“Like this?” he asked, voice low and rough, forehead almost touching mine.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Like this. Don’t look away.”
He didn’t.
Nathan pushed in slow—inch by thick inch—eyes locked on mine the whole time. The stretch burned in the best way, full and deep, and I moaned loud, hands clutching at his shoulders. He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush against my ass,and for a moment we just breathed together, brown eyes to blue, nothing between us but heat and eight days of want.
Then he started to move.
And fuck, that waseverything, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, grinding deep on every thrust like he wanted me to feel every single second.
The eye contact made it overwhelming. I couldn’t hide, couldn’t joke my way out of it. Every broken whimper, every time my cock jerked against my stomach—he saw it all. His black hair fell across his forehead, damp with sweat, and those blue eyes never left mine, even when his rhythm started to pick up, hips snapping harder, the wet slap of skin filling the room.
“Fuck—Nathan—” I gasped, one hand sliding up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his bottom lip. “You feel so good. So fucking deep. Don’t stop looking at me.”
He didn’t. He fucked me steady and relentless, one hand wrapping around my cock and stroking in time with his thrusts, thumb sweeping over the head just right. The pressure built fast, coiling tight in my gut, and I could feel myself starting to shake.
“Come on, Wesley,” he murmured, voice gravelly, eyes still locked on mine. “Let me see you cum.”
That was all it took. I came hard, spilling over his fist and across my own stomach with a choked cry, eyes wide open and staring straight into his. Nathan followed seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning my name as he pulsed inside me, hips stuttering through it.
We stayed like that afterward, breathing hard, still connected. Nathan brushed a strand of my blond hair off my forehead, his touch gentle now, and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
I laughed.
Not the performance laugh. The real one, the one that came from somewhere I didn't usually let people see, and it wasout before I knew it was happening, slightly hysterical, slightly undone, the laugh of someone who had been running on three a.m. thoughts and mid-practice distraction for eight days and had just arrived somewhere and couldn't quite believe they were there.
Nathan pulled back slightly to look at me.
"What?"
"Nothing," I said. Still laughing.
"Wesley."
"I'm not laughing at you," I said. "I'm laughing at—" I stopped. Gestured vaguely at the room, at the ceiling, at the general situation. "This."
He looked at me for a moment. Something moved through his expression—the wall Nathan usually had up was nowhere, hadn't been anywhere for a while, and what was underneath it was Nathan looking at me laughing in his bed like this was something he was going to need a moment with.
"The bowls," I said.
"Stop bringing up the bowls," he said.
"You thought about the depth, Nathan."
"I'm going to regret telling you that."
"Probably," I said.
He looked at me for another second. And then something happened on his face that I had been collecting for months and had never seen quite like this—the full version, unguarded, in the low lamp light with the city outside the window and both of us exactly where we were.
He laughed.
The first full laugh I'd ever heard from Nathan Cross, and it was in his bedroom at whatever time it was with his forehead dropping briefly to my shoulder and his hand still in my hair and I felt it in my chest like something had settled into a place it had been looking for for a long time.
I didn’t feel like a temporary thing anymore.
I felt like someone he had planned for.
