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We kiss until I’m dizzy with it, both of us pressing into each other, hips finding that slow grind that fades coherent thought into static. I can feel how hard he is through his jeans, thick and urgent against my thigh, and I know he can feel the same from me.

He pulls back just enough to drag his mouth along my jaw.

“Shit,” I say, and the word comes out rough. “I don’t have any lube on me.”

Cruz makes a sound that’s half laugh, half something much lower. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small bottle, holding it up between two fingers.

“I’ve got lube.” He pockets it again. “No condoms, though.”

I consider this for exactly half a second. “We’re clean. Both of us. You know the screening protocol ensures that.”

“Blood work, HIV, Hep B and C.” He nods.

“So?”

He drags his thumb along my lower lip, watching me.

“So I want to feel your ass bare around my cock,” he says. “That work for you?”

My whole body pulses. “That absolutely works for me.”

We’re pulling at each other’s jeans before the sentence finishes. The park stays empty and quiet around us, just the sound of our breathing and the distant murmur of the city. There’s something about being out here in the dark and the open air that makes everything sharper. More urgent. Cruz palms thefront of my boxer briefs, feeling me out, and the pressure makes me bite back a sound against his shoulder.

“Damn,” he says, appreciative.

“I know.” I grin against his neck.

He laughs, that chest-deep laugh, and then his hand pushes past the waistband and wraps around my dick and any amusement stops entirely.

We shove our jeans down around our thighs, both of us, and for a moment we’re just standing chest to chest in the shadow of that column, foreheads nearly touching, and Cruz gets his hand around both of us at once and starts to move. The friction is obscene. We’re both thick, both heavy, and the drag of his cock against mine with his hand working us together draws a sound out of me I’d be embarrassed about in daylight.

His mouth finds mine again and we’re kissing slow and filthy now, no desperation left to burn through, just the deep rolling pleasure of it. He tightens his grip.

“Fuck,” I breathe into his mouth. “Yeah.”

“You like that?” His voice has dropped low.

“You know I like that.”

He laughs again, brushes his thumb over both our heads at once, and I genuinely lose time for a second.

But then his grip loosens and I make a noise of protest and he just says, low and certain,

“Bend over for me.”

My pulse spikes. I turn around, both hands finding that stone column in front of me, and I hear Cruz behind me shifting, getting himself ready. The cool night air hits my skin and then his big hands close on my hips and he’s pressing against me from behind, his chest warm against my back.

He reaches around me and hands me the bottle. “Get yourself started.”

I do. The lube is cool and I work myself open a little, one finger, two, and I’m not tight. I love this, have always loved this, don’t see a reason to be shy about it. When his fingers replace mine they slide in easy and deep as his other hand presses flat against my lower belly.

“There you go,” he says, close to my ear. “Open up.”

“I’m open.” My voice comes out hoarse.

“Yeah, you are.” He scissors his fingers slowly and I push back against him on instinct, impatient. He makes a disapproving sound. “Easy.”

“Cruz.” His name in my mouth is half warning and half plea.