Page 38 of Keep

Chad laughed. Not at him—with him, or maybe at the sheer improbable joy of it—and the sound of that laugh, breathless and delighted, did something to Hank that was more intimate than anything their bodies were doing.

This. This is who I am. A forty-year-old man who says giddyup in bed and means it.

Movement caught his eye. The dresser mirror. There they were: Hank gripping Chad’s hips, driving into him, both flushed and slick. The silver in his beard. The size of his hands against Chad’s waist. The man in the mirror was someone Hank had never met. Someone unguarded.

“Look,” Hank said, his voice rough.

Chad followed his gaze, and Hank felt him clench, heard his breath catch.

Hank slowed. Made his strokes longer and fuller, watching their reflection. Watching himself disappear into Chad and emerge again.

“Hold on,” Chad said, breathless. “I want to see your face. Not in the mirror. Close.”

Hank withdrew carefully, and Chad turned to face him, both on their knees now. They kissed—deep, slow. A reset.

“Ride me,” Hank said. “I want to watch you.”

Where was this coming from?

Chad pushed him back against the headboard with a grin and a firm hand on his chest. Hank settled, legs spreading to make room, and watched as Chad straddled him—one hand on Hank’s shoulder for balance, the other reaching back to guide him into place.

“Ready?” Chad asked, Hank pressing against him.

Hank nodded. His throat had closed entirely.

Chad lowered himself. Inch by inch.

Hank watched his face—the eyes fluttering shut, the lips parting, the expression moving from focus to something that looked like relief. The angle was different this time, tighter, and Hank gripped the sheets and forced himself to stay still, to let Chad take what he needed.

Chad sat fully. Not moving. Just breathing. Then he began to roll his hips—not bouncing, not performing, just a slow, undulating grind that scattered Hank’s vision into points of light.

Hank’s hands settled on Chad’s hips. Not controlling. Connecting. He let Chad lead.

Chad’s palm pressed flat against Hank’s chest. Hank covered it with his own. Their eyes met.

“I want to be on top,” Hank said. The need to be closer was suddenly ungovernable.

Chad leaned back and Hank followed, one arm bracing Chad’s lower back, the other planted on the mattress, rolling them without breaking apart—he was coordinated, it turned out, when it counted—and then he was covering Chad’s body with his own, pressing him into the mattress, their faces inches apart.

Chad wrapped his legs around Hank’s waist and pulled him deeper. Hank released his weight and Chad accepted it—all of it, every pound—with a soft exhale and arms tightening around his back.

Hank nuzzled into Chad’s neck. Sweat and soap and skin.

“Oh God, Hank,” Chad breathed. “I’m going to come.”

“Not yet,” Hank whispered against his ear, startled by the authority in his own voice. “Not until I say.”

He felt Chad’s cock twitch between their stomachs.

A beat.

“I’m just teasing,” Hank added. “I don’t actually—I have no idea if I have the authority to⁠—”

“You do.” Chad’s voice was raw. “Trust me.”

Hank pressed his forehead to Chad’s. “I like you,” he said. The words landed small and enormous in the space between their mouths. “I think I could do this all night.”

“Me too. Especially when you talk in my ear like that.”