I ran my hand along the length of his thigh, palm flat, just feeling the texture—the fine gold hairs, the old tan lines, the occasional shiver that meant his nerves still had work to do.
I traced it up to his hip, where a faint bruise was already blooming, courtesy of my hand or my mouth or maybe just the landing when he hit the bed. There was a strange pleasure in that, a satisfaction I’d never learned to distrust.
He opened his eyes, just a crack, and looked at me.
“What?” he said. It wasn’t a challenge, just a question, almost lazy with the slack in his jaw.
I said, “Nothing. Just thinking.”
He made a noise that was half laugh, half exhale, and stretched his arms up over his head, the movement making every muscle along his torso stand out in relief. His cock, still mostly hard, rested against the inside of his thigh, streaked with the drying aftermath. He reached down and ran his fingers through it, then wiped his hand on the sheet with a carelessness that made my heart punch a little faster.
“You want a towel?” he asked, voice low and sarcastic.
I shook my head. “Not unless you’re planning to run away again.”
He looked at me, and the line of his mouth changed, the muscles pulling tight for a second before going loose. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and it was as much for himself as for me.
I sat up and reached for him again. This time I caught his wrist and pulled him up, so he was sitting, legs dangling off the side of the bed. I slid between his knees and set both hands on his shoulders, squeezing until the muscle there went soft.
He didn’t resist. He let his head fall forward, the damp tangle of hair falling in front of his eyes. I took his chin in my hand, made him look up.
“You sure?” I said.
He nodded.
I kissed him again, and this time it was different—not softer, but less like a negotiation, more like a habit I wanted toreinforce. His lips parted, and he let me set the pace, his tongue moving slow and deliberate against mine. I tasted the salt of his skin, the faint metallic tang of blood where I must have bitten too hard.
When I pulled back, he was breathing through his mouth, and I could see the pulse in his throat, high and fast.
I slid my hands down his back, feeling the way his spine curved, the way every muscle seemed to tense in anticipation. His ass was pale and marked with the ghost of my handprints. I gripped it, hard, and pulled him forward on the bed until our hips lined up.
He let out a small sound—almost a whimper, but not the kind you make when you want someone to slow down.
“You good?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
But I knew better. I could feel the hunger in him, the thing he never let anyone else see, the raw edge that had driven him halfway across the country to stand in my kitchen and lie about wanting to keep it simple.
I said, “Bed’s too soft for what I want.”
He looked at me, eyes wide. “What do you want?”
I grinned, slow. “Get up.”
He did, legs a little shaky, but he made it to his feet without losing his balance. He stood there naked, arms at his sides, waiting for the next instruction.
I said, “Wall,” and he went without hesitation, crossing the room and bracing himself against the plaster, back to me.
The muscles of his back were a map of scars and old stories, and I let my hands follow them down to his hips. I pressed my body up behind his, my cock already hard again, and let him feel it against the curve of his ass.
He turned his head, just enough to see me over his shoulder. “You’re not tired?”
I bit his neck, just below the ear, hard enough to make him flinch. “Never.”
He shivered, and I ran my hands up his sides, thumbs tracing the lines of his ribs. I set my mouth against his shoulder blade, sucking a mark into the skin there, then did it again on the other side, not caring if it left him sore.
He pressed his palms flat to the wall, fingers splayed. I pushed his legs apart with my knee, then ran a hand down his spine to his tailbone, feeling the heat of him.
