Free Good Bones by Kim Fielding Page B

hard.
    Suddenly, Dylan wanted—no, needed —bare skin. He released Chris’s hair and pushed the overall straps down. Chris pulled slightly away, breaking the kiss, but only so he could work at the buttons of Dylan’s shirt. Arms tangled a bit in their sudden desperation, and one of Dylan’s buttons popped off, but soon the overalls were in a puddle at Chris’s feet, and Dylan’s shirt was tossed to the side and each of them was trying to tug a T-shirt over the other’s head.
    As soon as their torsos were bare, they were back against one another, chest to chest and lips to lips. Chris pulled at Dylan again, making sure there was enough space between Dylan and the wall for Chris’s hands to wander over his back and shoulders. His fingers were rough, the calluses dragging across skin in a way that made Dylan shiver. Dylan’s hands were just as busy. He slid his palms along smooth muscle and caressed shoulders. He made Chris shiver in turn when he ran his fingers firmly along the bony ridge of spine.
    Dylan buried his nose in Chris’s hair, inhaling deeply. He wondered vaguely if he could become drunk off the rich odors of drugstore soap and hard work and spicy meals, and a scent that spoke eloquently to him of Chris’s desire and need.
    When his hands moved down, squeezing an ass that was spectacular even in plain white briefs, Chris groaned, moved his head a little, and nibbled lightly at Dylan’s pebbled right nipple. Dylan gasped, and Chris raised his head, smirk in place but pupils wide. “C’mon,” he said. His voice was hoarse. He bent and pulled his overalls high enough so they weren’t hobbling him, and with his free hand he grabbed one of Dylan’s.
    Maybe Chris meant to take them to the bedroom, but they didn’t make it that far. They ended up against the back of the couch, those damn overalls back down around Chris’s ankles, Chris’s fingers fumbling at Dylan’s fly. Just that light pressure alone was almost enough to send Dylan over the edge. It had been a long while since anyone else had touched him.
    “God… Chris… please….” he panted.
    Chris chuckled throatily and pushed down Dylan’s jeans and boxers. Dylan squeezed his hands under the back waist of Chris’s briefs. They both moaned when he finally made contact with the ass he’d first admired from the window next door. Dylan squeezed hard, causing Chris to buck forward and press their cocks together, the already damp cotton of his underwear a maddening barrier.
    “Fucking gorgeous,” said Chris, flexing his butt in Dylan’s hands. “So goddamn hot even with that stupid caterpillar on your chin.”
    Dylan was lightheaded with the surfeit of sensation, but Chris’s gibe made him laugh, and he pulled one of his hands free to slap playfully at Chris’s rump. Chris laughed in return, then wiggled, making them both serious again: kissing, humping, breathing hard. Sweat gathered along Chris’s neck, and Dylan couldn’t help but lick it off. “You taste good.” Chris’s reply was just a rumble against Dylan’s chest.
    The fabric between them became too much, and Chris’s briefs were nearly torn as they both tugged them down. Chris’s chest was almost hairless, and only a soft line led from his navel to his groin, but the curls at the base of his cock were lush and thick, darker than the hair on his head. He had no tan lines—and didn’t seem the sort to hang out at SunsUp or Tan Republic—so his lovely light caramel coloring must have been natural. His cock was like the rest of him: not too long, but nice and thick. Dylan would have liked to admire it more closely, and he really wanted to bury his nose in those curls and between those solid thighs, but Chris was squeezing their dicks together, and it felt good.
    Very good, actually, especially when he gave his wrist a little twist and rubbed his broad thumb over the wet heads. Dylan’s hips bucked forward into the heat and pressure. “J-Jesus.”
    Chris braced himself