Chapter 4: Lessons Start
Jake
“Fuck, you feel so good.”
The words tore out of my throat, rough, wrecked, and entirely unfiltered, vibrating directly against Sam’s swollen mouth. The kiss had started violent—a desperate collision of teeth, bruising pressure, and raw, unrestrained hunger.
I was aggressive as hell, fueled by days of suffocating tension and a lifetime of repressed instinct. I had absolutely zero technique. I was just acting on a blind, feral need to consume the man trapped between my body and the kitchen counter.
He’s a man. The thought echoed in my frantic brain, crashing into the reality of what I was doing. I’m kissing a man.
I had only ever kissed women. I knew the soft, delicate angles of a girl’s face. I knew how to hold back my own weight so I didn’t overwhelm them. But Sam wasn’t soft. He was lean and built with quiet strength, all long, solid lines and firm muscle. The sharp cut of his cheekbones pressed firmly against my face every time I angled deeper. The rough scrape of my own dark stubble against his smoother, flushed skin felt inherently wrong, yet so incredibly, devastatingly perfect that it made my chest ache.
The scent of him was intoxicating. Motor oil, sharp cedar soap, and my own heavy sweat mixed completely with the warmer, cleaner scent of him, until I couldn’t tell where my body ended and his began. My black-framed glasses kept fogging from the sheer heat radiating off our faces, the frames slipping down the bridge of my nose, but I didn’t care.
I didn’t even try to push them back up. I just kissed him harder, my thick thigh shoving aggressively between his runner’s legs, pinning him to the cabinetry. I licked deep into his mouth like a starving animal, trying to climb inside him and stay there.
It shouldn’t feel this right. It shouldn’t feel like waking up after twenty-eight years of sleepwalking.
Sam made a soft, punched-out sound against my lips—a sound that went straight to my straining groin—and took control.
His hands came up between us. One fist grabbed the front of my gray T-shirt, anchoring me, while his other hand slid firmly into my messy dark hair. His fingers gripped the thick strands at the nape of my neck, tilting my heavy head exactly where he wanted it. He slowed us down by force, refusing to yield to my frantic, sloppy pace.
The kiss instantly shifted. It turned deep, deliberate, and agonizingly sensual instead of frantic. His tongue stroked against mine in a filthy, unhurried, rhythmic sweep that made my heavy knees threaten to completely buckle under my own weight.
“Open for me,” Sam whispered against my wet mouth. His voice was low and steady, a quiet anchor in the chaos, even though I could feel the faint tremor in his hands. “Yeah… just like that. Use your tongue, Jake. Slower. Let me feel you.”
I did exactly what he said. I would have burned the city down if he’d asked me to in that tone.
I opened my mouth wider for him. I surrendered my control, letting him teach me how to be kissed by a man. The second I matched his slower, deliberate pace, his tongue swirling around mine in a lazy, hot glide, he rewarded me with a quiet, appreciative moan. The sound vibrated straight from his throat into my chest.
My cock throbbed so hard against the zipper of my jeans that it bordered on actual physical pain. Hot pre-cum was already dampening the cotton of my boxers, seeping into the heavy denim. I rolled my hips forward on instinct, chasing the friction against his thigh, and Sam’s grip in my dark hair tightened possessively.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath hot against my cheek. “Feel how good it is when you don’t rush. When you just feel it.”
I felt it. God, I felt every single terrifying inch of it. The solid, unyielding heat of another man’s body trapped under my calloused hands. The way his defined runner’s legs parted wider, welcoming the thick, denim-clad muscle of my thigh. The soft, dark sweep of his hair that kept falling into his expressive eyes every time he pulled back just far enough for us to drag oxygen into our burning lungs.
Those eyes gave absolutely everything away—the nerves, the deep-seated want, and the exact same dangerous, illicit hunger that was currently eating me alive.
I wanted more. I wanted everything.
Sam’s hands slid slowly down from my hair, tracing the thick muscles of my neck and shoulders, before settling firmly on my waist. He guided my hips with quiet confidence, adjusting my stance. He was showing me how to roll them in a dirty, deliberate, circular grind, correcting the frantic, desperate bucking I’d been doing against his leg.
The new angle was absolute devastation. The thick, aching ridge of my cock dragged exactly against the hard line of his own erection through the thick layers of our jeans.
Bright white stars burst behind my closed eyelids. A harsh, guttural groan tore out of my throat. Sam’s head dropped back against the wooden upper cabinet with a soft thud, exposing the long, pale line of his throat to the dim kitchen light.
I leaned in, entirely helpless against the urge, and dragged my rough stubble along his smooth neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses over his erratic pulse just to feel him shiver.
“Fuck—Jake—”
The little whimpers he kept trying to swallow went straight to my head like cheap liquor. I became instantly obsessed with them. Every time I pressed my weight harder into him, every time I rolled my hips the exact way he’d just taught me, another one slipped out. Soft. Broken. Addictive.
I realized with a terrifying jolt of pure, dominant heat that I wanted to hear him scream. I wanted to pull every single filthy, wrecked sound out of that pretty, full lower lip until he completely forgot how to be quiet. I had always been the careful one, the controlled older brother, the guy who kept his head down and fixed broken things.
But right now, with Jess’s best friend trapped against the counter under my heavy frame, all I wanted to do was break his composure into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.
We stayed like that against the kitchen counter for what felt like hours—grinding, kissing, learning the exact shape and leverage of each other’s bodies. My black-framed glasses fogged completely, blinding me. I yanked them off my face with a shaking hand and tossed them blindly onto the counter beside the sink.
The kitchen went softer and blurrier at the edges, but I didn’t need 20/20 vision. I could still see every micro-expression on Sam’s face. I could see the way his lower lip looked shiny and bitten red. The dark, beautiful flush high on his sharp cheekbones. The way his deceptively breakable body went completely soft and open under my hands, surrendering to my size, even though he was the one actively doing the teaching.
By the time we finally broke the kiss, gasping for air, the friction had pushed us to the absolute edge. We were both leaking heavily, our jeans soaked through with evidence of how badly we needed this.
Sam’s hands flattened against my solid chest. He shoved at me gently, a silent command to move. We stumbled blindly out of the kitchen and into the sweltering living room. We were clumsy and desperate, my heavy boots kicking the edge of the coffee table, our hands never leaving each other.
The backs of my knees hit the edge of the small couch. I dropped down hard, the old springs groaning loudly in protest under my weight.
Sam didn’t hesitate. He followed me down instantly, climbing directly into my lap like he had always belonged there. He straddled me, his strong knees bracketing my narrow hips. The new, seated position put the firm weight of his ass right against the straining, agonizing bulge in my jeans.
I let out a feral groan, my head falling back against the cushions. I reached up and gripped his thighs, my thumbs pressing into the long, defined muscle under his skin, marveling at the sheer strength hidden in his leaner frame.
“You’re a fast learner,” Sam whispered, his voice incredibly rough. His soft dark hair fell into his eyes as he looked down at me from his perch on my lap. Those expressive eyes were almost entirely black with blown-out, dilated pupils.
“Show me more,” I rasped, my broad hands squeezing his thighs. “Sam, please.”
He did.
Sam reached between us, his knuckles brushing the hyper-sensitive ridge of my erection through the denim, and got my jeans unbuttoned with steady, practiced fingers. He unzipped the fly, the metallic rasp echoing in the quiet apartment.
The second the cool, air-conditioned air hit my overheated, straining cock, I hissed through my teeth. I was so hard it was physically agonizing—thick, flushed a furious, dark red, the blunt head shiny and weeping with pre-cum.
Sam bypassed my boxers entirely. He wrapped his bare hand around me, employing the exact same perfect, velvet-over-steel grip from the night before. He stroked me once, a long, firm, agonizing drag from the root all the way up to the sensitive tip.
My heavy head dropped back against the top of the couch. A broken, pathetic sound tore out of my throat, my hips bucking upward off the cushions to chase his hand.
But he didn’t stop there. He wasn’t done teaching.
Sam reached out with his free hand and took my right wrist. He grabbed the hand covered in bold, black-and-grey geometric tattoos, the heavy, calloused hand that still smelled faintly of engine grease and cedar soap. He guided my arm around his body, bringing my hand to rest squarely on his own ass.
He pressed my thick fingers against the soft denim covering his glutes.
“Feel this,” he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. He showed me how to dig in. He showed me how to spread my large fingers, taking possession of his hip and cheek. And then, he deliberately rocked his hips forward, pushing his ass back into my heavy touch, demonstrating exactly how he wanted to be handled.
“Grab me, Jake,” he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear, his hot breath sending a violent shiver down my spine. “Squeeze as hard as you want. Don’t hold back with me. I can take it.”
The permission snapped the last remaining thread of my restraint.
I squeezed.
My thick fingers sank deep into the firm, flexing muscle of his ass through the denim. I gripped him with the real, bruising power of a man who lifted engine blocks for a living. Sam’s breath hitched violently in his throat. His back arched. In immediate reward for the rough handling, his hand stroked my cock faster, his thumb swiping deliberately over my leaking head on every single upward stroke.
The dual sensation was a sensory overload that threatened to short-circuit my brain. Feeling his tight, perfect fist working my cock while my own hand gripped the solid, yielding muscle of his ass made my vision blur at the edges. I felt entirely feral. I felt possessive. I felt a dark, overwhelming urge to leave my fingerprints bruised into every single inch of his smooth, gorgeous skin.
He’s mine, my brain supplied, a dangerous, possessive thought I couldn’t fight. Jess’s best friend is mine.
Sam kept stroking me hard and fast, setting a ruthless pace. Hot pre-cum dripped over his knuckles, slicking his palm, making the friction wet and devastating. My hips punched up into his grip on pure, animal instinct, the couch groaning under the violence of our movements.
The quiet, reserved intensity I usually carried like a shield had been burned away completely. All that was left in its place was a ravenous hunger and an agonizing need to get closer, to bury myself as deep as I possibly could.
My tattooed hand slid up his hip, finding the hem of his faded T-shirt. I pushed the fabric up, my thick fingers sliding fully under the waistband of his jeans.
My calloused palm ran hot against his bare skin. He was so smooth. So warm. So perfectly markable. I traced the dip of his lower back, feeling the frantic shiver that raced down his spine at my touch. I felt the cotton waistband of his briefs, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.
I pushed my hand deeper, my knuckles sliding past the elastic. I dragged my thick middle finger right down the cleft between his cheeks, tracing the heat. I found the tight, hidden furl of his hole, covered only by the thin, damp fabric of his cotton briefs, and I rubbed my finger slowly, deliberately over it.
Sam’s entire body shuddered violently in my lap. A broken, high-pitched little whimper escaped his throat before he could swallow it down.
I growled against his collarbone, my dark stubble scraping the sensitive skin of his neck.
“Right here?” I demanded, my voice a dark, unrecognizable rumble. My finger pressed harder against his hole through the cotton, circling the tight entrance, testing the give of his muscles. “Is this where you want me, Sammy?”
Sam’s hand tightened around my cock almost painfully, his nails biting into my skin. His forehead dropped heavily to my shoulder, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. His soft dark hair tickled my jaw, smelling like faint vanilla and sweat. When he finally spoke, his voice was completely wrecked, barely above a desperate whisper, but every single word landed on my skin like a branding iron.
“Yes. Fuck—yes, Jake. Right there.”
I kept rubbing slow, filthy, deliberate circles over that tight little hole while he continued to stroke the life out of my cock. The thin fabric of his briefs was already damp with his own pre-cum, clinging to his skin. I could feel the incredible, radiating heat of him through the cotton. My cock throbbed violently in his fist, leaking a steady stream of slick.
Every single time I pressed my finger a little firmer against his hole, Sam’s hips instinctively pushed backward, grinding his ass against my hand like he was desperately chasing more pressure.
The realization hit me like a physical punch to the chest, stealing the air from my lungs. He wanted me inside him. This beautiful, confident man—my little sister’s best friend, the guy with the expressive eyes and the full lower lip I had been secretly staring at for years—wanted my heavy hands, my mouth, my cock. He wanted me to take him.
And I wanted to give it to him. I wanted to tear him apart and put him back together. I wanted to learn every single filthy way to make him fall apart under my weight.
My glasses were still sitting forgotten on the kitchen counter. Without them, the edges of the room stayed soft and blurred, but I didn’t need sharp vision to feel the truth of what was happening. I could feel the way Sam trembled violently in my lap. I could hear the quiet, desperate, needy sounds he kept trying and failing to bite back. I could smell the heavy, musky mix of our arousal hanging thick and suffocating in the air of the small living room.
I circled that tight, weeping hole again—slower, firmer, pressing the pad of my middle finger deep into the cleft—and felt his whole body melt, going completely soft and open against me.
“Tell me what to do next,” I rasped against his ear, my voice pure, vibrating gravel, my grip on his ass tightening until I knew I was leaving a mark. “Teach me, Sammy. Because I’m not stopping until you come.”
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