Later. Focus.
He reached down and gripped himself, almost absently. I quirked a brow.
"Hands," I said.
He dropped it. "You're bossy," he said with a smirk.
It vanished the moment I used a finger to breach that tight ring of muscle for the first time, slow and deliberate. I could practically see every thought leave his head as his jaw went slack.
"Still with me?"
"Mm." His eyes had gone dark. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm—" He stopped. His head dropped back. "Oh."
"Yeah," I said softly.
"That's—" He laughed, short and wondering. "Okay. That's—okay."
"Just okay?" I said.
He lifted his head and looked at me like he was considering several responses and discarding all of them. I pressed deeper, curling slightly, finding what I was looking for.
The sound he made wasn't a word. It wasn't anything close to a word. His muscles went taut and then immediately, helplessly loose, and his head dropped back against the pillow. I witnessed Brody Lancaster—who had an answer for everything, who had never in my presence been at a loss for a single syllable—just. Stop.
His cock jumped and he fisted his hands in the sheets.
"Brody?"
"I—" He stopped. Tried again. "I'm not—I don't—" He choked out a laugh, staring at me with utter bewilderment on his face. "What the fuck, Calvin?"
"I know," I said.
"No, I mean—" His hips shifted, chasing it, and he caught himself and went still and then chased it again anyway because his body had simply stopped consulting him. "I mean, what the fuck."
I kept my eyes on his face. A smile stretched across mine as I remembered our first night together.You'd love every second of it.
"Still just okay?" I asked.
He turned his head and looked at me, wrecked and open and not even trying to hide it.
"No," he said. "So much better than okay. So fucking—holy fuck, Calvin."
I worked him open methodically, adding a second finger and watching his whole body negotiate with the stretch of it—the way he'd tense and then consciously release, tense and release, like he was learning a new language in real time. His cock was harder still, flushed and neglected and apparently not requiring any attention whatsoever to stay that way.
Then his hips rolled, chasing my fingers, and his breath went ragged, and I looked up at his face and saw exactly where he was headed.
I withdrew.
He made a sound low in his throat—involuntary, barely there—that he almost certainly didn't mean to make. "Calvin?—"
I ran my palm up the inside of his thigh. "Not yet."
He granted me another whimper that had me grinning. "You're killing me."
"You're fine." I smoothed my hand over his hip, waiting for his breathing to even out. "I'm not done with you. Not even close."
I gave him a moment. Let him breathe. His hands had gone loose at his sides and his chest was steadily rising and falling. He looked like he'd just had several foundational assumptions about himself gently revised.
"Still good?" I asked.
