HT100 #6 -- Free-for-all: Between the bars
My hand brushes his thigh and I see his defenses crumble; he grabs my wrist, leading me outside. A few steps and he’s pushed me against the wall, the smell of smoke still heavy around us as he slips his hand inside my jeans, rough, urgent strokes, earlier hints of uncertainty gone, and I think I must bring it out in him, this trembling confidence. He shudders behind me, fumbling with his own jeans, and then he’s inside me, his fingers entwining with mine, gentleness belying our need. On every thrust he exhales my name against my neck, and all I feel is him, all I hear is "Chris... Chris."