Doves (Love in Los Angeles, #2)

2-2

THE BED’S NARROWER than what they have at home, and in the dark they’re unavoidably pressed up against each other. In the southern spring night it’s warm enough to be uncomfortable. Alex is just drifting off to sleep, finally, when Paul wanders a hand up his bare leg.

“Seriously?” Alex asks. He’s hot and tired, and even if he weren’t, they’d still be in Paul’s mother’s house. These walls aren’t thick at all.

Paul hesitates but only a little. “Too long a day?”

“Too shared a roof.”

“You can be quiet.”

“Paul.”

“Tell me no,” Paul says.

“No.” Alex is already getting hard. He’s never been able to resist Paul. Or ever wanted to.

“Gonna be a long week,” Paul points out.

Trust Paul to misunderstand. “I meant no, I’m not going to tell you no.”

“Oh thank God.” Paul has his hand around Alex’s d**k before he even finishes the phrase.

Despite his own objections about noise, Alex mewls as Paul starts to jerk him off. Embarrassed, he bites at the heel of his hand to stay quiet.

“No,” Paul says gently. His free hand pulls Alex’s away from his mouth and presses it up to the old wrought iron headboard. “Hold on, don’t move, both hands.”

Alex slides his other hand up his body to grab onto the headboard. He wants to tell Paul that he’s being absurd, but Paul’s hand on him — too steady, too slow — feels too amazing for him to be able to find any words. Whatever it is that he and Paul bring out in each other always seems to work exactly as it should.

He whimpers again. Paul shushes him.

“This isn’t for you. This is for me,” he reminds Alex. “And I want you to be quiet so I can hear you struggle.”

The idea should piss Alex off, but it just turns him on more. He presses his eyes shut, panting and whispering “Please,” over and over again. Paul admonishes him with shushing noises and the occasional slowing of the hand on his c**k. Whatever this started as, it’s rapidly getting edgier than what they usually do. Alex doesn’t want it to stop. He arches and squirms on the bed.

“So f*****g needy,” Paul tells him. Alex is distantly aware that the bed creaks. Why did he think a h*****b would be quieter than anything else?

“What if I just stopped?” Paul asks.

The thought is terrible. If Paul stops, he might actually explode. So Alex begs even harder.

* * *

* * * *

ALEX COMES ABRUPTLY and with little warning. He rides the o****m out in Paul’s slick hand, and the second he’s done he’s on his knees, rubbing Paul’s d**k across his face before sucking it into his mouth.

Paul’s never been with anyone who stays down in the moment of s*x quite the way Alex does. For most people, an o****m breaks the spell, but Alex just doesn’t seem to be wired like that. He goes somewhere small and obedient and doesn’t always want to come back. Sometimes it’s glorious. Sometimes it’s concerning. Usually, it’s a little bit of both.

“Holy s**t,” Paul says, not quiet at all. The words break the madness of what they’re doing a little, and Alex laughs with his mouth full. Paul joins him until he’s too overwhelmed by sensation to do anything other than grip Alex’s hair too tightly and pant as he f***s up into his mouth.

When Paul comes — it doesn’t take him long at all — Alex flops back onto the bed, his temple pressed to Paul’s hip bone.

“So, I’m thinking we really need to practice this quiet thing,” he says.