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In the haze of heat and striving, I must have faltered because Leo twisted back to look at me. “Can I ride you?”
My ankle, I realised, was aching mercilessly, apparently unready for movement of any kind, despite my best efforts to keep my weight off it. It was with a sense of burgeoning relief that I nodded. Then recalled he couldn’t see me and rasped out a yes. I was sure it was theoretically possible to elegantly disentangle yourself from someone else but I’d never mastered the art, and so we rolled apart in a flail of limbs and sticky skin, breathless with exertion and clumsy with urgency. It wasn’t normally an element of the experience I enjoyed, and I didn’t exactly enjoy it now—the last thing you needed in the middle of sex was a reminder of its absurdities—but I found it less mood-disrupting than usual. Maybe I was just too turned on to care about anything except getting my cock back inside him.
“Kiss me, kiss me,” I heard myself saying as I landed on my back upon bedclothes warm and rumpled from where Leo had lain upon them.
I expected something messy. It was what I would have been capable of. But his fingertips landed upon my jaw, delicate as a dragonfly, turning my head towards him before his lips alighted upon mine. I was briefly frozen and the world with me. As if for a second or two the stars hung static and the tides ceased their pull and the moonlight stilled upon the water, and all for this, the sweetest and simplest of kisses.
Then it was done. He was straddling me. Sliding down the length of me with a slick and lewd ease. Everything snapping back into focus. Back into motion. And what motion. His whole body was a ripple, flexing and tightening above me and around me, one hand resting on my chest, the other pushing his hair out his eyes. Almost sculptural—the turn of his wrist, the taut line of his forearm, and the heavier curves of bicep and triceps—except life pulsed through every inch of him. Beat beneath his skin and shone in sweat upon it. Curled in harsh pants from his open mouth. Glittered upon the lashes of his bliss-closed eyes.
“Not going to last.”
It could have been me who spoke. But thankfully, it was him. “Good,” I told him. “Want to see you come.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He barely touched his cock before—with a shattered groan and an “oh fuck, Marius”—he came in long streaks across my chest and his own. I dug my fingers into his thigh and shoved up into him, following him over so hard my heart almost seized with the effort of holding back what would surely have been agrotesquely undignified cry. For long moments afterwards I floated, parchment-light and fetterless, leaving my body to gasp and heave and exhaust itself.
I was distantly aware of Leo moving away. His absence left a chill upon me. Or maybe that was just drying ejaculate. In any case, he didn’t try to touch me or talk to me. He let me have my silence and my emptiness. It covered me like water.
Rolling onto my side, I fell asleep almost immediately.
5
It must have been well past noon by the time I stirred. The light was already sepia tinged, like it had grown old and frail over the course of the day. My ankle was still bruised and swollen, and Leo was still beside me. He lay on his front, with one arm crooked under the pillow and his head turned away. When I reached out to draw the hair from his face, he awoke with a start.
“Shit.” He jerked upright. “The stove.”
At which point he clambered over me, taking care not to jostle my foot and hurried off. Naked, dishevelled, his skin bearing traces of the previous night—or, technically, earlier that day—I wondered if he knew how debauched he looked.
And I had been the one to debauch him. The notion was far too satisfying for a morning-after thought. Meaning I needed to be gone. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I tried to stand up. It did not go well. Though by the time Leo returned, I’d managed to drag on a pair of trousers. Because I didn’t want him—or anyone for that matter—to see me bouncing around with my dick flopping like a half-inflated space hopper. It had been bad enough for my own mind’s eye.
“You’re going to make it worse,” he said, crouching down to peer at what was currently the least attractive part of me.
I shrugged. “I think it’s improving.”
“I do too,” he agreed. “Can you put your weight on it at all?”
“If I have to.”
“Good. Is it okay if I touch it again?”
Somehow I managed not to roll my eyes. “If you must.”
His touch was as careful as it had been previously. But it was purposeful too, and I hadn’t had any painkillers.
“Ow,” I said.
“Does it hurt more if I press—”
“Ow.”
“Here?”
“Compared to, say—”
“Ow.”
