Doves (Love in Los Angeles, #2)

4-2

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Alex shuts the door behind them and leans back against it.

Paul smiles at him. “You don’t usually ask. You just do. Or let me take.”

“Well, now I’m asking. What do you want?” Alex repeats.

“Everything,” Paul breathes.

“Not helpful,” Alex says. But he doesn’t mind.

He winds up n***d on the bed, knees tucked under him as Paul eats his a*s forever, before deciding to f**k him. It’s incredibly excellent. Alex is so damn glad they’ve done the whole testing thing and can skip the condoms and get right to the f*****g. He feels amazing as Paul finally pushes his c**k all the way into him, pulls back, and thrusts. Alex moans, probably louder than he should, just before the headboard slams into the wall.

“Oh s**t,” Paul half laughs against his back.

“Terrible choices,” Alex manages. He’s a little tipsy and a lot giddy. Apparently Paul is too because he goes for it, thrusting several more times and causing several more loud collisions of the bed and the wall. Laughing, Alex has to tell him to stop.

“We deserve to celebrate,” Paul says even as he pulls out of Alex. He drags him into the center of the bed, turning him as he goes.

It’s a decent idea — Alex sideways over the edge and Paul standing. Their momentum doesn’t rock the bed into the wall this way, but the creaking is epic and the angle is bad. Eventually they wind up on the floor, laughing until Paul grabs Alex’s hips hard.

Alex whines when Paul gets distracted by how quickly he can raise marks on his skin. He just wants to get f****d. Paul always, always wants to play first, whether it’s to tease or paint him with scratches and even the faint bruises of his fingers. Alex doesn’t mind — it feels amazing. He’s grateful his skin is fragile enough to lead Paul into this thing and also, it seems, to stop him from ever going too far with it. Paul has never hurt him in a way he doesn’t like.

But Alex has been made impatient as much or more than he’s been designed to bruise, and oh, he loves Paul, but he is infuriating. Eventually, after he’s begged enough, Paul grabs him by the hips as if they were grooved to his fingers and f***s into him from behind. Alex pants against the floorboards, ancient and smooth under his cheek.

When he comes, loose-limbed and messy across the floor and the edge of a knotted rag rug, it feels like an offering to the house.

“That’s going to be awkward tomorrow,” Alex manages once they find their way off the floor. It’s dangerously tempting to drag the duvet off the bed and sleep there. Paul laughs as he cleans them up.

“I don’t think I care.” Paul frowns a little at the marks he’s left. They both know those are more likely to deepen than fade with the day to come.

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