlled, more frantic. His hands gripped my shoulders, holding me in place as he pounded into me. “You want him to fuck you like this? To use you like his personal fleshlight while your boyfriend watched?”
“Yes!” I screamed into the cushion, the word muffled but desperate. My fingers clawed at the fabric beneath me. With every drive of his hips, the image of Max, of his dark, predatory eyes and arrogant smirk, burned brighter behind my eyelids. I could almost feel the difference—the imagined, monstrous size of Max, the way he’d stretched me to my absolute limit. The fantasy magnified the pleasure, twisting it into something shameful and unbearably intense.
“You gonna cum for him?” Jason’s voice was ragged, stripped raw. He leaned down, his mouth finding my ear again. “You gonna cream all over yourself thinking about that bastard’s dick?”
“Jason,” I moaned, my hands scrabbling at his back.
“No,” he insisted, his voice guttural, bending down to bite at my neck. “Say his name.”
The command was a shockwave. My eyes flew open. He was watching me, his expression a tortured blend of ecstasy and agony. He needed this. He needed to hear it.
“Max,” I whimpered, the name a sacrilege and a prayer on my lips.
Jason’s thrusts became punishing, each one driving the breath from my lungs. “Louder.”
His hand snaked between us, his fingers finding my neglected, leaking cock. He jerked me in time with his thrusts, his grip firm and perfect. The dual assault was too much. The coil in my gut snapped.
“Max!” I cried out, the admission freeing something wild in me. I was coming apart, my body convulsing around him. “Oh god, Max!”
I came with a broken shout, my body seizing up as pulses of white-hot pleasure ripped through me. My ass clenched rhythmically around Jason’s cock, milking him, pulling him over the edge with me. He let out a deep, guttural roar, his thrusts becoming erratic as he emptied himself inside me, his release a hot flood that seemed to seal the fantasy into reality.
We collapsed together, a shuddering, sweaty heap on the couch. His weight was crushing, comforting, real. I could feel his heart slamming against my chest, a wild drumbeat matching my own.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breaths slowly returning to normal. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and something else—something charged and unresolved.
He shifted his weight, still buried inside me, and pressed a soft, unexpected kiss to my shoulder blade. My voice, when it came, was a husky whisper, laced with a complex emotion I couldn’t name.
“When,” I murmured, my lips moving against his damp skin. “When do you think he will let us do it again?”
More to cum . . .
