Best Gay Erotica 2015 by Rob Rosen Read Free Book Online

leather-covered hand around Chris’s cock. The sight made Chris’s balls tingle.
    Jean-Baptiste leaned forward and said, “Good.” And he began to move his fingers in and out, in and out, slow and steady.
    Chris fell back on the bed, his elbows giving way. Jean-Baptiste’s fingers worked him without allowing a moment’s breath, pulsing right into Chris’s prostate. His hand pumped, squeezing Chris’s cock in counter-time to the pulses. Chris could have died happy there and then, with the heat of the room, the leather rubbing up and down along his cock, the long fingers inside him, and above him, lion-like, Jean-Baptiste with his wild hair, grinning with all his teeth, nodding with each jerk Chris made, each time the pleasure heightened, each new rise to the peak.
    Suddenly, he hit said peak. Chris came, his ass gripping on to the fingers, his cock spurting come onto the black leather of the glove, Jean-Baptiste laughing with proud, arrogant pleasure. He withdrew his fingers and held his glove up to Chris’s mouth and told him to lick it. The leather’s strange smoothness and rough taste mingled with the tang of his come could have made Chris hard again.
    Then Jean-Baptiste pulled open his fly, which was all buttons, his own cock bursting free from a thatch of dark-blond hair. He knelt on the bed and reached to grab the back of Chris’s head.
    â€œNow you suck.”
    Exhausted but willing to comply, Chris’s body shook as he turned over and took Jean-Baptiste’s cock—delightfully musky, salty and sweaty—in his mouth. He did so little work, as Jean-Baptiste thrust his hips against Chris’s face, holding his head in place, that Chris only had to relax his throat as it went deeper and deeper inside. It didn’t last long. Jean-Baptiste came quickly, not pulling back from Chris, making him swallow everything. Sensible Chris squeaked about STDs. Chris himself drank with relish, even pulling back to give Jean-Baptiste a few final, cleaning licks, a cat lapping up the last of the milk.
    They met each other’s eyes, Chris staring up, gasping, stunned, waiting for the biker to make the next move. Jean-Baptiste smiled, smug, and bent down, taking Chris’s cheeks between his hands as he kissed him.
    â€œNow,” he said, against Chris’s mouth. “We shower.”

    Chris expected that after they washed—squashed together in the tiny square of the shower cubicle, each nuzzling lazily at the other’s neck—Jean-Baptiste would up and leave. After Chris sought some food for both of them in the fridge and found none, and they went to the brasserie opposite from where they’d met, he expected Jean-Baptiste to head over to his bike, suit up properly and ride off down Boulevard Saint-Germain.
    He expected the same when the sun started to go down, the heat mercifully dropping a little, when they left the brasserie and went to a bar two blocks down. They drank Belgian beer as Jean-Baptiste sat with his hand on Chris’s thigh, occasionally smiling at the stares from others and raising his glass with a wink.
    He didn’t expect, however, Jean-Baptiste to finish the glass and turn to him and tell him to go back to his room, put some jeans and strong shoes on and meet him back at the bike. He obeyed, even as he imagined that he’d arrive back in the street to find Jean-Baptiste gone. Instead, he found him leaning on the bike, helmet on but visor up, a spare dangling from his hand.
    Chris glanced back to the brasserie they’d sat at. The waiter was still there, looking at them, shaking his head, somewhere between perturbed and amused.
    Chris pulled the helmet on. “Where are we going?” “Anywhere.” Jean-Baptiste pulled his visor down and eased the bike upright, kicking up the stand. Chris got on behind him, at first gingerly taking Jean-Baptiste’s waist, until Jean-Baptiste pulled his hands forward so he had a