Crying out, Benito buried his face in his forearms, beautiful tension taking hold, priming him ready to snap. Agony battled ecstasy, dismantling his last defences, and he came with a shout that rattled his bones, only distantly aware of Mickey’s ragged groan behind him.
“Fuck fuckfuck.” Mickey collapsed over Benito, milking his climax, his solid build smothering for the few seconds it took for him to collect himself.
Then he said something, eased out of Benito, and rolled away.
Benito was too far gone to make sense of actions or words. He stayed where he was, breathing hard, face still hidden in his arms, dazed and dizzy. Reality seemed far off until warm hands rubbed his back again.
“Roll over, man. Let me check I haven’t killed you.”
A weak laugh bubbled in Benito’s chest. He raised his head and then, slowly, the rest of him, sitting up onto his knees.
Mickey was sprawled out on the rumpled sheets, the perfect image of sex-tousled relaxation, but his grey eyes were narrowed as he scrutinised Benito. “All right?”
Benito nodded, then regretted it as his head swam. “I’m good.”
“Lie down, mate.”
“What?”
Mickey patted the bed next to him. “Just for a minute. It’ll help.”
Benito didn’t need help, but he obeyed all the same and stretched out beside Mickey, soaking in a moment where he’d usually be sweeping the room for his discarded clothes. He closed his eyes but, sensing Mickey’s piercing gaze on him, opened them again with a sigh. “What?”
Mickey shrugged, shifting onto his side. “Nothing. Except you should know you’ve pretty much blown my mind.”
“I didn’t blow you at all.”
“Fucking hilarious. You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
“I think so. You seem as spaced out as I feel.”
The poppers. Fuck.Benito sat up, searching for the open bottle. That shit wasn’t safe left to its own devices.
“Easy.” Mickey caught his shoulder and eased him back down. “I got them. Put ’em away already.”
Benito wondered how he’d missed that. Then decided he didn’t care. He’d come here to catch a break from his noisy brain and fucked-up thoughts, not germinate new ones. He focused on his sore body and tingling lips. Revelled in it. He was as battered as the wrecked room around them, butdamn, it felt good.
I wanna smoke.
As if he’d spoken the words aloud, Mickey reached somewhere and came back with a cigarette and a lighter. He lit up, inhaled deeply, then passed the smoke to Benito. “We ain’t supposed to smoke in here, but I reckon it’s the least of our worries considering the knuckle print you’ve left in that door.”
Benito took a long drag on the cigarette. “Fuck me.”
“Already done, mate.”
“Where are you from?”
Mickey reclaimed the smoke. “Up north. You?”
“Down south.”
“London?”
“Sometimes.”
Mickey nodded, as if Benito’s vague answer made sense. Or maybe it was more that he didn’t care. This wasn’t a fucking date. “I was serious about you blowing my mind,” he said. “This shit is like hook-up nirvana for me.”