Summer
move move move.
They fucked in the summer nights where it was too hot anyway to even feel the temperatures rise, sweat glistening on their skins, the air too thick with deodorant and fruits to so much as hide oxygen in its midst. They didn't breathe, only exhaled, panted, gasped, moaned; they were oxygen and every other word on the Periodic Table of Elements.
They experimented and touched and kissed – oh, they kissed far too often to have ever counted and they'd tried, failed, tried again and failed again – and this had elevated into something more, something exciting, something that was only for them, not for anyone else. They didn't have to share these stolen moments where everything was nothing and gravity didn't exist.
They could feel something for once.
And as the shorter gripped blond straggles of hair, he pulled him down, locking the other in a bruising kiss that left them hungry, thirsty, needy. He whispered for him to move, to do something to give him friction because fucking hell his dick was right on his prostate, right on that fucking spot and just move move move.
His voice was lost in the summer heat, but he was feeling something.
He was finally feeling something.
They experimented and touched and kissed – oh, they kissed far too often to have ever counted and they'd tried, failed, tried again and failed again – and this had elevated into something more, something exciting, something that was only for them, not for anyone else. They didn't have to share these stolen moments where everything was nothing and gravity didn't exist.
They could feel something for once.
And as the shorter gripped blond straggles of hair, he pulled him down, locking the other in a bruising kiss that left them hungry, thirsty, needy. He whispered for him to move, to do something to give him friction because fucking hell his dick was right on his prostate, right on that fucking spot and just move move move.
His voice was lost in the summer heat, but he was feeling something.
He was finally feeling something.