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They'd just had a second go -- a third, if you count the abortive handjob in the driveway when they got home, but Paul doesn't, really; not after this summer of sex and sweat and surprises, the air in Cavendish always heady with weed, John in his bed more often than he's out of it. John fucked Paul the first time, urgent and quick, and then Paul put John on his front and fucked him slow, slow, slow. Afterwards they lay there a while together, smoking, until John drew up one knee and Paul's come began to leak slowly out of him and Paul couldn't resist scooping it up with his fingers, pushing it back inside.
That was minutes ago, now. Minutes, and John had laughed at first and said really? But his laughter reverberated in an interesting way when Paul's fingers were in him, and so Paul pushed properly back inside him to find his prostate and John gasped when he did, and so they were at it again, really, really.
And God, Paul loves this. He can't stop doing it now he's begun, and how could anyone, seeing the way it gets John, how easy it is to make him sweat with want for you, just like this? Paul feels half-mad with power, utterly unhinged by how hot he finds it, rubbing John's prostate hard and slow with two fingers, relentless. Listening to John keen and swear and wail about it, telling Paul "fuck, you've got to stop" and "I can't take it" but still making no move at all to push Paul away, just writhing on his fingers while his thighs jerk wider and wider apart. Sex flush all down his lovely chest, nipples tight little buds. His cock's getting hard again despite his protests, so Paul just keeps working him, watching it curve up against his stomach. Paul's mouth is watering with the desire to suck on it, swallow him down, rub his tongue over the velvety foreskin and suck the salty precome taste off him.
He could do it. Fuck, he could just dip his head and rub his cheek against the stiff straining length of John, mouth at the shaft, tongue up the thin spool of precome that's pearling out of him. His jaw cramps with the urge, the memory and promise of how John would taste. But if he does that -- God, there's something about being able to see John like this, his chest heaving with his breaths as if he can barely stand to live through the pleasure. As if the only thing harder would be to tear himself away from it.
Paul takes in the gorgeous wreck of him in lush, greedy snatches: John's head tipped back, his long throat gleaming with new sweat, his narrow hips rolling. The tawny thatch of his pubic hair matted with his own come and Paul's, the smell of them mingled there together. Paul groans at the thought, pushes John's left thigh up and back with his free hand until he's almost folded in half. He can't resist, he's got to do it, got to feel the way John jerks against his tongue and hear the high sweet sound he makes when Paul traps him like that, between his mouth and his fingers.
"Oh, Jesus --" John's body jackknifes off the sweaty mess of the bed, his fingers fisting in the thick of Paul's hair. It hurts, a delicious tingle all over his scalp, down his spine, and Paul whimpers around him, laps greedily at the sticky head of his cock and then sinks down as far as he can go, wanting John in his mouth, in his throat, inside him. John's pubic hair bristles against his face, raw-smelling and soft, and Paul can't help put press his own hips against the bed, rolling his wrist to fuck John more firmly. The come's nearly all gone now but John's still slick from earlier, wet and clenching. Paul can hear the sound it makes, the addictive sucking squelch of it as he crams himself inside John. Rubbing the sweet little swollen place that's making John writhe like this, shudder like this, leak all over Paul's tongue like this.
"Fuck," John gets out, "fuck, would you just -- your cock, babe, give me your cock."
Paul pulls off reluctantly, his mouth feeling deliciously bruised. He sits up; John sits too, grabs at once for Paul's prick, thumbing at the leaking head of it. His hole is stretched open, enough that Paul can see the pink inside, and John tugs Paul closer with shaking hands, leading him, dragging him by his prick, Jesus. He rubs Paul against himself, then all but crams him into his hole and they both jerk and gasp with the pleasure of it, of coming together again, like they were made to be.
It's heaven, Paul thinks giddily, being inside John. This time, every time, the scalding heat of him and the suedey glide of his skin, the way he presses his ankle into Paul's thigh, the way he yields. Heaven, being within him and feeling the impossibility of ever being without him; and it's gorgeous too to have John in his mouth or in his arse but to have John like this, to be the man who can have John fucking Lennon shake apart on his cock -- there's every fucking deadly sin rolled up together in that, greed and gluttony and lust and, God, the pride.
"Fuck me," John's saying, "fuck me, fuck me, make me come," and Paul pounds into him like a man possessed, jagged thrusts of his hips, the sweat pouring off him. He scrabbles between them but John flicks his hand away, says "no, on your cock — Paul—”
"You're fucking gorgeous," Paul tells him, his voice wrecked and raw. His pulse is ringing in his ears. John's so hard he's scarlet with it, curved up against the shallow of his belly and leaking a little pool of precome there. Paul aches to touch it, to rub his thumb over John's little slit, to suck the come out of him at the source, but John wants to come on his cock and Paul wants to make him come and come and come until there's nothing else in his head but how good they are, the two of them together.
He can feel the sweat dripping into his eyes. He lowers his head, mouths at John's tight pink nipple and feels it all around him when John's cock catches sweetly on Paul's belly and John keens, bucks, his muscles beginning the familiar fluid milking motion around Paul inside him. "John," Paul gets out, a wrestle now to keep fucking into the clench of him, "John, come for me, love," and John comes like something volcanic.
It seems to go on for ages, John writhing and keening and rippling under him until he finally stills, boneless, trembling. His body doesn't seem to want to let Paul go, muscles clamped tight around Paul's cock. Paul rubs at John's thighs, his hips, until he seems to loosen all in one motion and Paul can withdraw, slow, careful. A rush of wetness follows him and he realises almost distantly that he must have come, somewhere in the middle of it all. An afterthought, really, to making John shake himself to pieces like this, again.
"Christ," John says, his voice a thread of a thing, "I think I'm hearing colours. You're gonna kill me."
His thighs are limply parted. Paul can see his hole still twitching, puffy and well-fucked. There's a dribble of Paul's come pulsing weakly out of it.
"I'm not," Paul says, and leans down to lick, kittenish at first and then more firmly, at the core of him; to feel John's body flutter wetly against his tongue. Again.