He ran a thumb over my nipple, and the shock of sensation nearly arched my back off the bed. I gasped—actually gasped, like a parody of a romance novel—and the sound made him grin, the left corner of his mouth lifting in approval.
He did it again, then moved his mouth there, licked, then bit just hard enough to make me jump. My hands found his arms, the curve of the bicep and the hard line of the tricep, muscle that felt like it belonged to a different species.
He alternated between rough and gentle, each time reading my response and then dialing up or down accordingly. My breath got high and thin, and every time I tried to stifle a noise it just came out louder, echoing back off the thin walls.
I heard myself moan his name, once, and he let it hang in the air, a trophy.
His mouth moved down my chest, pausing at every rib, every scar, every weird topography the world had given me. Itwasn’t reverent, exactly—it was too clinical for that—but it was thorough, and it left me shaking with anticipation.
I wanted to reach for him, to return the favor, but every time I tried he put me back in place with a touch or a word. “Not yet,” he said, and his voice was a command but also a promise.
He kissed down my stomach, the stubble on his jaw scraping a burn into my skin. When he reached the waistband of my pajama pants, he didn’t bother with the drawstring. He just hooked his thumbs and dragged them down, slow, baring me completely.
The air was cold on my skin, but he was warm, and when he wrapped his hand around my cock I nearly lost it, the touch so direct and deliberate that it felt like the rest of my body was just scaffolding to keep me upright.
He stroked me once, slow, then again, each time using the flat of his palm, the heel pressing into the base in a way that made my eyes roll back. My hands found the sheets and balled into fists, a reflex I hadn’t realized was possible until this exact moment.
He looked up at me, searching my face for any sign that I wanted to stop. He must have found none, because he reached over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer.
I watched as he fished out a bottle of lube, the label peeled off, and popped it open with one hand. The smell was sharp, clean, a weirdly domestic counterpoint to the funk of the room.
He coated his fingers and then, with the same deliberation as before, slid one inside me. The sensation was strange—stretching, full, almost too much—and I bit my lip, not wanting to make a sound but unable to stop the low whine that escaped anyway.
He smiled, not cruel, just satisfied. “Good?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He worked the finger in and out, slow at first, then faster, then added a second. The burn was sharp for a second, but he waited, fingers moving in a shallow rhythm that made it impossible to tense up.
I looked down and watched his hand. The gold band caught the light every time he twisted, a flash of yellow in the low lamp.
He scissored his fingers, widening me, and the stretch became pleasure, a dark and growing pulse that built with every motion. I started rocking into it, hips rolling without my permission.
“Okay,” he said, and added a third, slower this time, giving me a second to adjust.
I didn’t know it was possible to feel so empty and so full at once. The room went fuzzy at the edges, my whole consciousness zeroing in on the places where his body met mine.
He fingered me for a while, long enough that I lost track of time. My cock was hard and leaking, untouched, but every nerve in my body was firing in rhythm with his hand.
When he finally pulled his fingers out, I whimpered at the loss.
He slicked himself, the sound of it impossibly obscene, and lined up. He took my thighs in both hands, spread them, and pushed inside in one long, slow, unbroken motion.
I sucked in a breath so hard it hurt my lungs.
He paused, letting me adjust. His eyes never left mine, even as he bottomed out, the entire length of him inside.
The stretch, the pressure, the fullness—it was overwhelming. I wrapped my legs around his waist, heel digging into the small of his back, needing him to know that I could take it, that I wanted more.
He started moving, small thrusts at first, shallow and measured, then longer, deeper. Every time he pushed in, he hit something inside me that lit up the world in bright white flashes.
I gave up on being quiet. I moaned his name, over and over, and he matched it with a low, rough sound, like the growl of an engine. The pace picked up, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
He set a hand on my jaw, tilted my face up, and kissed me as he fucked me, the rhythm unbroken, the pressure of his hips relentless. His other hand gripped my thigh, gold band biting into my skin with every thrust.
I felt the orgasm coming, a tidal surge that started at the base of my spine and rolled forward, collecting every nerve ending as it went. I warned him, or tried to, but the words wouldn’t come.
I came hard, cock untouched, a ribbon of white across my stomach. My whole body clenched, inside and out, the world narrowing to a single point of contact.
