Chapter 9: Oliver Stark 2
The question hung in the dark, silly and sudden. Oliver’s smile widened into a grin. He blinked, coming fully awake. “Ice cream? Seriously?”
“Dead serious.”
Oliver laughed, a rich, unfiltered sound that filled the room. “I’m vegan, remember? But… yeah. I’ve got this salted caramel cashew milk stuff in the freezer that’ll change your life.” He threw back the duvet. “Kitchen raid?”
“Kitchen raid.”
They padded barefoot through the dark, silent house. The moon through the skylight transformed the kitchen into a landscape of sharp silver highlights and deep obsidian shadows. Oliver went to the sub-zero freezer, pulling out a sleek pint container. He grabbed two spoons from a drawer.
He hoisted himself onto the massive marble island, the cold stone against his thighs. He patted the space beside him. Kenny joined him, their shoulders touching. Oliver pried the lid off and dug a spoon in, offering the first bite to Kenny.
It was rich, complex, perfectly salty-sweet. “God, that’s good.”
“Told you.” Oliver took a bite for himself, leaning back on his palms. The moonlight caught the definition of his torso, the trails of ink, the happy trail leading into his shorts. He was a sculpture in the half-light. Comfortable. Present.
Kenny took the spoon from him, scooped another portion. But instead of eating it, he held it, watching the surface glisten. He looked at Oliver’s chest, at his nipples pebbled from the chill of the room. With a slow, deliberate movement, he brought the spoonful of frozen dessert to Oliver’s left pectoral.
The cold metal touched skin.
Oliver gasped, a sharp intake of breath, his body jolting. “Fuck!”
A perfect, trembling dollop sat on his nipple. Kenny leaned in and slowly licked it off, his tongue flat and warm against the stiff peak. He sucked gently, pulling the sweetness and the cold into his mouth, then blew a soft, warm stream of air over the wet skin.
Oliver shuddered violently, his head falling back. “Jesus. They’re so sensitive.”
Kenny repeated the ritual on the other side, laying another cold spoonful on Oliver’s right nipple. He watched it melt, a rivulet of creamy gold tracing a path down the groove of his abs. He followed it with his tongue, lapping slowly from nipple to navel, collecting every sticky trace.
Oliver’s hands came up, tangling in Kenny’s hair, not guiding, just holding on. His breath was shallow. Kenny looked up, meeting his eyes. He dipped his fingers into the container, coating them in the cold, slick dessert. He reached between Oliver’s legs, over his shorts, and pressed his palm firmly against the hardening bulge.
“Fuck, Kenny,” Oliver choked out, his hips lifting off the marble.
“Sensitive here too?” Kenny murmured, rubbing his palm in a slow, firm circle.
In answer, Oliver fumbled with the drawstring of his shorts, pushing them down just enough to free his cock, which sprung up thick and eager. Kenny wrapped his cold, sticky fingers around him. Oliver cried out, a ragged sound that echoed off the stainless steel. The contrast was exquisite—the freezing grip, the burning heat of him.
Kenny stroked him, a slow, twisting pull, using the melted dessert as lubricant. It was a filthy, sweet slide. He leaned forward, taking the head into his mouth, sucking the salt and caramel from his skin, swallowing him down until his nose pressed into Oliver’s abdomen.
Oliver was panting, a stream of broken, filthy praise falling from his lips. “Yes… just like that… suck my cock, you perfect fuck… your mouth is heaven…”
Kenny lost himself in the rhythm, in the taste, in the visceral sounds Oliver made. This wasn’t service. This was hunger. He wanted to devour him. He reached up, pinching and rolling Oliver’s ice-cream-smeared nipples between his fingers, tugging sharply.
Oliver’s control snapped. “I’m gonna come… stop or I’ll…”
Kenny didn’t stop. He took him deeper, urging him on with a vibrating hum. Oliver’s whole body tightened, his thighs clamping around Kenny’s head. He came with a guttural shout, pulsing hot and bitter down Kenny’s throat in endless, shaking waves.
He collapsed backward onto the cold marble, spent. Kenny released him gently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at Oliver, splayed and gorgeous on the island, chest heaving, skin gleaming under the moon.
He looked at Oliver, splayed and gorgeous on the island, chest heaving, skin gleaming under the moon. A wild impulse took hold. Kenny climbed onto the cold marble, straddling Oliver’s hips. He leaned down, his mouth finding a nipple again, not to clean but to claim.
He laved it with his tongue, then blew on the wetness. Oliver arched with a sharp gasp. “Fuck, Kenny.”
“Sensitive?” Kenny murmured, his lips brushing the taut skin.
“Unbelievably. It’s like a live wire.” Oliver’s hands found Kenny’s waist, his grip urgent. “Don’t stop.”
“Can I?” Kenny asked, his voice low. “Can I just… focus on these?”
Oliver’s answer was a breathless laugh. “Are you asking for permission to torture me? Yes. Please.”
Oliver reached a languid arm toward the container, his fingers dipping inside. He scooped a fresh, cold mound and brought it to his own chest, smearing it over both nipples. The white contrast against his skin in the moonlight was obscene. Kenny watched, enthralled.
Kenny took the spoon. He dipped it, then traced a slow, freezing line up the column of Oliver’s throat, letting a dollop melt into the hollow at its base. He bent and licked it clean, sucking at the pulse point there, feeling Oliver’s heartbeat hammer against his tongue.
“Come on,” Oliver said, sliding off the island, pulling Kenny with him.
They left the kitchen, a trail of discarded shorts and sticky touches leading to the vast living room rug. The city glittered silently beyond the glass. Oliver pulled Kenny down atop him, the thick pile soft against their backs.
Oliver’s hands cupped Kenny’s face. “You have a thing for them, don’t you? A proper nipple fetish.”
It was the first time anyone had named it so plainly, outside the clinical bounds of a client’s request list. Kenny felt seen, and it was terrifying. He nodded against Oliver’s palms. “Yeah. I really do.”
Oliver’s smile was dark and generous. He guided Kenny’s head back to his chest. “Then they’re yours. Do whatever you want. Mark them up. Just don’t be gentle.”
Kenny needed no further invitation. He descended, his mouth becoming relentless. He sucked one peak deep, worrying it with his teeth until Oliver cried out, his back bowing off the floor. Kenny bit down, not enough to break skin, but enough to paint a bruise. He soothed it with his tongue, then scraped his teeth over it again.
“God, yes, just like that,” Oliver chanted, his hands fists in the rug.
Kenny moved to the other, pinching the first between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging in a cruel, perfect rhythm. He worshipped them with a focused brutality that was its own form of tenderness. Oliver’s cock, hard again, leaked against his own stomach.
“Need you inside me,” Kenny panted, saliva shining on his chin. “Now.”
Oliver fumbled for the lube on the nearby side table. He poured it, his hands slippery, coating himself with rough, hurried strokes. Kenny rose, positioned himself, and sank down in one fluid, demanding motion. The fullness stole his breath.
He began to ride, setting a desperate, driving pace. His own cock, thick and flushed, slapped against his stomach with each descent. Oliver’s hands flew to Kenny’s chest, his thumbs finding Kenny’s nipples, mimicking the same vicious attention.
“You like that too, don’t you?” Oliver grunted, pinching hard.
Kenny could only nod, his rhythm faltering for a second at the bolt of pleasure-pain. He slammed down harder, taking Oliver deeper. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on Oliver’s chest, his fingers finding the bruised, wet nubs he’d just abused. He pressed down on them, pinning Oliver to the floor through his own sensitive flesh.
Oliver groaned, a deep, guttural sound. He wrapped a slick hand around Kenny’s cock, stroking him in time with Kenny’s punishing rides. The coordination was filthy, perfect. Kenny felt the orgasm gather, a storm low in his gut.
“I’m gonna come all over you,” Kenny warned, his voice ragged.
“Do it. Paint me,” Oliver demanded, his hand working faster.
The sight of Oliver beneath him—debauched, willing, his perfect chest a map of Kenny’s hunger—was what undid him. Kenny’s release ripped through him, streaks of white jetting across Oliver’s stomach and heaving chest, some landing on his own abused nipples. The clenching of his body around Oliver’s cock was the final trigger.
Oliver shouted, his hips hammering upward off the floor as he emptied himself deep inside Kenny, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever. Kenny collapsed onto him, their slick, sticky bodies merging, both trembling through the aftershocks.
They lay there, wrecked and breathing city air. Slowly, the world seeped back in—the cool breeze from the climate control, the distant hum of the fridge. Oliver’s hand came up, stroking Kenny’s sweat-damp hair.
“Shower,” Oliver whispered, his voice shot. “We’re a mess.”
The shower was a tiled cavern with multiple heads. They stood under the steaming water, washing the sweat, spend, and melted dessert away. It was quiet, methodical. Oliver soaped Kenny’s back, his touch now purely caring, scrubbing gently at the tense muscles. Kenny returned the favor, his fingers tracing the new, darkening marks on Oliver’s chest with a possessiveness that startled him.
Back in the rumpled bed, Oliver pulled Kenny against him, spooning him from behind. His arm was a heavy, welcome weight across Kenny’s ribs. “Stay,” Oliver murmured into the nape of his neck, his lips brushing the skin. “Don’t go tonight. Stay till morning.”
Kenny, already half-swallowed by sleep, nodded. “Okay.”
---
Sunlight, bright and merciless, pierced the room. Kenny woke alone. The scent of coffee and ozone from the pool filter drifted in. He pulled on the borrowed sweatpants and found Oliver in the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a thin grey t-shirt, scrolling on his phone with a mug beside him.
Oliver looked up. His smile was easy, but quieter in the daylight. “Hey. Coffee’s fresh.”
Kenny poured a cup, leaning against the counter. The events of the night lay between them, not awkward, but palpable. He felt the need to name something before he left. “Oliver,” he began, his voice still rough with sleep. “Last night… this whole time. Thank you.”
Oliver put his phone down. “For what?”
“For being kind. And generous.” Kenny swallowed, looking directly at him. “For being exactly the person I always thought you’d be.”
Oliver held his gaze, his expression softening into something unbearably genuine. He stood, crossing the space. He didn’t kiss him. He just pulled Kenny into a firm, close hug. Kenny sank into it, breathing him in—clean cotton, coffee, soap.
Oliver pulled back, hands on Kenny’s shoulders. “Don’t be a stranger, yeah?” he said, his tone light but his eyes serious. “I’m just a phone call away. If you need anything. Anything at all.”
The offer hung there, vast and ambiguous. It wasn’t a promise of more paid appointments. It was something else, a door left slightly ajar. Kenny nodded, a lump in his throat. “I’ll remember that.”
He gathered his things from the bedroom, folded the borrowed clothes. At the front door, Oliver handed him a sleek black reusable cup of coffee for the road. One last, warm smile. Then Kenny stepped out into the blinding California morning, the taste of salted caramel and possibility lingering on his tongue.