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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He groaned and writhed, straining up on those legs wrapped around milk-pale hips, he begged with all that he had, with grasping hands and gasping lungs, with greedy thighs and hungry hips. He gazed up and hoped his eyes could articulate what his foolish lips had no hope of doing; he wanted it all, wanted the heated-hard press of Zhan inside of him like shining perfection.
Zhan knew. It was there in the curve of his smirk, in the glitter-glow of riptide eyes under dark lashes, in the ravening sink of nails into Yibo's thighs and the glutinous grasp of his fingers deep inside. Yibo moaned his name as he begged without articulation, as Zhan soothed him soft with a hand that stroked and cupped the stubbled line of his jaw, tilted his chin so he could capture his lips like stolen riches.
"More,"
he whispered against soft lips, hole twitching around the push of Zhan's fingers.
"Please."
Zhan nodded, and fumbled for something, the distant rip of foiled plastic and slick of lubed latex heralding him rolling to his knees, securing a condom with care. Another slide of his slippery palm against his cock and then he was back between Yibo's spread thighs - caught high on his waist - kissing desperate desire into the golden hollow of his throat where sweat beaded and rolled sharp with salt that glazed his lips as they sunk into another frantic kiss.
Then came the blunted push of Zhan's cock against his hole, the tingling way it pressed him open, just a fraction, just testing pressure that hinted at more, at blissful fullness that would empty his mind of anything but throbbing nerves and base urges. He nodded frantic approval into Zhan's neck, into the tendrils of hair that caught like twisted vines against the damp heat of his skin, hissed his fevered pleas into the scent of cologne and sweat but Zhan paused. He slipped an arm under Yibo's back with tender care, cradled him close and brought the salt-misted press of their foreheads to rest together. Eyes and lips separated by millimetres, tender fondness written soft and easy across his features as he smiled lazily.
"Put your arm around me,"
he whispered. Yibo obeyed, mirroring his action and sliding his arm under Zhan's, hooked around his back with a hand anchored firm to his shoulder.
"Good. Take my hand,"
Yibo did, free hand groping for Zhan's, fingers laced as Theo pressed them back into the pillow by his head, a wondrous parody of a waltz,
"Okay. We stop if you need to, alright? Just... Let me make you feel good."
Yibo nodded, breathless, as he pressed forward. Just the thick flare of the crown of his cock breaching muscle intent on expelling him. Just the burn of the tip - always hurt the most - he just needed to breath deep and slow, to kiss the pain to pleasure into plush, plump lips in the most delicious petal-soft pout. He scraped into the tender stretch of Zhan's shoulder, until he was sure there must be curls of white caught under his nails and tracks of ruby scored into Zhan's skin. But he nodded again at Zhan's whisper-hushed question, breathed his answer into his mouth around the plunder of his tongue.
More.
Hips drawn up and back arched in a plea, he welcomed each burning inch as Zhan sunk into him. It felt good to be filled to bursting, that hard swell of engorged flesh sliding slick against him. It lasted forever, that first slow thrust, a lifetime, eternity and more, like Zhan had been sliding inside of him since time began, since the universe exploded to life from nothing but a spray of atoms and heat.
Zhan stilled, the line of his groin flush to the curve of Yibo's ass, carved of the same, perfect and pure, a masterpiece of sweat and blood and blissful need. Zhan waited, still and sure, thumb scoring gentle circles against Yibo's hand for that moment, that split second when everything gave and softened, for the beat of time when Yibo surrendered to him. Their mouths met, sweet and tasting, tongues a flicker against one another and then, with careful deliberation, Zhan began to move. He started slowly, a gentle roll of his hips, enough to make Yibo cry out into his mouth as neglected nerve endings fired into glorious, shuddering life.
It was unfamiliar at first, that strange press and stretch of pressure and fullness filling him with fire, enough to keep his fingers squeezed hard around Zhan's. Enough to make him keen and whine and thrash as Zhan rolled and rocked and worked his hips like waves. His cock was caught between them, tender tip slick with precum and rubbed to hypersensitivity against the bristle of hair on Zhan's stomach, each push and rub a revelation of exploding technicolour.
Yibo groaned words that didn't make sense, nonsense laced with Zhan's name as the solid heat of Zhan's thick, gorgeous cock found that bundled epicentre of pleasure that hummed inside of him. White hot searing sensation crackled like static and tore him apart. He needed to touch his cock, the throb of it insistent between them, needed Zhan to touch him and shoved their laced hands down, wrapped them around his shaft together and tugged and stroked, guided Zhan's palm to just the right rhythm and pressure. Zhan moaned, something barely intelligible, some fleeting declaration lost on honeyed lips that scraped raw and needing against the exposed column of Yibo's throat.
He grasped up with a greedy mouth, found the velvet tag of Zhan's earlobe and bit down softly, pulled back to whisper filth of the next times, of the times before that hadn't happened but should have, of the moments that would come. He murmured it without thinking, driven entirely by the sensation of being utterly filled, contained and surrounded by the scent, the push-pull, the essence of Zhan. He urged Zhan to stroke him raw, to trace the pad of his thumb against the delicate crown of his cock, leaking a steady stream of need that salted their skin. Zhan seemed to give, something inside of him snapping with his hips, eyes flooding dark and desperate as he fucked into Yibo with wanting little grunts. He jerked the dark length of Yibo's prick, stroked him insensible with stuttering need that stammered over his lips as sticky syllables that seemed to catch thick in his throat. They moved together, perfectly synced and wanting, feeding the heated glow of need that stoked fire in their bellies because Yibo was sure - undeniably and blissfully sure - that Zhan could feel it just as he could, deep and resonate and humming on blood cells from a single, syncopated heartbeat that they shared. He swore their lungs rose and fell to the same stuttered breaths gasped from desperate mouths, to share recycled oxygen, hot and stale but perfect between them.
He felt all of this and more as the tight coil of heat low in his groin spread and rolled and powered through him in choppy waves. He felt each shuddering twitch of individual muscles as his cock throbbed in their joined hands, as the first powerful pulse began and come ribboned - hot, pearl-shine and gossamer spun - from the head of his cock. There was the rip and tear of his seams, the tilt and twirl of the very earth beneath them as it juddered on its axis for it must have done - it must - there was no other explanation. He bit his ecstasy - each shuddering shake and pulsing throb of his heart that beat down into his cock and, he was certain, through Zhan's palm to thrum through him mirrored and perfect - into the softness of Zhan's chest. He tasted salt and skin and something unidentifiably perfect as his very being shivered like shock. He felt everything and nothing, tasted, smelled, knew, and he swore he saw other worlds crashing to ruins at the blissful apex of his undoing.
Everything came back in stages. The rush of hard breathing and trickle of sweat against his skin. The hand still caught with his, slicked with come and the bitter bleach smell of it, the musk of skin and sex as thick in the air as if they were submerged in it. The tremble of Zhan against him suggested he'd fallen apart with Yibo. He was sorry he'd missed it, missed the chance to watch him come undone but took the moment to press a kiss, almost comically chaste, to the fuck-flush of his lips. Zhan sighed - exaggerated, cheeks blown and eyes wide - whispered something delirious about showers then collapsed to the mattress at Yibo's side with a giggle.
They kissed, oh how they kissed, testing the press of lips and tongues, the twine of hands into hair and palms skimming soft against sweat-glow skin. A hand slipped deft between his legs, found the limp, sticky curve of his cock and began to stroke, quick and clever.
Yibo groaned appreciation into that soft mouth. There were hours before the reality of daylight would steal the holiday magic from their night. He could fill them with sweat and need and Zhan, of that much he was sure.
