Hair fallen loose. Mouth open on uneven breaths. Nothing lecturer-clean left in him anywhere.
Beautiful.
Laurence’s grip on my hips turns bruising.
Not measured now. Not careful.
Mine.
The thought lands hot and possessive in my chest.
This sound is mine. Only mine.
One deeper drop of my hips and Laurence cries out outright beneath me, the sound ripped violently from somewhere deep in his chest. His whole body arches hard enough to throw us both off rhythm.
‘There,’ he says sharply. ‘Fuck—like this?—’
I do it again.
Again.
Again.
The rhythm disintegrates after that. Too intense for precision. I’m riding him hard now, drunk on the sight of him falling apart under me.
Every movement tears another sound out of him. His head thrown back against the headboard, throat exposed, breath shattered completely. His hands move helplessly over my body like he can’t decide whether to hold me closer or push me away from the intensity of it.
‘Ewan.’
Not Carrick. Never Carrick here.
His voice breaks completely on my name.
Then I hit that angle again and Laurence comes apart.
Not gradual. Not controlled.
Explosive.
His whole body freezes beneath mine with a sharp, wrecked cry, hands digging painfully into my hips as the orgasm tears through him all at once. The plug keeps pressing inside him through the aftershocks, making every wave hit harder than the last.
‘Jesus Christ—Ewan?—’
The words collapse into my name.
I come seconds later with my forehead against his shoulder, pleasure hitting hard enough to blank my thoughts clean while Laurence keeps shaking underneath me, breath broken into helpless fragments against my throat.
After: we lie there, his breathing ragged. Mine worse. His hand on the back of my neck. The plug is still inside him. We don’t move.
He falls asleep with me pressed against his chest. Just like that. Mid-breath. He’s run out of things to brace against.
I lie still until his breathing evens out. Then I extract myself, slowly, the art of leaving a sleeping body without waking it. Bathroom.
Look at my reflection, flushed, wrecked, the stubble rash spreading like a map of everywhere he’s kissed.
The cabinet. I open it for the mouthwash—second shelf.
I go back to the bedroom. Laurence hasn’t moved. His breathing is slow and deep. The man who held me. The man with photos under towels.
