Still recovering from an unexpected tragedy, single dad Wang Yibo isn't sure he's ready to move on - until he meets Xiao Zhan in a bar at Christmas. When what was meant to be a simple one-off encounter becomes more complicated, will Yibo have the st...
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There was cool air on his cock that throbbed in time with his pulse, a shiver down his spine as Zhan's warm hand came to rest on his thigh.
"Wow, big boy, aren't you?" he muttered and Yibo felt gratified.
Zhan's gaze grew serious, that little smirk falling shy from his lips as he continued softly.
"This is okay, yeah?"
He was a little shocked to discover it was, that climbing back on the horse wasn't anywhere close to as traumatic as he thought it would be. Maybe it was because Zhan was a guy, or maybe it was the gentle encouragement in his eyes but it felt natural to tangle his fingers into dark hair and draw him closer with a nod and a hungry moan. Zhan paused, lips brushed to the tender, sticky tip of Yibo's cock like he was getting a feel for him, working out what he might like from brief contact that jolted tingling sensation down Yibo's spine.
When Zhan asked what he wanted, Yibo wasn't sure he knew, couldn't possibly pin down the could be from the would be, the may have from the must. It was an impossible thought, wonderous complexities of never-ending need wrapped up in the knowledge that this - glorious this , whatever it may be - was happening at all. He wondered if he retained any control over the night, if there was something he could do to calm the pounding throb of his pulse in every single vein and then...
"Please,"
he breathed, robbed of the right words.
"Just... please."
Then Zhan was sucking him.
Zhan, greedy on his knees, cheeks hollowed and tongue doing clever things - so many of them, more than Yibo knew how to feel - around the gorged-thick head of Yibo's cock.
Yibo tasted his cries rather than heard them, felt the scrape-raw sting at the back of his throat like he felt the curved smooth line of Zhan's jaw under his fingers. Zhan became all at once the hum of blood in his veins, the discordant pound of a pulse ringing in his ears that he couldn't be sure was his or Zhan's - maybe they were the same - as he dropped his head back and whimpered his approval at the ceiling like it could hear him.
Legs spread with wanton need, hips tilted glutinous and grasping, he couldn't-wouldn't-mustn't-wanted to thrust down the tight heat of Zhan's throat. Zhan's tongue, tipped with desire. found the twist-flare of veins standing sharp against the shaft of Yibo's cock, found the sensitive underside of the head that made him twitch against slick, wet heat. There was a hand against the swell of his balls, stroking soft and slicking against spit at the root of his cock and Yibo wondered - absent and gasping - if he might possibly be dying.
He arched his back, closed his eyes and gave himself purely to sensation, trusting suction and friction and hands that seemed to be everywhere all at once. There were nails scoring patterns into his thighs, a quick and clever tongue against his cock and delighted, snuffling moans that hummed through him like a symphony. Then, a finger, gentle and inquisitive, nudged soft as sunlight between his cheeks, enough to snap his eyes wide and uncertain to Zhan's.
