Free Bombora by Mal Peters

pressure build again in my belly, this time with more intensity, more fire. From up here I could aim for the place inside I knew would make Phel see stars, and sure enough he bucked into my thrusts with his back arched beneath me and his lips bitten almost bloody. No one’s ever crooned my name that sweetly, not before Phel, not since. His hand went to his cock like a magnet and started to move up and down in firm strokes, more pornographic and gorgeous than anything I’d seen before. A second before he tensed and started to shoot, wet heat spattering between our stomachs, my knees buckled with the strength of my own orgasm and sent me pitching forward onto Phelan’s chest. The aftershocks left us both twitching, breathing hard, and for a few minutes I was incredibly grateful he wasn’t complaining about being crushed.
    I rolled off and onto my side next to him, both of us gawking like newborns, sweaty and flushed and out of breath. Without saying a word, we reached out and pulled each other close, our mouths meeting with such a depth of emotion, overwhelmed and overwhelming, that I felt a sharp pain in my chest like I’d impaled myself on a piece of broken glass. Whatever had just happened, however irrevocably changed I was by the encounter, one thing I knew was I didn’t want to move or get up or do anything that might constitute leaving Phel’s side. So I didn’t. I didn’t leave his apartment that whole weekend; I didn’t leave him for a year.
    Sighing at the memory, I reach into my jeans to adjust myself—just thinking about Phel in the throes of ecstasy is enough to get me hard, and I’m already feeling light-headed thanks to his surprise appearance—and a slow shudder runs through me at the touch of my own hand. I pause, wishing to high hell it could be his fingers gripping me tight, his fist starting to slowly stroke me, adding the gradual intensity he knows I like. With my other hand, I pop the button on my jeans and then slide the zipper down to give myself more room. There’s no one around to see, but I’m suddenly so desperate to come it wouldn’t matter if there was. It’s been so long since I last saw Phel or was able to touch or feel or smell him after a year of craving him like a drug. Whatever’s happened, I still need him, still want him, still love him. If only I hadn’t fucked it up, he could see what the thought of him alone does to me now.
    I slouch back until my shoulders hit the wall, rolling my head against the warm brick of Hugh’s house, feeling sunlight and sea air and the heat of my palm and fingers growing slick with precome, as wet as if Phel were standing in front of me, naked. Every ridge and curve of his body is clear to me as day, the smell of him lingering, the way his face and chest flush red when he gets close to orgasm. My own is within sight, within reach, and biting my lip, I increase the force and speed of my strokes, my breath ragged and loud in the quiet. I let my other hand slide beneath my T-shirt to drag across my stomach, imagining it’s Phel pushing me to the brink the way I’ve imagined it a thousand times since he left.
    The orgasm hits and I stagger into it with a grunt, half-startled by the spurt of come onto my hand and stomach, hot against my skin. For a few seconds I can do nothing but slump uselessly and ride out the aftershocks, face flushed with embarrassment that I let myself get so carried away. I get a glimpse of Phel for three freaking minutes and this is the result. I’m so fucked. It’s worse than the state I was in after we first met, the frantic need that drove me back to Columbus a week later so I could sit on Phel’s stoop like a homeless dog, waiting until he came home and I could see him again. I had it bad then, and I’ve got it bad now.
    The scent of come hits my nose and I grimace slightly, retreating to the en suite bathroom so I can make myself presentable. I’m sure Hugh has already started to wonder what the hell is keeping