"What do you want, Max?"
"I want—"
"Mm?"
"...I want you to fuck me."
"How?"
"Atlas—"
"How, sweetheart?”
I press in again. The head. Just the head. Slow. Hold it there. Don't move.
He makes a sound that's almost a sob.
"...slow."
"Slow how."
"Slow and—deep. I want to feel you. All of you."
"Mm."
"I want—" He swallows. His face is on fire. "I want it to last. I want to know I had you. After you're gone—I want to be able to feel where you were."
The breath leaves my lungs.
I stay where I am—just the head of me inside him, his rim stretched tight around the swell of it, his eyes locked on mine and wet and wide open—and I take a beat to feel what that just did to me.
"...sweetheart."
"...is that—"
"That's perfect, baby. That's perfect."
His chin trembles.
"Don't move. Hands above your head."
He puts his hands above his head.
"Good boy."
I sink in.
I push the rest of the way in to the hilt in one long unbroken slide, slow, watching his face the whole way. He's so wet and so open from my mouth and my fingers that there's no resistance—just heat, just the slick give of him, just the way his eyes roll back when the head of me drags over the spot inside him that makes him jerk. The sound he makes is wrecked. The bond between us roars so wide I lose track of where my body ends and his begins.
I hold there.
Buried to the hilt. Hips flush to the back of his thighs. His hands above his head where I told him to keep them, fingers clenched in the pillow. His chest is heaving. His cock is trapped between us, leaking onto his own stomach.
"There you are, sweetheart."
"...Atlas."
"Right there. I've got you."
