Disclaimer: These boys belong to MGM, Mirisch and Trilogy. Not mine, no money.
Five Times Chris Larabee Didn’t Have Sex with the Others
(and One Time He Did)
There’s not much foreplay, but that’s fine, because this particular argument with Buck gets Chris all het up anyway. He doesn’t struggle much when Buck pushes him to the floor and yanks his pants down; helps by lifting his ass and shimmying to get ‘em off.
Spit ain’t much, but it’s all Buck’s got, then Buck’s inside him, and Chris’s hips snap up to meet his thrusts through the burn. Buck’s loud, likes to kiss, mustache ticklin’ his lip, while he’s fuckin’ Chris through the floor. Legs splayed wide like a woman’s, Buck’s hands on his hips, Chris just moans.
The voice rolls over him like the sea, deep and neverendin’. Chris buries his face against his arms, arches his back a little, pressin’ his ass back just to hear those words stutter. Like this – a supplicant at the altar, Josiah calls it – it’s about all the movement he can make.
Next thrust, the big hands clutchin’ his hips drag him up and back hard, and Chris gasps, strains to match the quicker pace. More like a storm than the tide now, and the words are lost in a low growlin’ sound. Don’t take long, and he’s drownin’ in pleasure.
Layin’ on his front, Chris shivers, and the careful, knowin’ fingers openin’ him up pause. He ain’t got the words to say that it’s good, that it’s makin’ somethin’ inside him shoot off sparks, so he just pushes back. A chuckle washes over him, low and rich and familiar, and the bed shifts.
Then it’s all don’t move and don’t wanna hurt ya, but it’s so hard to keep himself still, ‘specially since Nathan ain’t movin’, just pressin’ kisses to his shoulders with those full lips. Finally, he starts the slow slide out, and Chris sees sparks behind his eyelids.
The only thing Chris can hear is the poundin’ of his own heartbeat in his ears; it covers the faint squeak of the bed as they move, blocks out the sound of their groanin’. Callused fingers smooth down his chest, pinchin’ at his nipple ‘till he arches backward; the leg tanglin’ between his slides against his balls, pushin’ his top leg forward. He braces himself so he’s still on his side more’n his front.
Then that hand’s on his cock, God, pullin’ just right, and Chris feels the sting of teeth on his shoulder as they shudder together, nearly silent.
Chris bows his back, pressin’ back and down, and the soft moan behind him tells him what he already knows – it feels so good. The hands curvin’ around his hips ain’t as big as his own, ain’t as work-worn, but damn if they still ain’t strong and capable.
The boy ain’t got a lot of experience, but he’s sure got the will to make it up. He surges back and forth slow and steady; Chris meets him eagerly. Sweat drips down his back as the thrusts grow ragged, and the smooth fingers squeezin’ his cock tip him over the edge.
Chris tightens his legs around narrow hips, bucks up, cusses when he remembers how. Nothin’ works.
Ezra rocks into him so slow it feels like an hour between thrusts, long fingers explorin’, touchin’ everywhere he can reach. All the while, he’s whisperin’ cusses of his own into Chris’s ear, drawl soft and low and anythin’ but subtle. Every word goes straight to his cock, wrappin’ around it just like Ezra ain’t doin’.
Then he is, and Chris fuckin’ whimpers at that touch. Ezra’s voice fades into groans, hips rollin’ faster. Ain’t long before they spend, Ezra’s mouth swallowin’ his cry.
When Chris shifts sleepily, there’s pain. More like an ache, somethin’ he knows ain’t gonna last too long, that feels almost good.
He feels the weight of an arm flung possessively across his chest, a head on his shoulder, breath gustin’ warm and slow across his throat.
Slow and careful, he hitches onto his side, draping his arm over the naked body next to him, pressin’ his morning arousal against a slim hip. His fingers dance down the broad back, encouragin’ him to wake up.
They got more than enough time for another round… and Chris reckons it’s his turn.