was coming next, knew the way Jim’s body moved up and then back down with slow intent.
S OMEWHERE IN the moment, a tiny brush of guilt reared its ugly head. Jim clenched, squeezed on Griffin’s dick as he held it deep inside, then raised his hips—locked down on the pressure he knew he would feel—and began a punishing pace of riding up, pushing down, choking on the pleasure/pain of the intense burn. He closed his eyes because looking down at Griffin would be his undoing.
Faster and harder, sweat rolling from his skin, Jim slid his grip to rest against Griffin’s neck, cupping it in his hands as he moved his lower body in a frantic rhythm. “Come on,” he panted. “Come on.”
“Jim, slow down,” Griffin choked out, but Jim didn’t even break the wild need to finish—for Griffin to finish, for Jim to feel grounded in his lover’s arms.
There was no finesse to his movements, just an animalistic sense of urgent need, a violent push toward completion.
T HE VISELIKE clasp of Jim’s body on his dick, the pressure, the longing he’d felt for so long—Griffin couldn’t hold back much longer. He grabbed Jim’s wrists, holding on for dear life, sweat dripping off their bodies as Griffin slid against the rug.
“Please,” he panted, imploring with his pleas and scrabbling hands. “Please, please—love you.”
“Show me,” Jim answered, pressing his forehead to Griffin’s, breathing hard into his mouth. “Come inside me.”
All Griffin could do in response was open his mouth in a silent cry, arching his body against Jim’s. The orgasm racked his body for long shuddering moments before he collapsed against the rug.
His eyes closed as Jim kept moving, kissing Griffin’s face with frantic damp movements of his lips. “Love you,” he kept saying, rocking over Griffin, trying to find his own completion.
Griffin reached between them, closing his hand over Jim’s cock, the way eased by sweat and Griffin’s fervent need to tip Jim over the edge.
Jim lasted a few more seconds, but Griffin knew how to pull an orgasm from this man—knew how to twist and tug and bite his shoulder, how to rock up his hips and read that perfect moment when Jim lost it.
Wildly, roughly, completely.
They lay there, wet and shaking on the rug, like they had run a marathon.
And won.
“Hell of a homecoming,” Jim whispered into Griffin’s ear. He’d tried to move, but Griffin held him in place despite the fact that he was heavy and lax and probably hurting.
No. Griffin wouldn’t let him go.
“I missed you.”
“It was two days.”
Griffin nudged him and shifted until they were looking each other in the eye. “It’s been longer than that.”
Jim swallowed. “Yeah.”
E VENTUALLY THEY showered—together. They dressed in clean pajamas, threw everything discarded on the floor downstairs down the laundry chute, and ate a romantic meal for two by candlelight in the dining room.
He pushed their chairs closer together and they held hands because Griffin refused to let Jim get farther than a foot away and Jim couldn’t deny him.
“I, uh, got a new project,” Griffin said eventually.
Jim girded himself for the news—the schedule in Los Angeles, the continuation of a schedule that made them both unhappy. “Oh. Okay. Where are you filming?” he asked, neutral.
“It’s a play. We’re going to do it here in New York.”
Looking up, Jim met Griffin’s pleased expression with one of his own. “Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s something Shane wrote a few years ago that they never produced. Bennett said I could pick anything, and that was the one I liked the most.” Griffin’s excitement began to pick up. He squeezed Jim’s hand and gestured with the other. “These two friends pretend to be dating so their possessive exes will leave them alone. It’s sort of a comedy of manners but with a bit of melancholy underneath, because of course one of the men has always had a thing for his friend.
S OMEWHERE IN the moment, a tiny brush of guilt reared its ugly head. Jim clenched, squeezed on Griffin’s dick as he held it deep inside, then raised his hips—locked down on the pressure he knew he would feel—and began a punishing pace of riding up, pushing down, choking on the pleasure/pain of the intense burn. He closed his eyes because looking down at Griffin would be his undoing.
Faster and harder, sweat rolling from his skin, Jim slid his grip to rest against Griffin’s neck, cupping it in his hands as he moved his lower body in a frantic rhythm. “Come on,” he panted. “Come on.”
“Jim, slow down,” Griffin choked out, but Jim didn’t even break the wild need to finish—for Griffin to finish, for Jim to feel grounded in his lover’s arms.
There was no finesse to his movements, just an animalistic sense of urgent need, a violent push toward completion.
T HE VISELIKE clasp of Jim’s body on his dick, the pressure, the longing he’d felt for so long—Griffin couldn’t hold back much longer. He grabbed Jim’s wrists, holding on for dear life, sweat dripping off their bodies as Griffin slid against the rug.
“Please,” he panted, imploring with his pleas and scrabbling hands. “Please, please—love you.”
“Show me,” Jim answered, pressing his forehead to Griffin’s, breathing hard into his mouth. “Come inside me.”
All Griffin could do in response was open his mouth in a silent cry, arching his body against Jim’s. The orgasm racked his body for long shuddering moments before he collapsed against the rug.
His eyes closed as Jim kept moving, kissing Griffin’s face with frantic damp movements of his lips. “Love you,” he kept saying, rocking over Griffin, trying to find his own completion.
Griffin reached between them, closing his hand over Jim’s cock, the way eased by sweat and Griffin’s fervent need to tip Jim over the edge.
Jim lasted a few more seconds, but Griffin knew how to pull an orgasm from this man—knew how to twist and tug and bite his shoulder, how to rock up his hips and read that perfect moment when Jim lost it.
Wildly, roughly, completely.
They lay there, wet and shaking on the rug, like they had run a marathon.
And won.
“Hell of a homecoming,” Jim whispered into Griffin’s ear. He’d tried to move, but Griffin held him in place despite the fact that he was heavy and lax and probably hurting.
No. Griffin wouldn’t let him go.
“I missed you.”
“It was two days.”
Griffin nudged him and shifted until they were looking each other in the eye. “It’s been longer than that.”
Jim swallowed. “Yeah.”
E VENTUALLY THEY showered—together. They dressed in clean pajamas, threw everything discarded on the floor downstairs down the laundry chute, and ate a romantic meal for two by candlelight in the dining room.
He pushed their chairs closer together and they held hands because Griffin refused to let Jim get farther than a foot away and Jim couldn’t deny him.
“I, uh, got a new project,” Griffin said eventually.
Jim girded himself for the news—the schedule in Los Angeles, the continuation of a schedule that made them both unhappy. “Oh. Okay. Where are you filming?” he asked, neutral.
“It’s a play. We’re going to do it here in New York.”
Looking up, Jim met Griffin’s pleased expression with one of his own. “Wow.”
“Yeah, it’s something Shane wrote a few years ago that they never produced. Bennett said I could pick anything, and that was the one I liked the most.” Griffin’s excitement began to pick up. He squeezed Jim’s hand and gestured with the other. “These two friends pretend to be dating so their possessive exes will leave them alone. It’s sort of a comedy of manners but with a bit of melancholy underneath, because of course one of the men has always had a thing for his friend.
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