Mickey took the hint. He pushed off the counter Benito had crowded him into and left the kitchen, leaving his beer behind. He climbed the narrow stairs, sensing Benito’s presence at his back. They were the same size, evenly matched in build, but like this, filling the space with his broad shoulders, Benito seemed bigger. Mickey liked it more than he cared to admit.
Low lights lit the way to Mickey’s bedroom. He pushed the door open, revealing more lamps and his barely made bed, sheets rumpled but clean. He turned to speak, but rough hands caught him before he could take a breath, and he stumbled, colliding with the foot end of his wooden bed.
Sharp pain bloomed in his kneecap. Mickey winced, a growl building in his chest, merging with the arousal he’d carried since Benito had replied to his first message, a heady mix of volatile pressure.
He spun around, tackling Benito before he could lunge again, and they grappled, silent and fierce, the only sound in the dim room that of their impacting bodies.
Benito was as strong as Mickey remembered. His carved biceps popping, chest made of stone. But Mickey was strong too. He battled Benito’s hold on him and wrestled him to the bed, revelling in Benito’s struggle. A stray elbow hit his ribs, impacting a bruise that hadn’t quite healed from last time. The pain made his head spin and his senses come alive in brand new ways. Thunder and lightning. Different, but wild enough to coexist in a mess of breath and limbs.
Mickey was flying. He thought he’d remembered what Benito was like, but whatever recollection he had was a poor imitation of the sharp-edged masculinity oozing from every jarring blow and stifled groan.Yes.Mickey pooled his strength and shoved Benito onto the bed, covering him with his body before he could roll away, pinning him down.
Benito vibrated beneath him, his bunched muscles letting Mickey know he could throw him off at any moment, but for now he stayed put, dark gaze searching.
Mickey stared down at him, transfixed, lungs heaving. And very very naked, his pyjama bottoms puddled on the floor with Benito’s clothes. “Damn. Is that a scar?” He traced the jagged white line that traversed Benito’s left side, marking his ribs. “I didn’t see it last time.”
Benito flinched. Subtle, but his gaze flashed too. “It is what it is.”
He doesn’t want to talk about it.
Mickey could live with that. He wanted to make Benito come, not hear his life story.
He let his finger trail from the scar and tried not to stare at it, a feat made easier by the fact that only Benito’s underwear remained on his body, a cotton barrier between his straining cock and Mickey’s.
Mickey thrust, testing the friction. A low sound rumbled from Benito’s chest, fresh sweat beading his skin. Mickey licked his tingling lips, then bit down. They hadn’t kissed yet. Maybe they wouldn’t. But,fuck, Mickey wanted to, perhaps more than anything.
The realisation should’ve shocked him, but he was too turned on for deep thoughts. He thrust again and again, teasing them both, until Benito grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him down, their faces inches apart. “Do it. Whatever you want. Just fucking do it.”
He means get on with it. Fuck him already.
Mickey kissed him instead, and the heat between them boiled over, incinerating any coherent thought in its path. They rolled over and over, landing back where they started. Mickey tore his lips away and manhandled Benito onto his belly. Then he gripped his chin and turned his face back, kissing him again as he yanked his underwear down. “I’m gonna fuck you just as hard as last time. Tell me if you want to stop. I’ll hear you.”
Benito glowered, moody and hot. He spread his legs and braced his forearms on the bed, tense and ready, his muscular back a fucking wet dream.
Mickey rolled off him and retrieved lube and condoms from his bedside table. “You want poppers?”
“Nah. I’m good.”
Mickey shut the drawer, leaving the party bottle behind. He crawled on the bed, straddling Benito’s thighs. The frenzied air had lessened while he’d been gone, but as he dripped lube onto his fingers and trailed them down Benito’s crease, Benito reached back and caught his wrist.
“Just fuck me, man. Don’t make me wait.”
“You don’t want me to prep you?”
“No.”
Mickey swept his fingers over Benito’s hole, leaving a trail of lube behind. “Sure? It might hurt—”
“Just do it.”
Mickey didn’t need telling twice. He rolled a condom on with one hand and slicked himself with the other. Blood shaking, he split Benito’s legs wider and pushed inside him, pausing only a moment at the resistance from Benito’s body.
Beneath him, Benito tensed, limbs taut, face hidden, like last time, in his forearms.
His struggle was beautiful. Mickey’s dick pulsed, and he snatched a breath, guilt catching up with him. He liked it rough, but he had no desire to hurt Benito like this, where the discomfort was a one-way street.
He rubbed Benito’s back, a slow brush of his palm at the base of his spine.
Benito made a soft sound that wasn’t all pleasure.