Candy Boys (Hot Candy 1)

Time for damage control. Clean up, get her scent—both their scents—off me, and go running. Clear my head.

“You okay, mate?” Jet asks me. He’s studying me, a crease between his brows.

“Fine. How about you?” I zip up my pants and shove to my feet. His cum is stuck to my torso. I grab my T-shirt and wipe my chest down.

“I’m good.”

I acknowledge his answer with a brief dip of my chin and sidestep him to head to the bathroom.

“Dammit, J.” He grips my forearm, and I shake it off. He grabs it again, grinding my bones together. His eyes flash with anger. “She may be in shock, although she said she wanted it—but you don’t get to freak out on me, too, okay? We talked about this. You said you wanted it. Hell, you were the one who walked in there and started it.”

“And now I’m finishing it.” I clench the hand he’s holding into a fist. “This isn’t the same as watching a vid together, jerking off together. I can’t fucking do it.”

“But you just did. And came. Fucking hard.”

He’s right. Hell, he’s damn right, and just the memory of what we did has me hardening to full mast again.

“Let go, Jet.”

“No.” He presses his chest to mine, walks me backward.

“Fucking let go. I mean it.”

“No.” He reaches down, grips my dick, making me gasp, “No, you don’t. You don’t get to go before we address an issue. This issue.” Another squeeze and my eyes all but roll up in my head with pleasure. “Tell me now you don’t want me touching you. Push me away. Go ahead.”

I swallow, my throat dry. His hand on my dick feels amazing—and so does his bare chest pressed to mine. His dark eyes are heated with desire and his mouth…

I should stop thinking about his mouth.

And his scent that infiltrates my senses, something woodsy and spicy that has me hardening even more.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, his eyes glittering. “Tell me.”

I can’t. I try to find the words, to deny it, to insist, to refuse. Nothing comes to mind.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I manage at last.

“No,” he agrees, “it doesn’t. It’s just physical release, J. No kissing and cuddling, I swear. So why fight it?”

There are many answers to this. I’m not fucking gay, obviously. I said I wouldn’t touch him, or let him touch me. He’s my best friend, dammit. Like a brother. You don’t touch your brother that way… don’t think of him that way.

But it all flies out the window when he puts his mouth on the side of my neck and sucks. Hard. With teeth and firm lips and it’s all pain and heat and pleasure shooting straight to my dick.

And it’s Jet doing this to me.

Fuck.

He sucks harder, and I moan, my cock twitching. He strokes it in a firm, strong grip, giving it a twist with each upstroke. Expertly.

Just like he’d stroke his own.

Goddammit, I’m going to shoot my load, and he’s hard, too, I can feel him against my hip. It’s not off-putting, it’s… exciting.

It’s like jerking off together, I think dazedly. That’s it.

Sliding my hand down, I find his hard cock and grip it, giving it a squeeze. He groans against my neck, licks the bruised skin, then latches on my shoulder, as if he knows it drives me crazy.

He probably does. Shouldn’t surprise me. There’s apparently nothing Jet doesn’t know about me, up to and including the fact that biting turns me on—who would’ve guessed?—and giving up control to him is fine with me, fine with my dick, too.