Mongrel [bxb] | Bad Moon Book III

Chapter 12: don't touch

Breath, hot, battered breath curled against Matt's neck.

Don't touch.

He fastened his hands to the seams of the leather cushions, watching the ceiling of the barn through the slits of his eyes. The light of the TV crashed against the rafters, the video game music still whispering through the TV speakers. Bailey moved against his hips with a sudden vigor and Matt fisted the leather.

Don't touch.

He hadn't expected it to feel this good. He thought it'd feel a lot like sex with girls—warmth and full, slick and easy. It wasn't like that at all. It gripped and consumed, choked the breath out of him. It was the way Bailey moved—hips and spine and stomach, slowly, suddenly, gently sometimes, roughly others. Then he sat up, leaned back, hands gripping the top of Matt's thighs. His hair cast dark webs over his face, his bare chest smooth in the TV light.

Matt couldn't stand it anymore.

"Can I touch you?" he asked in a hard breath, his flesh hot, his ears flaring.

Bailey considered him, and for the first time since they'd started, Matt saw his face clearly. A warm glaze on his skin—a slight tuck in his brow. He took Matt by the wrists, guided his hands to the curves of his waist. Matt felt the hot skin beneath his fingers, pulled Bailey's hips into a hungry rhythm. Down suddenly, up again, down suddenly, up again. The hound clutched at Matt by the biceps, his jaw dropping as Matt pushed up into the pleasant weight of him. Another push and Bailey choked out a sound, dug his nails into the muscle.

What am I doing?

Matt's breath shook, a strange thread connecting him at the eyes. He couldn't take away from Bailey's gaze, glazed with pot and ecstasy. When his pace quickened, it tore something beautiful open in him. Sparked a flame he hadn't felt before. He sat up and curled an arm around Bailey's waist—the hound fitting slim in the crook of his elbow.

What am I doing?

He shifted forward onto his knees, dropped Bailey back against the leather. The startled look in his eyes pierced Matt, black sheening hair splayed out against the couch, curled over his neck, stuck to the wet of his hard-kissed lips. Matt found the tattooed scar on his shoulder, then his eyes once again. "Is this alright?"

Bailey swallowed, a hard lump bobbing at the throat.

"If it's not alright—"

"It's fine," Bailey said. His fingers curled into the back of Matt's hair and he pulled him down against his mouth. The tasteless taste of him, the slick language of his tongue—it woke something strange in Matt. Suddenly, he'd done this a hundred times before. Suddenly, he recalled every porn video he'd ever watched with Jaylin—muscled men tearing into one another with hard-gripping hands and sweaty skin. He hadn't been interestedat the time, but not disgusted either. Now he tried to recall the way they moved—what they did with their hands, with their mouths, with their grunts and their whispers.

He pinned one of Bailey's legs, hand gripping hard beneath the knee. And when Matt pushed in, it must've felt different. Maybe it hurt a little more because Bailey groaned—sure and broken, fingers fisting tight in his hair. Matt thrust, and again, the sound he made thrilled the blood in Matt's veins. Maybe it was because for once, Bailey seemed human—or maybe because it was the first time in a long time Matt felt it. They were both human, in the dark of a battered old shed, in the light of a television screen.

For a long time, he moved like that, hands pinning him under the knees, lips against his jaw, breathing in the scent of his skin and the sounds of his tangled moaning breath. And he wouldn't have moved an inch faster, had Bailey not slid those rough fingers down his back, captured his cheeks in the bite of his hands. Had he not kneaded the flesh, pulled Matt's hips toward toward him in a silent plea.