i’m hard thinking about your throat.” Not the picture of his cock bulging in compression pants.I let them sit there, unopened. Because tonight, I was walking to Elliot’s studio, the hot french guy I met a few days ago.His message from earlier echoed in my head:Elliot:“Come by at 7. Gay sex Not the 11 pings from the gym. And just when he was close, he pulled me up and kissed me, messy and hot and urgent, like he couldn’t bear to come without feeling my mouth against his.“I want to take my time with you, Troy,” he murmured. I was already dizzy, hard, needy in a way I hadn’t been in days.He walked me back until I hit the wall. I watched his knees bend. I pressed my lips to his collarbone, kissing my way down slowly across his chest, his abs, the sharp V of his hips. Soft light spilled across the Seine. “You came.”“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” I murmured.He didn’t speak. He held me through it, swallowing everything, licking me clean with soft little kisses.
