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DING!

Christopher and Matt tumble out of the elevator, laughing and kissing, hands all over each other as they stumble toward the penthouse door. When they reach it, Christopher quickly pats himself down for his keys. A second, less, hasty search turns up nothing, as well.

“Fuck, I think I lost the keys on the roof,” he breathes in Matt’s ear before biting the lobe and laving it. Matt chuckles, one hand scratching through the short hair at Christopher’s nape, the other rubbing torturously at the bulge behind Christopher’s fly.

“No, you didn’t.” Matt’s hand leaves Christopher’s nape, then reappears seconds later, pressing something cool, metal, and jingly into Christopher’s hand. As for Matt’s other hand, it rubs harder and slower, the friction of the denim rubbing against his cock threatening to drive Christopher insane. “Well, you did, but luckily I saw when you dropped them and picked them up.”

Christopher—far from sober, but not so far that he can’t play ball—giggles as Matt pushes him against the door and begins grinding against him and nuzzling his neck. It’s all so bright and shiny and perfect. . . .

I want to spend the rest of my life like this. With him, just like this, Christopher thinks hazily. Though, in a bed, rather than in the hallway just off the elevator.

Giggling again, Christopher catches Matt’s lips in a kiss that’s meant to be teasing and brief, but is, in fact, rather breathtaking and long. Matt’s hands settle on Christopher’s hips, pulling them flush against his own.

“I want you so bad,” Matt whispers into the kiss.

“Well, one of us is gonna have to unlock the door before we can go too much further. . . .”

“Hmm . . . I nominate you.” Matt works his hands down the back of Christopher’s skinny jeans to palm the cheeks of his behind.

“Gee—oh, fuck—thanks,” Christopher shivers as Matt’s fingers slide inward ever so slightly, and he drops the keys. Apparently for the second time that night. “You’re not making it easy for me to focus, here.”

“Sorry, baby, but making it easy for you to focus isn’t part of my job description.”

“It isn’t, hunh?” Christopher, with a herculean effort, pulls out of Matt’s arms, then nearly falls over when darting down to pick up the twice-dropped keys. Matt’s quick reflexes save him from a face-plant.

“You’re a calamity,” Matt says tenderly, chuckling again, as he pulls a once more giggling Christopher upright. Christopher holds up his left hand.

“A calamity? Perhaps. But I got the keys.”

“Then what’re we still doing outside?” Matt, laughing, turns Christopher to face the door, pressing his own body close against Christopher’s back. “C’mon, baby, let Matt take care of you.”

Christopher moans at the images that thought conjures up . . . all the ways Matt has of taking care of him. Such good care. . . .

He braces his arms to either side of the door and bows his back, grinding against Matt, wondering, not for the first time, but perhaps for the longest time—as Matt returns each grind with a forceful, hard one of his own—what it would be like to be on the receiving end of a good, old-fashioned, epic, no-holds-barred screw.

It’s something Christopher’s done hundreds of times as the pitcher—and that’s just with Matt—but never once as the catcher. . . .

Maybe . . . maybe now that I’m actually with a guy who could probably make it as good as advertised, maybe . . . maybe I could try it, someday soon. If my guy is up for it. . . .

Would he be up for it? I mean, what if Matt’s got no interest in pitching at all? What if—

Then Christopher has the door open, and is pin-wheeling his arms to keep from falling in, only realizing at the last moment, that Matt’s still got hold of him and, laughing, is once more saving him from the most gnarliest of face-plants.

*

“Christopher. . . .”

Matt arches up off the bed slightly, into Christopher’s warm, wet, willing mouth. His hands clench in the sheets as Christopher brings his agile tongue into play and hums around him.

Christopher’s got an agenda. He wants his lover as hard as he can get him.

He gently soothes Matt’s inner left thigh and stomach, respectively, but Matt moans, nonetheless, his hand running through Christopher’s hair. “Oh, Christopher . . . I love you. . . .”

Christopher swallows around Matt several times, till Matt's making breathless, high-pitched noises in the back of his throat. Then he carefully pulls off, kissing the tip of Matt’s cock again and running his tongue across the slit because it makes Matt shiver, every time. “I love you, too, baby . . . so much. Hey, I was thinking . . . would you maybe like to . . . switch it up tonight?”

Still shivering, Matt looks down at Christopher, his gaze both heated and puzzled. “Switch what up?”

Christopher blushes, and looks down at Matt's prick, bobbing in the air. It looks enormous. Hazardously so, and yet . . . Christopher wants it. Any way he can get it. “I mean you . . . inside me,” he says lightly, meeting Matt’s light-blue eyes, though it’s tough to do so. To keep his own stance as casual as possible so Matt can feel free to say no, but to be sincere enough that Matt knows that this is something he really wants.

Eyes saucer-wide, Matt sits up on his elbows. “I . . . thought you only topped?” he says, breathlessly and Christopher laughs a little, still blushing, and looking away at last.

“So did I.” He wraps his hand around Matt's prick and strokes it till Matt's quick breathing has become erratic panting. “I've never bottomed for anyone. Never really felt comfortable with even the idea of doing it, no matter how curious I was. Never thought I could . . . be with someone that way. Until now.” Meeting Matt's eyes again, he smiles almost shyly. “Until you.”

Matt sits up all the way and cups Christopher's face in his hands. “It’s, uh . . . it’s been a while since I topped.” He bites his lip again, then laughs nervously. “God, talk about something you didn't know you wanted until you suddenly got it.”

He brushes his thumb across Christopher's lips then kisses them, wrapping his arms around Christopher’s neck and pulling his lover close. “We'll take it slow, and I'll make it good for you,” he promises, and Christopher nods, swallowing. He’s so far beyond excited that he’s almost numb. He simply can’t believe that he’s getting something he’s been wanting for, in all honesty, years.

He simply can’t believe that he’s found someone he trusts enough to give himself to in this way.

“How, uh . . . how do you want me?” he asks, rather nervous, himself. Matt's smile is simultaneously gentle and ravenous as he studies Christopher.

“Any way I can have you, Christopher Bosch,” he replies, then kisses Christopher again: a quick teasing affair that promises many things, all of them wicked. “But I think for now, I want you on your stomach.”

“Right.” Christopher nods again, still anxious, but hard also. He crawls up the bed and lays down, arms pillowing his face and spreads his legs wide. He feels exposed, even under Matt's loving gaze, but manages to lay still.

Then Matt kneels between his thighs and kisses the center of Christopher's back, down to the small. His hands push Christopher's legs wider, then spread his cheeks apart. After nearly an eternity of gazing, his breath, warm and moist, ghosts across Christopher's entrance. Christopher gasps and shivers.

“I'm gonna make this so good for you,” Matt whispers, kissing the tight, twitching opening, flicking his tongue across it repeatedly before darting it in.

Christopher makes a sound that he's never made before, high and stuttered, and his eyes flutter shut. His hands clench in the pillow and his body slowly begins to relax. Before long, he's humping the bed, sighing yes, and pleading for more. He's not quite cogent enough at the moment to know what that more would be, just that he needs it.

Matt kisses his right cheek, then his left. Then he sits up, one hand on Christopher's thigh, only to lean back down a second later. He runs one gel-cool finger down Christopher's back, to his behind, to gently brush Christopher's opening, circling and circling, till Christopher’s groaning and spreading his legs wider.

“Matt—” Christopher chokes out, arms pillowed under his head. He bites his wrist, hoping the discomfort will leaven some of the intense pleasure. But, if anything, that only seems to heighten it.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you, Christopher,” Matt promises, pressing his finger against Christopher in a way that only makes him harder and more desperate. Matt teasingly traces a path from Christopher's entrance, down to his perineum, to his balls, before disappearing entirely. Then Matt’s leaning closer to kiss Christopher’s shoulder, then his neck, then his earlobe.

Then Matt's finger is backtracking the path it took, till it's circling Christopher's hole, feinting in, but never quite breaching the first muscle.

“Please,” Christopher breathes shakily, dying from anticipation, even as he’s shaking from anxiety. “God, Matt . . . please. . . .”

Matt leans down and kisses Christopher's spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, then slowly, s l o w l y pushes his finger in. Christopher cries out, unused to the stretch and burn of it, but clenching down on Matt's finger anyway, wanting more of the unique and unfamiliar sensation of being filled.

“God, Christopher, you're so tight,” Matt's murmuring against Christopher's hip, twisting his finger and searching, searching. When he finds what he's looking for, Christopher cries out again in a raw, hoarse voice. “So tight and so hot.”

Writhing on the bed, now, Christopher sees colors and explosions on the backs of his eyes that make the Independence Day fireworks, as viewed from the roof last night, seem like the puny, contrived show that it was. This, right here and now, is the main event.

Matt's finger withdraws and thrusts back in, unerringly going to Christopher's prostate again, and he wails.

This goes on for another few minutes, till Christopher's begging Matt to please, please. And Matt, swearing and dragging his own turgid cock up Christopher's thigh, adds a second finger. The burn is even more intense, the stretch more pronounced, the filled-sensation increased by one thousand percent. Tears are leaking out of Christopher's eyes, and he pushes back onto Matt's fingers hard, grunting when they're as deep as he can get them.

“Greedy,” Matt tsks playfully, scissoring his fingers gently, brushing Christopher's prostate in a way that sends echoes of pleasure rippling all throughout his body. Christopher sighs, bearing down again on Matt's fingers.

“Fuck me, Matt,” he says, his voice cracking with frustration and desperation.

“You're not ready, babe. I don't think I could, just yet, without . . . without hurting you.” Matt groans impatiently. “Maybe in a few minutes. . . .”

But Christopher's scrambling up onto his hands and knees. Carefully, so as not to dislodge Matt's working fingers. He hangs his head and opens his eyes to see the blurry white of pillow and sheet. “I'm ready, Matt. Promise. I need you.”

“Fuck,” Matt exhales when Christopher pushes back against his hand once more and clenches as tight as he possibly can. “Okay. Okay. But you've gotta let me go slow. So I don't hurt you and so I don't come when I'm half-way in you. Deal?”

“Deal,” Christopher's quick to say, glancing over his shoulder as sweat drips in his eyes. Behind him, Matt's got the lube again and is slathering it on his cock. Then he looks at Christopher and smiles. He gets to his knees, putting one hand on Christopher's hip, the other still spreading lube with a sustained stroke. From this angle, to Christopher, Matt’s cock once again looks massive.

Matt kisses Christopher's back once more, lingering and reassuring. “I love you.”

Poised, now, at the edge of something he’s wanted for so long, Christopher feels a frisson of fear: fear that it will hurt as much as he thinks it will, or perhaps even worse; fear that he won’t like it at all . . . that taking cock is just something he may never get the hang of or develop a liking for; and fear, finally, that beyond the initial pain and fear, the initial strangeness of having another man’s cock inside him—even if that man is Matt—he will love this act. That he will wonder at all the time wasted when he could have been enjoying Matt making love to him in a way that maybe doesn’t come naturally to Christopher, at least right off . . . but which, when cultivated, may come to fit him perfectly.

My greatest fear, he realizes, not without some irony, is that I’ll love this. And let’s face it, since it’s Matt—me and Matt—how could I not love it?

Christopher turns his head back toward the headboard, taking deep breaths and trying to make his body as loose as he can. “I love you, too, baby.”

Matt lines himself up with care, till the tip of his cock is resting against Christopher's opening, hard and heavy with promise. “Here goes.” He slowly, v e r y slowly, pushes forward. . . .

The pain is, for that first few moments, incredible. It literally forces all the breath out of Christopher's body. Then Matt's hands are soothing up and down his back, and Matt's begging him to relax, baby, please, relax . . . let me in.

So Christopher tries to relax into the burn and stretch of it. Into that sensation of being filled that he'd enjoyed so much before, when it was Matt's fingers.

After all, those fingers had been preparing him for exactly this.

And Matt, true to his word, moves as slowly and carefully as possible, murmuring his love and complimenting Christopher till, at long last, he's fully sheathed in Christopher's shaking body. Christopher's panting and moaning, trying and failing to draw deep enough breaths, and Matt's hands leave his hips to rub his back again.

“You're doing great, Christopher . . . so good. . . .” one hand slips from Christopher's back to reach around for his semi-wilted prick. Matt takes it in hand and strokes it slow and sweet, his thumb alternately swiping the wet tip. He swivels his hips carefully, pulling out slightly to ease back in, obviously searching for Christopher's prostate again.

Christopher's covered in sweat, now, and can barely see for it dripping in his eyes. But he doesn't need to see to know he's starting to get hard again. Or to know when the head of Matt's prick finds his prostate. Every muscle in his body bears down on Matt's prick and his own suddenly perks up rather dramatically. Matt goes still behind and inside him.

“Fuck—Christopher, are you okay? Did I . . . did I hurt you?”

“Do that again?” Christopher begs. “For fuck’s sake, do that again, Matt!”

This time, Matt pulls out almost all the way then thrusts back in, not so slowly. He nails Christopher's prostate hard, and Christopher wails again, this mixture of pain and pleasure nearly unbearable. And Matt's hand keeps up that perfect stroke-swipe combination.

“More,” Christopher demands, understanding, finally, what that more is. What it's always been. He pushes back against Matt, one hand leaving the bed to reach back for Matt's. A moment later, their fingers link together.

“I love you so much, baby,” Matt whispers, leaning down to lick Christopher’s earlobe before pulling out entirely. Christopher buries his face in the pillow and braces himself by grasping the headboard and making his body as pliant as possible.

Just in time for Matt to give him more.

END