Page 50 of The Lipstick Flip

“I can check Marty’s room—” Noah began.

“No,” I said. And then, more gently, “No.”

I got on the bed behind him. I rubbed his lower back until Noah buried his face in the pillow again. The bedding rustled when I shifted my weight. The lid on the bottle of lube clicked when I opened it. I did myself first. And then, more carefully, I worked some into Noah. One finger. And then two, and Noah groaning. Three, and he moved one leg like he was twitching. Which, maybe he was. I was careful not to touch his spot until I bore down on it suddenly, hard, and Noah screamed.

I laughed. I shushed him. I did it again, and Noah’s hole gripped my fingers like a vise as he screamed a second time.

“There you go,” I said. “You’re all set.”

“Why are you so mean?” Noah mumbled around a mouthful of wet pillow.

“Because you like it, baby.”

And before he could argue with that, I pressed into him. Just the head, but that was enough. Noah tensed. I held myself still. Then I rubbed his back again, made gentle noises, waited. It took more willpower than I expected; it had been so long, and he was like velvet—this crushing velvet heat that I wanted to bury myself in.

“Okay,” Noah said. His throat sounded dry, and his fingers were curled into the mattress.

And that’s how we went. Another inch. Pause. Another inch. Pause. Until finally, I was settled inside him, and Noah’s back was arched, and he was panting into the pillow.

“Good job.” I palmed his hip, steadying him, holding him against me. “You took me so good, baby.”

“Fuck, you’re so big.” He sounded half-disbelieving, half-drunk.

In answer, I started to move. Slowly at first, because he was still getting used to me. But steady. Dragging him back by the hips. Forcing the angle of his body to shift. Listening for the shuddering, punched-out noise when my cock nailed that spot.

He didn’t loosen so much as…accept me.

And then I fucked him. Hard. Fast. Long strokes. Shallow ones, hammering his prostate. Then slow again, gathering him against me, his half-hard dick swinging against my hand.

The pillow muffled some of the sounds he made, but nowhere close to all of them, and one thing you could say about Noah: he never tried to hide who he was. He screamed. He moaned. He begged me, “Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” And when he started getting too mouthy, I’d rabbit-fuck his little spot until all he could do was open his mouth in an O and let out thin, breathy noises, head half-raised like he didn’t even know where he was.

It had been a long time, and I’d forgotten—or let myself forget, or wanted to forget—how different it was from jerking off with soap in the shower. Not just the feeling of him. Of being inside him. But knowing him. Hearing him. Changing one thing, and watching it ripple through his body. Changing another, and feeling him clench.

And all of a sudden, I wanted to look into his eyes.

I pulled out of him and cracked one hand across his ass. “Up.”

Noah rolled over. Even the low lighting couldn’t hide his flush, or the drool at the corner of his mouth, or the way sweat stuck some of his hair to his forehead. For a moment, he looked confused.

“Get up,” I told him, and I moved over to the window.

It was colder here, but I barely noticed because it was so fucking satisfying to see Noah climb out of bed and try to walk, his legs folding like he was a foal. He caught my look and laughed and said, “It’s not my fault! You broke me!”

“Hmm,” I said, and I gathered him in my arms and pushed him against the wall. A quick dip, arms hooked under his thighs, and I lifted him.

“Oh God, Howie,” he murmured.

“I got you,” I said, and to my surprise, it caught in my throat, like I was thirteen again.

The mechanics of it were simple: he was pinned between my cock and the wall. If you wanted to get technical, I guess between my arms and the wall. Like that hotel in Bali. I slid into him. The angle wasn’t as good for me as when I’d fucked him from behind, but to judge by the gargling noise Noah made, the way his head thumped against the wall, it was better for him. And right then, I wanted it to be good for him. I wanted it to be perfect.

Just like in Bali, he screamed. A lot.

I didn’t care. I was past caring. Fuck Jonathan. Fuck Tracy. Fuck Marty. Fuck all of them. For one night in his life, I wanted Noah to feel taken care of, valued, important. If the best way to do that was to core him out while he screamed his fucking brains out—well, I could do that.

The change happened so suddenly—and I was so caught up in the rhythm—that I didn’t even realize what was happening until Noah said, “Howie, oh fuck, oh fuck!” And then he groaned, and his feet curled. His dick, which had been half-hard and slapping against his stomach, twitched, and a fat glob of come landed on Noah’s belly. He groaned again, more deeply this time, and he bore down so hard it was like he was trying to push me out. Two more of those quarter-sized drops of come splashed onto his stomach, and he shuddered and breathed out funnily, and I realized he was coming.

It knocked me off the edge. I made a sound and started hammering into him. For a few seconds, that was all there was: my dick, the velvet of him, the friction between us.