He looked at me, pupils so wide there was almost no blue left. “Please.”
I grinned. “Good.”
I reached for the nightstand, pulled the drawer, and took out the lube. The cap came off with a single twist, the smell synthetic and sharp and oddly nostalgic, like memories of every half-drunk college hookup rolled into one.
I slicked my fingers and went slow, working the first in with care, just to watch his face. He closed his eyes and bit his lip, but didn’t tense up. I pressed deeper, curling, and felt him relax around me.
“More,” he said, voice gone hoarse.
I added a second, scissoring, stretching him open. His breathing got ragged, the little moans turning into a low, steady chant, “fuck, fuck, yes—”
I kept going, working him open, three fingers now, and he was taking it, hips rolling in time with my hand, cock leaking onto his stomach.
I twisted, found the spot, and pressed. He gasped, back arching so high he nearly bucked me off the bed.
I withdrew, slicked my own cock, and lined up. I braced myself above him, one hand on the bed, the other guiding myself in. I pushed, slow at first, and watched as his face went from tight to open to something that looked a lot like surrender.
I drove in the rest of the way, burying myself to the hilt. He took it, the whole thing, legs coming up and locking around my waist, heels digging in.
I started to move—shallow at first, then deeper, each thrust measured, controlled, the way you walk a grenade into a clearing. His ass clenched around me with every stroke, the sensation raw and immediate, electric from root to tip.
He was loud now, moaning my name, begging, not shy about any of it. Every time I bottomed out, his cock twitched, a spurt of precum hitting his stomach.
I angled my hips, changed the vector, and hit him dead on.
He broke.
He came, loud and hard, the first jet splattering against his chest, the rest leaking down his abs. His ass tightened around me, milking my cock, and the feeling was so intense I nearly lost it right there.
I grunted, braced harder, and fucked him through it, never losing rhythm.
He kept coming, body shaking, and I let myself go, hips snapping forward, filling him with everything I had. The orgasm hit like a flash bang—whiteout, then nothing but the throb, the shock of skin on skin.
I stayed inside him, grinding my hips until every pulse was spent. He held onto me, arms wrapped around my back, nails digging in.
We stayed like that for a while, neither one of us able to talk, both of us panting, sweat cooling on our skin.
Finally, I pulled out, slow, and watched as the mix of come and lube leaked from him, pooling on the sheets. I collapsedbeside him, one arm thrown across his chest, the other tangled in the sheets.
He turned his head and looked at me, eyes glazed but bright.
I said, “Stay.”
He smiled, soft, real, and said, “I already am.”
Down the hall, Emilio slept, untroubled by any of it.
I lay there, the heat of him pressed against my side, and let the silence fill the room.
For the first time in my life, I had nothing left to prove.
The thing no one tells you about good sex is how fucking personal it is. They make movies and jokes and a whole sub-industry out of the choreography, but the part that matters—the part that gets under the skin and rearranges the furniture in your head—shows up only after the rest of the world has shut up and you finally let yourself look at the person you’re holding down.
It would have been easy to let it end with the bed. The comfort, the slow melt, the feeling of having taken a thing to its logical conclusion. But when I looked at him, sprawled out with the last of the shower drops still shining on his skin, his hair pasted down to one side and his mouth slack with the kind of satisfaction you don’t get from pretending, I realized we were only halfway through the necessary business.
His eyes were closed, but I knew he was still awake. I could see the flutter of his lashes, the micro-tremors in the muscles of his thigh as the last of the aftershock bled off.
His chest rose and fell, the ribcage just a little too prominent under the skin, and I thought about how many times he must have run, how much effort it took to keep that kind of body going when every part of the world was trying to break it down.
