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Forward into the taxi and then up to Bradley’s flat. Forward he shoves Bradley into the room until Bradley’s knees buckle at the settee, and Colin is on top of him, legs spread wide with only the thick, hot presence of Bradley in between. Pressed together, they’re all lips and laughter and something else that starts with the letter L.

Beneath the fresh rain scent wafting through the open window, the room smells vaguely like mildew, and Colin suppresses an errant thought that Bradley must make a habit of leaving the window open in inclement weather. The patter of rain seems distant compared to the roaring of Colin’s own breathing inside his head. Their lips slot together, slick and hot and again, making indecent smacking, sucking sounds that have Colin caught in a furious loop of borderline disgust and roiling arousal.

Bradley is so uncharacteristically cautious with where he puts his hands, keeping them to Colin’s face and neck, into his hair, sometimes pulling at it a little bit until he stops as though he realises what he’s doing, doesn’t want to scare Colin away.

So Colin grabs one of Bradley’s hands, shoves it up the back of his shirt to get the feel of Bradley’s heat a little bit closer, and that emboldens Bradley. While the one hand roves up Colin’s back, Bradley’s other sinks down to knead in Colin’s jeans at the hip, thumb digging forward into that sensitive space between leg and groin, and fingers groping towards Colin’s arse. It’s like Bradley can’t quite choose which part of Colin to touch and tries to touch everything. The result is that it’s too little of everything, for everyone, and Colin pulls away from Bradley’s mouth to let out a frustrated groan.

When their eyes meet, Colin realises the way he’s writhing against Bradley, wanton and pathetic for him but too horny to care. Colin’s fingers fist in the front of Bradley’s shirt, tug hard, and Bradley follows, heaves forward and unsettles them both, and the only way to go is down. They make it to the floor, Colin’s head smacking hard against the carpet, so focused on pulling Bradley close, getting Bradley’s weight settled between his legs, that all sense of his own body ebbs away.

Their shirts are discarded, torn away as an unbearable barrier between them, and the first touch of Bradley’s naked abdomen to Colin’s has Colin letting out this horrible, embarrassing whimper, but Bradley swallows it down, as though greedy to taste the sound of Colin’s desire. A half-formed thought surfaces in Colin’s mind: how could they explain this away if they needed to, the way they both revel in their hard, flat chests pressed together, the scratch of hair, so unmistakably male and that much more exciting because of it?

But it doesn’t matter. With Bradley sunk in between Colin’s thighs, there’s no question left about what they’re doing. Even through the thick layers of denim and the less substantial cotton, when Bradley surges up into the slutty space Colin leaves open to him, the thick shape of his cock is unmistakable, and Colin wants more of it. Neither one of them is brave enough to do anything about it, of course, just shifting about until the way they line up is as good as it gets while still fully clothed from the waist down.

Colin fantasises desperately about unbuttoning their jeans, getting them shoved down to their knees, just the damp cotton of their underwear keeping them apart. The tip of his cock would escape the elastic and skid across Bradley’s abdomen, and maybe Bradley would get them out of their pants too, and then there would be nothing stopping them from what comes next, from Colin pulling Bradley up, up, up so he could get his lips wrapped around that cock and suck him until his brain is as empty as his balls. But it’s exactly that knowledge—that once they lose their trousers, all bets are off—that keeps them fucking through the safety of their jeans.

Neither of them is ready for everything that comes next, no matter how much they may want to be. This knowledge, deep in his gut, that they both want more quiets the part of Colin that still desperately seeks an escape route, because Bradley’s fingers circled around Colin’s wrist say don’t go, and Colin runs his lips across Bradley’s forehead, a silent but equally fervent never.

Colin has a kind of distant understanding that there is an ache in his skull, that the skin on his back is raw from being crushed into the carpet, that he’s certainly developing bruises where Bradley’s hip bones rock against him, but the only part of it that matters is that tomorrow, after they’ve figured out whose limbs belong where and parted, Colin will be able to look in the mirror, to touch his sore places, and to know: this has not been a dream. So he shoves the pain away and focuses solely on Bradley—on the feel of his stubble beneath Colin’s fingertips, the anguished sounds of longing he makes as he fucks up into Colin’s hips with too much clothing between them, the way Bradley’s fingers curl behind Colin’s ear, so intimate and sweet it makes Colin’s chest ache.

And Colin believes that this is the start of something, that a pile of elbows and sharp sweat and slick skin isn’t all they’ll ever be. But still, there is something enduring and beautiful about the first time: the desperate pleasure of Bradley’s body so close, the chafing stretch of carpet, and the perfect companion of English summer rain.