His eyes flash, and then he’s stepping away, shedding his clothes with efficient movements. His t-shirt hits the floor first, revealing the expanse of his tattooed chest, the ink a stark contrast against his pale skin. His jeans follow, then his boxers, and my pulse stumbles at the sight of him—thick, heavy cock standing proud, the head dark and glistening, his balls drawn up tight.
He steps closer, his hands cupping my face, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Hey. We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I interrupt, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering. “I want you. Just… go slow, okay?”
Some of the tension leaves his face. He nods, then kisses me again, gentle this time. Reassuring. His hands slide down to my shoulders, then lower, mapping the curve of my spine, my soft stomach. He squeezes, his fingers digging into the flesh of my arse, and I moan, pressing closer.
I let him guide me backward, my feet shuffling across the hardwood, the backs of my knees hitting the mattress edge with a soft thump. I sit, then scoot back across the rumpled duvet, the fabric bunching beneath my palms. Mark follows, his body a shadow in the low lamplight, then drops to his knees on the floor. The sight of him there, shoulders broad, head bowed between my spread legs, sends a pulse of heat straight to my groin.
His hands slide up my thighs, palms rough and warm, pushing them apart. I let him, let my knees fall open, and the cool air of the room rushes against my exposed hole. I tense automatically, muscles clenching, but Mark just hums, a low, satisfied sound, his breath ghosting warm against my inner thigh.
"Relax," he murmurs, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscle along my inner thigh, working slow circles into the tension. "I've got you."
I nod, swallowing hard, forcing myself to breathe through the vulnerability of it. To trust. His mouth follows the path his hands have set, lips dragging across my skin, kissing, nipping, then soothing each small sting with the flat of his tongue. The scratch of his stubble burns against my thigh, a counterpoint to the softness of his mouth, and my cock twitches, thickening where it rests against my stomach.
When his tongue flicks over my hole, a single, wet, deliberate stroke, I jerk, my spine arching off the mattress, a strangled sound tearing from my throat.
"Fuck, Mark..."
He chuckles, the vibration humming against my sensitive skin, making me squirm. "Patience, Philip."
I want to argue, want to grab his head and force him where I need him, but then his mouth is there again, tongue circling, pressing, teasing, and my thoughts scatter like ash. He takes his time, infuriatingly, deliberately, refusing to let me rush ahead. Every time I think he's finally going to give me what I want, what I'm aching for, he eases back, presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh, drags another helpless sound from me instead.
His tongue traces the rim, slow and thorough, then dips inside just enough to make my breath hitch before he pulls away. My fingers twist in the sheets, knuckles white. The wet heat of his mouth returns, lapping at me, fucking me with shallow thrusts that have my hips rolling off the bed, seeking more. He holds me down with one hand splayed across my hip, firm and unyielding, while his tongue works me open with maddening patience.
"Mark, please..." The words scrape out of me, rough and desperate.
He ignores me. His mouth eases away just enough to make me curse, his tongue dragging a wet stripe back over my perineum before dipping lower again to circle my hole without quite touching it. I whimper, actually whimper, and feel his smile against my skin.
By the time he finally presses a slick finger inside me, I'm already trembling, my cock leaking onto my stomach, pre-cum pooling in the groove of my hip. The intrusion is slow, careful, his finger sliding in to the first knuckle, then pausing. I clench around him instinctively, and he stills, his other hand stroking my thigh in long, soothing sweeps.
"Mark."
"I know." His voice is rougher now, the control fraying at the edges. He pushes deeper, crooking his finger, searching...
White sparks burst behind my eyelids when he finds my prostate. My hips buck, a moan tearing from my chest, and he does it again, pressing against that spot with deliberate, devastating precision.
The second finger follows eventually, slow enough to make me swear, the stretch burning for a moment before pleasure chases it away. I'm full now, fuller than before, and the ache of it settles deep in my gut. He scissors his fingers gently, opening me up, murmuring praise against my skin, steady and reassuring, words I barely hear over the rush of blood in my ears.
"That's it," he breathes, his lips brushing my thigh. "Open up for me."
I find myself relaxing into it despite every instinct urging me to rush, my body yielding to his careful persistence. The burn fades, replaced by a deep, thrumming need that makes my cock twitch and leak.
"More," I hear myself say, voice raw and wrecked. "Please."
"Greedy." But there's no reproach in it, only warmth, satisfaction.
"Your fault." The words come out broken, half-moan.
His laugh is low and warm, vibrating against my skin. He adds a third finger, and this time the stretch is sharper, my body resisting for a heartbeat before surrendering. He works me open with the same agonising patience, thrusting slow and deep, curling his fingers against that spot inside me until I'm gasping, my hips rocking back onto his hand of their own accord.
He takes his time again, making me feel every second of it, every touch, every careful movement, every brush of his knuckles against my rim. My pulse races, my entire body wound tight with anticipation, every nerve ending alight. Sweat beads on my chest, my stomach clenching and releasing with each wave of pleasure.
"You're doing so well," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, stripped bare. "Taking me so fucking well."
I whimper, my hips grinding down onto his fingers, chasing the fullness, the pressure. "Need you. Need your cock."
The words hang in the air between us, raw and desperate.
