by Max Hudson
Emmerich managed to turn them around, pushing Martin onto the bed like had their first time.
But Martin was no longer so ignorant, and after his back landed on the covers, he pushed off them to flip Emmerich over. His hands gripped Emmerich’s arms—pinning them up beside his head.
Emmerich huffed as if frustrated, though warmth flooded his eyes and his lips curled upward. “Just so you know, I let you do that.”
“That so?” Martin lowered down and kissed Emmerich’s neck, his throat—nipping the flesh there.
Emmerich gasped. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I when you reward me like this?”
“Like this?” Martin gyrated his lower half grinding against Emmerich’s.
Emmerich jolted and hiccupped out an exhale. “Yes.”
Martin smiled, still rubbing against him—still building up the heat in his hardening cock. Breathing against the base of Emmerich’s throat, Martin slid one hand to the covers and the other down over Emmerich’s chest, his stomach—to the hem of his shirt.
Emmerich kept his arms up as he, too, rubbed against Martin.
Martin pulled up the man’s shirt, and Emmerich helped by squirming out of the garment. Martin left the shirt at Emmerich’s elbows and went to kissing and licking over Emmerich’s pecs.
Emmerich bit his lip and arched.
Martin ran his teeth over his left nipple, then licked it.
Emmerich writhed and panted, motions erratic and eyes shutting tight.
“Where’d you put the oil?” Martin rasped, licking his way over to Emmerich’s right nipple.
Emmerich moaned.
“Emmerich?”
“Un—under the bed, I think.”
Martin slid lower and lower down Emmerich’s body until he slid in between his legs. He palmed the crotch, hard and clearly aching.
Emmerich swore and clawed into the covers above his head.
Reluctantly, Martin pulled away and looked under the bed, his gaze scanning over the darkness until it landed on the bottle, somehow gleaming. He grabbed it and rose, taking off the cap before coating his fingers in the slick substance.
Emmerich watched him—eyes hooded, lips parted.
Martin’s mouth watered. “Want to get ready for me? Or are you going to make me work for it?”
“Next time,” Emmerich rasped. He pulled off the shirt from his wrists and then used his hands to slide out of his pants and underwear. After the clothes fell to the floor, Emmerich lay on his stomach.
Martin had a retort—he swore he had—but his tongue became too heavy then, lust tinging his blood with a wondrous warmth. He let his eyes roam over Emmerich over and over again.
“Martin,” Emmerich whined.
As if he couldn’t ignore the hidden plea, Martin rushed forward and settled himself beside his lover. With a great deal of care, he slid his fingers down the cleft of Emmerich’s ass and over the puckered hole.
Emmerich shuddered.
With his other hand, Martin poured a few more drops of oil over his knuckles—the liquid sliding down his fingers, which gently pushed their way into Emmerich.
“Look at me,” Martin whispered, glancing between what he was doing and Emmerich’s face. “Please, let me see.” He pushed a little deeper with his middle finger.
Emmerich’s breath hitched. He got on his forearms and looked over his shoulder, eyes locking with Martin’s.
Martin twisted his middle finger.
Emmerich’s eyes darkened as he bit his lip.
Martin could barely focus on the task at hand—getting lost in Emmerich’s face, so expressive, so full of want. Martin prodded and massaged his finger deeper, allowing his pointer finger to push in next.
Emmerich gasped, lips quirking upward for a brief second before a moan crawled up his throat.
Martin liked to be slow—liked to be thorough—loved getting lost in Emmerich’s eyes as need and hunger clouded them. Which was why, often enough, Emmerich would be the one to tell him to stop.
“I need your cock,” Emmerich rasped, clawing into the bed. “Please, Martin, I’m ready. Stop teasing me.”
Martin leaned over and kissed his back, Emmerich’s wilted gasp making him smile. “As you wish.”
“Goddamn it, Martin. You’re killing me.”
Capping the bottle of oil, he placed it beside him on the bed. Then he stood to slide out of his pants and underwear. His cock, hard and leaking precum, sprung free and was kissed by the chilled air.
Martin placed both hands on either side of Emmerich’s chest—positioning himself over the slick, yearning hole. He moved slowly as he inserted his tip, heat flaring within him and making him quiver.
Emmerich clutched at the covers. “More,” he moaned. “Harder.”
Martin pushed himself in deeper and deeper, cautiously despite Emmerich’s breathy commands. When he felt deep enough—warm enough, tight enough—he thrusted.
Emmerich jolted.
Martin thrusted again, and again, each time harder and faster until he had to slow down again.
Emmerich moaned and cried out, wet and throaty and amazing.
Martin closed his eyes and reveled in the raw feel of him. The oil, the friction, Emmerich’s animalistic sounds—it shot pleasure through his veins repeatedly until, at last, he came. Mindless with the ecstasy, he thrusted jaggedly and roughly, Emmerich’s name hoarse on his lips.
“Close, close, so fucking close,” Emmerich whined as Martin’s motions turned sluggish. “Please, please, Martin, so close.”
“Lift up a little,” Martin croaked, quivering.
Emmerich raised his waist, just barely.
Martin, leaning heavily on one elbow, slid his other hand over Emmerich’s stomach, over the pubic hair, and then over his manhood. He gripped it tightly at first, then softened it to pump him twice.
Emmerich came hard, reeling his head back as hot seed shot out of him.
“I love you,” Martin whispered breathlessly, pumping Emmerich until completion. He kissed Emmerich’s back—the man slumping on the bed and onto the mess—as he pulled his hand free. “Love you so much.”
“I love you, too,” Emmerich whispered.
Martin rested on top of him for a moment, catching his breath while savoring this moment. The loneliness before—the secrets, the lies, the fear—he hadn’t realized just how much pain he was in until Emmerich.
He would never go back to that life, a life before Emmerich Hubar. Damn anyone who tried to go against this wish.