“You’re beautiful,” Jory said softly, and it made Mal’s heart hurt, so he kissed Jory silent, ate his words and was still hungry for more.
Lips were good, yeah, were fucking fantastic, but there were many other parts of Jory he needed to taste, so Mal swirled his tongue one last time around Jory’s mouth and then moved down to bite at his neck. Jory bucked up, groaning. And that was, fuck, that had to be the best positive reinforcement in the world, so Mal switched to sucking, right down low by Jory’s collarbone, where Jory would be able to hide the mark for work. He was considerate that way, Mal was.
Then he moved straight on down to Jory’s chest, because he could be a selfish bastard too, and he’d been gagging to taste one of those rosy red nipples. And jeez, that was good, all hard under his tongue, just asking to be bitten, like the little tart it was. So Mal bit it, just a gentle nip, then he moved on to the other one. And Jory was gasping and groaning, and his hands were all over Mal, stroking and squeezing, as if Mal was a juicy piece of fruit on a market stall. It was so fucking awesome, and he’d known it—he’d known him and Jory would be perfect together—so why the fuck hadn’t they done this before?
And okay, maybe he skimped a bit on the rest of Jory as he kissed his way down the treasure trail, but Christ, who could blame him? The first taste of Jory’s dick was . . . It was like being plunged into the sea, held underwater until you turned half fish and learned how to breathe down there. It was like seeing colour for the first time, or the piercing bright dawn after working a night shift underground. Too much, far too much—but you still wanted it. Needed it. Mal swirled his tongue around the head because, God, he had to taste it all.
Jory swore, the words all choked up in a sob, and it went straight to Mal’s dick, which was just hanging in midair, untouched. And that was a fucking tragedy. Mal shifted position until he was lying on Jory, humping his leg like a husky in heat, his mouth still on that gorgeous cock. Jory’s balls fit in his hand as if they’d been made to measure, and he rolled them and tugged on them as he carried on sucking.
“Oh God,” Jory gasped. “Going to—” He tried to push Mal’s head off his dick, but fuck that for a game of soldiers. Mal held on tight as jet after jet of hot spunk hit the back of his throat, making him gag and swallow. Christ, that was magic.
Mal’s eyes were watering by the time he finally let Jory push him away with shaking hands.
Jory’s chest was heaving, his eyes glazed. “God . . . That. You.”
Sitting back up on his knees, still straddling Jory’s legs, Mal grinned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh yeah.” He grabbed hold of his dick and started stroking it, slower than he needed, just enough to keep himself on the edge. “You ready for this? Gonna paint you all over.”
Jory actually, honest to God, shuddered. And, like, not in a bad way, at least not judging from how his hands tightened on Mal’s knees, which were the only bits of him Jory could reach.
Mal sped up his hand, jerking himself off for real now, drinking in the sight of Jory laid out beneath him, all sweat-slick and sex-drunk. He was so beautiful it hurt. “Gonna mess you up, make you so fucking filthy . . .” It ended in a drawn-out groan as he shot his load, streams of jizz jetting out and landing in streaks on Jory’s chest and, fuck, yeah, on his face too. Christ, that made an awesome picture. Mal was going to remember that till the day he died. Like Jory was Mal’s, all his, marked up so no one else would dare to touch him.
He collapsed down by Jory’s side, breathing hard, then grabbed Jory and pulled him in for a quick, hard kiss that smeared spunk from Jory’s beard all over Mal’s chin.
If he hadn’t just had sex, he’d think that was well gross . . .
Shit. He’d just had sex. With Jory.
Mal scrambled to his feet and pulled on his jeans, his fingers clumsy. That had been . . . And Jory’s face . . .
Sitting up and wiping himself down with one of the paper napkins he’d brought with the sandwiches, Jory was smiling like he’d won the bloody lottery. “That was amazing. I knew we’d . . . Listen, I want you to come back to Roscarrock House with me. Meet Bran and Bea. Once they know we’re together—”
“Whoa, hey, hold on, mate.” Mal’s mouth was dry, but he had to shut Jory up, he had to, cos every word was like a knife between his ribs. He wished so fucking hard he could be like Jory, could believe this would all end up in happy-ever-after land, but he couldn’t.
His stomach was twisted up in knots, and his chest felt bruised inside, like he’d eaten a dodgy curry and come down with pneumonia all at once. Or like that time the dickhead who’d picked on him all through primary school had seen Mal in the park holding hands with another lad, and barged in with his mates to give them both a kicking.
It was all going wrong. It was only supposed to be a shag. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
He hadn’t wanted things to change between them. Being mates with Jory, that was good—but he couldn’t let himself hope for more. He couldn’t. “Look, it was great, but it’s just . . . I mean, I’m only here
