He lifted his head. His eyes dropped to the harness, then came back to my face. The grin tried to make an appearance and didn't quite land—there was too much of something else underneath it, crowding it out.
"Yeah," he said. "Come here."
I nudged his knees wider, settled between his thighs, and coated the dildo with lube, watching him watch me do it. His hands found my hips, warm and steady, and I wasn't sure which one of us he was anchoring.
I met his eyes.
"Slow," I said.
"Slow," he agreed.
I pressed forward, monitoring his face for every cue—the hitch in his breath, the momentary tightening around his eyes, the deliberate effort to stay open instead of closing against it. I stopped. Waited. His grip on me tightened.
"Keep going," he said quietly.
So I did.
And when he finally exhaled—long and shuddering and completely unguarded—he looked at me with an expression I didn't have a category for. The last of my footing went out from under me completely.
I was in serious trouble.
I had been for a while now. I was only just admitting it.
I found a rhythm. Slow at first, then less slow, and the harness was doing exactly what it was designed to do—pressure and friction building with every movement in a way I had absolutely accounted for but was now discovering I had not accounted for at all.
Not with him.
Not like this.
I rocked forward, and the angle had the breath punching right outta me.
"Fuck," I said, which I hadn't meant to say out loud.
Brody's eyes, which had been glued to where our bodies met, came back to my face immediately. Something shifted in them—surprise, then heat, then something that made my chest ache.
"Yeah?" he said.
"Shut up," I said, and did it again.
He groaned, low and helpless, his hips lifting to meet me, and I felt it everywhere—in my thighs, in my stomach, in that deep building pressure that was tightening fast and had been since before I'd fully admitted it to myself. I braced a hand on his chest and moved. He made a sound that short-circuited every coherent thought I had left.
"Calvin." Rough. Unsteady. My name like a question he already knew the answer to.
"Uh huh," I managed. My voice came out wrecked and I didn't care. I was past caring. I was past everything except the look on his face and the heat of his hands and the pressure cresting low in my belly and?—
"I'm gonna—" he started.
"Me too," I said. "Brody—me too?—"
His eyes found mine.
We didn't look away.
"Calvin—" His voice cracked. "Fuck, Calvin, I?—"
"Come, Brody," I said. "Now."
He did.
