Chapter 1: Worship and Control
The air in Tommy’s bedroom was thick and still, carrying the scent of sex and sweat and the faint, clean trace of Chanse’s cologne. The sheets were a tangled, sun-bleached mess, still damp in places from the night before. A single lamp glowed, casting the room in a warm, golden haze that cut through the sliver of moonlight at the window.
Tommy knelt between Chanse’s legs, his own body naked and humming with a need that felt like a live wire under his skin. Chanse had already had him twice, mouth and hands reducing him to a shaking, begging mess, but it was never enough. He was always insatiable for this. For him.
He let his lips brush the sensitive skin of Chanse’s inner thigh, feeling the muscle jump under his mouth. A dark red bruise flowered there, one of many he’d collected over the past week. He loved them. Proof.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Chanse murmured, his voice rough. His fingers carded through Tommy’s bleached hair, not guiding yet, just feeling.
“Just worshipping,” Tommy said, the words a low hum against Chanse’s skin. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss higher up, tracing the line of his hip bone. “You taste like salt and my shower gel.”
Chanse huffed a quiet laugh. “Get to work then.”
Tommy smiled, his beard scraping lightly as he nuzzled closer. He could feel the heat of Chanse’s cock against his cheek, already hard and heavy. He breathed him in, that musk that was purely Chanse, before turning his head and finally, slowly, licking a broad stripe from base to tip.
Chanse’s breath caught, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk.
“Easy,” Tommy whispered, looking up. His dark brown eyes locked with Chanse’s hazel ones. He kept his gaze steady as he parted his lips and took just the head into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the crown. He sucked gently, relearning the shape and weight of him.
“Fuck, Tommy.” Chanse’s hand tightened in his hair, the silver bracelets on Tommy’s wrist clicking softly together as he braced himself on the mattress.
Tommy pulled off with a wet pop. “You taste so good. Always do.” He dove back down, taking him deeper, his throat working as he relaxed into it. He was an expert at this, at the rhythm and the pressure, at knowing when to use his hand and when to go deep, all tongue and suction. He moaned around him, the vibration pulling a ragged groan from Chanse’s chest.
“That’s it, baby. Such a perfect fucking mouth.” Chanse was trying to stay still, letting Tommy set the pace, but Tommy could feel the tension coiling in his thighs. He wanted him to break.
He slid a hand underneath, cupping Chanse’s balls, rolling them gently before his fingers traveled further back. He traced the pucker, slick with spit, and pressed a single finger against it. Chanse gasped, his back arching off the bed.
“You want it?” Tommy murmured, pulling off just enough to speak, his lips slick and swollen. “Want my fingers in you while I suck your dick?”
“Yes. God, yes, Tommy. Do it.”
Tommy pushed his finger in slowly, feeling the tight, hot clench around him. He sucked Chanse back into his mouth, taking him deep, his nose pressing into the crisp curls at the base. He added a second finger, scissoring gently, searching until Chanse cried out, his whole body bowing.
“Right there, fuck, right there!” Chanse chanted, his control fraying. His hips began to move in tiny, desperate thrusts, fucking into the wet heat of Tommy’s mouth. “You gonna take it? Gonna let me fuck this pretty mouth?”
Tommy just moaned in answer, his own cock aching and leaking against the rumpled sheets. He pushed his hips down, seeking friction, humping the mattress like a teenager as he worked Chanse with his mouth and hand.
Chanse’s movements became less tentative, more urgent. He held Tommy’s head, not roughly, but firmly, setting a deeper, slower rhythm. Tommy relaxed his jaw, letting him in, throat opening up to take him. The sounds were filthy, wet and obscene, punctuated by Chanse’s broken praise.
“You’re so good for me. So fucking good. Taking me so deep. I can feel you, baby. I’m gonna come.”
Tommy quickened his fingers, crooking them just right, and that was all it took. Chanse shouted, a raw, unfiltered sound, and his hips stuttered. Tommy felt the first hot, bitter pulse hit the back of his throat and he swallowed instinctively, again and again, milking him through it until Chanse was shuddering and sensitive, gently pushing his head away.
Tommy slumped back on his heels, breathing hard, chin glistening. He was so hard it was a dull, throbbing pain. He watched Chanse come down, chest heaving, a sated, wrecked look on his beautiful face.
Chanse reached for him, fingers brushing his cheek. “Come here.”
“Need to finish,” Tommy gasped, his voice wrecked. He turned, pressing his throbbing cock into the damp sheets, fucking the mattress with rough, frantic strokes. It was desperate, almost pathetic, but the need was a animal thing in his chest.
Chanse moved behind him, rolling onto his side. He pressed his body along Tommy’s back, his mouth against the nape of his neck. “Let go, Tommy. Come for me. Get those sheets dirty.”
The permission, the dirty praise, was the final trigger. Tommy’s climax ripped through him, stripping away every last bit of control. He cried out, muffled by the bedding, his body convulsing as he spilled hot over the already-stained cotton.
He collapsed, spent, the world narrowing to the feel of Chanse’s arm around his waist, his lips on his shoulder blade.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing. The moon had shifted, the silver light now cutting across the floor.
Chanse’s voice was a soft rumble in the dark. “I love you, you needy bastard.”
Tommy caught his hand, intertwining their fingers. He didn’t say it back. He didn’t have to. It was in the bruises, in the taste still on his tongue, in the sheer wreckage of the bed. It was in the quiet that wasn’t quiet at all, but full of everything they’d just given each other.