His eyes squeeze shut. Open again, dark.
“It's… I'm still…”
“Open?”
His finger moves inside himself. A small jerk of his hips.
“Yeah.”
“Good boy.”
He makes a sound at that. He gets himself ready quickly. He's clumsy. I love that he's clumsy. He rolls the condom on me and it's not smooth and his fingers are shaking and he's biting his lip the entire time.
Then he's positioning himself over me. And sinking down. Slow. An inch. Another inch. His head goes back. His mouth opens. I watch his throat work. I watch his cock bob against his stomach untouched. I put my hands on his hips and I don't grip, I don't push, I let him come down on me at his speed.
He bottoms out on me and his whole body shudders.
“Oh...”
“Yeah.”
His hand scrabbles at my sternum.
“Oh god...”
“I've got you.”
He puts his hands flat on my chest. His fingers find the scar on my ribs from a fight two years ago and they rest there. He's shaking. He's breathing through his teeth. His eyes are closed.
“Look at me,” I say.
He opens his eyes.
“There you are.”
“Yeah.”
“Move when you're ready.”
He moves.
He's slow. He's clumsy. He's finding the angle. And then he finds it and his eyes roll back and he sinks down on me and rises and sinks again and my hands on his hips aren't guiding him anymore, they're just holding on. He rides me. He rides me in my own bed at seven in the morning with the gray light coming in the window, his hair in his face, and the bruise I left on his neck moving in rhythm with the rest of him. I don't have words.
I sit up.
I sit up under him without breaking the angle. I wrap my arms around him and pull him in tight against my chest, and I fuck up into him from below while he rides me from above, and we meet each other in the middle, and he cries out into my shoulder.
“Mad Dog...”
“Yeah.”
I drive up harder. He cries out.
“Oh god... Mad Dog...”
“Come for me.”
I grip the back of his neck. Drag his forehead to mine.
