“I’m aware.”
The corner of his mouth moves, then he leans in, putting his mouth on my neck, just below my jaw, and the tension doesn’t leave so much as transform into something else entirely. My hand comes up to his shoulder without being told to, gripping, steadying myself against whatever is happening to my legs.
He walks me back to the bed, and I sit on the edge of it. He stands in front of me and takes his own shirt off, and I look at him the way I haven’t allowed myself to look for the entire summer. The ink. His lines. The ring of the piercing catches the lamplight, and my mouth goes dry thinking about what it feels like.
“Stop thinking,” he says.
“I can’t just?—”
“I know. But try.” He puts both hands on my jaw and tips my face up and kisses me again, slow and deep, and thinking becomes significantly harder to prioritize.
He lays me back, working my jeans off, and I let him because my hands have decided that his hair is where they belong, and I’m not fighting it anymore. He takes his time, and I am so far past the point of argument that the wordnohas left my vocabulary entirely.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says. There’s a click of a bottle opening as one of his hands rubs up and down my thigh.
“Okay.” My voice comes out rough.
“I mean it, Rhett. Tell me.”
“I will.”
He grabs the lube again, squirts way too much on his fingers, like he’s not taking any chances, then he’s touching me—circling slowly around my hole. Just teasing the edge until my hips twitch, even though I’m trying to stay still. I’m tense as hell, every muscle locked.
Then he presses. One finger. Steady. Waiting for me to unclench before it slides in.
It feels…weird. Full. Not exactly painful, but strange as fuck. Like my body doesn’t know what to do with it. I suck in a breath, thighs shaking a little. He doesn’t rush, just keeps that one finger moving slow, in and out, curling a bit so I feel it press against the walls inside me.
“Breathe,” Colt says.
I breathe, forcing it. In through my nose. Out slow.
“Good boy. Don’t fight it. Let your body adjust.”
His words warm me, so I focus on his voice.
It takes longer than I want it to. I can feel the tension in me fighting what my brain is telling it—relax, trust him, he’s not going to hurt you—and the tension doesn’t believe my brain yet. But Colt keeps his hand on my stomach and keeps talking, low and even, telling me I’m doing well, telling me to keep breathing, and eventually, the rigid line of my body starts to soften in increments.
I force myself to relax—or at least, fake it. After a minute, the weirdness starts to dull. He adds a second finger and that burns more. It’s a sharp stretch that makes me gasp and arch off the bed. My hands grab the sheets, and he stops moving, just holding his fingers there, letting me get used to it. Then, he starts again—slow scissoring, twisting a little, stretching me wider, bit by bit.
“Good,” he mutters. “You’re doing so good—opening up for me.”
I don’t know why that makes my dick twitch harder, but it does.
He keeps going until he finds that spot, curling his fingers and dragging right over it. My whole body jerks, and a sound comes out of me that I’ve never made before—half moan, half choke. My cock leaks onto my stomach.
“There,” he says, voice lower now, rougher. “That’s it. That’s where I’m gonna fuck you stupid.”
He works me open for what feels like forever—adding more lube, more fingers when I can take it, until I’m not fighting anymore. Until the stretch just feels…full. Hot. Like I need something bigger.
When he finally pulls his fingers out, I clench around nothing, and it feels wrong. Empty. My hips lift a little without me meaning to.
He leans down close to my ear. “You’re ready—dripping for me. Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” I rasp. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine.
He pushes both of my knees toward my chest, and I let him, hands gripping the backs of my thighs. I feel completely exposed, but I don’t look away.
He lines himself up, and the head of his cock presses against me—thick, blunt, slick.
