Chapter 9 Wes #2
"Wes. Keep doing that."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know. I know. Just. That. Keep doing that."
A third finger and I curl and his back arches off the cushion and the sound he makes is sharp and raw.
His cock is leaking against his stomach, a slick line from the head to his navel, and his hips are rocking onto my hand.
The light from the kitchen falls in a long line across his ribs and I could stay here for hours, watching him like this, the flush spreading across his chest like weather moving in.
"Now," he says. "Wes, now. Please."
I pull my fingers out and slick myself and move up over him.
The couch is narrow. His body is warm underneath me and the ocean is steady through the open door.
I watch his face as I line myself up to his hole and press in.
Slow, the way he asked for it. His body opens for me and his hands come up to my shoulders and I feel him adjusting, taking me in.
The sound he makes is quiet and low and raw and I stop halfway and wait.
"Don't stop," he says.
"Just checking."
"I'm good. Don't stop."
I push in the rest of the way. His legs wrap around my hips. His heels press against my lower back and I hold still, all the way inside him. His eyes are open and on me.
I start to move. Slow, steady. He is hot and tight around me.
I can feel his nails drag when I angle right and hit the spot that makes his breath stutter.
His cock is between us, hard against my stomach.
I feel him leaking against me. I reach between us and wrap my hand around him and stroke in time with my hips.
"Fuck," he says, arching his head back. "Wes. Fuck."
"I've got you."
I lower my mouth to his neck. I kiss the line of his throat and taste the salt on his skin and he is making sounds under me now that are not words.
Just breath and heat and the involuntary register of a body being fucked the way he asked to be fucked.
His hand comes up to the back of my head and his fingers curl into my hair and hold.
"Harder," he says.
I give him harder. I am watching his face and his face is the only thing in the world.
His breath catches. He turns his face toward mine and kisses me. The kiss is messy and desperate and right. His hand tightens in my hair and his hips are meeting mine on every stroke and I know he is close because his whole body has gone taut and his voice has gone high and thin.
"I'm close," he says.
"Yeah. Me too."
His face is flushed and his eyes shut just as he comes in my hand. Ropes across his stomach, his mouth open and silent. His body clamps around me and I follow him over, my forehead pressed against his, my hand braced on the arm of the couch.
We lie like this as we catch our breath. I am still inside him. His hand is on my back, his fingers drawing slow lines between my shoulder blades. The couch is too narrow for this but neither of us is moving.
After a minute, I pull out carefully and go to the kitchen.
I clean myself up and come back with a warm towel for him.
He watches me clean him up without saying anything.
I drop the towel on the floor and lie back down next to him on the narrow couch.
He shifts onto his side and puts his head on my chest and his breathing slows.
"Luca," I say. Into his hair. Because I can.
His hand goes still on my chest. One beat. Two. Then his fingers spread wide again and he presses his palm flat against my skin.
"Yeah?" he asks. Quiet.
"Nothing. Just wanted to say your name."
"Yeah." He exhales. "Okay."
The ocean is through the open balcony door and the kitchen light is still on. I should get up and turn it off but I don't want to leave this space. His weight is on me and his breathing is steady and his hair smells like the shampoo he borrowed from me.
"Seven-point-four," he says and I feel the grin against my chest.
I look down at him. "You did not just rate this."
"Seven-point-four for ambiance. The couch loses points for width but the ocean sounds make up the difference."
"You are rating the ambiance of us fucking?"
"Everything gets rated. You agreed to this system."
"I did not agree to rate sex."
"The system has expanded." He tilts his head up. His chin is on my chest. "Do you want to know the overall score?"
"No."
He gives me one anyway. "Nine-point-one."
"You are not giving me a nine-point-one."
"I gave you a nine-point-one. The point-nine deduction is for the fifteen seconds you left to get lube. The logistics interrupted the flow."
"The logistics were necessary."
"The logistics were a six. The rest was a nine-eight."
"That math doesn't work."
"The math works fine. You just don't like being graded."
I put my hand over his mouth. He grins against my palm and then kisses it, soft, and the grin fades into something quieter, and he puts his head back down on my chest and closes his eyes.
"The couch is a seven for sleeping," he says, his voice already going loose at the edges.
"We're not sleeping on the couch."
"We might be sleeping on the couch."
"We're not."
"You have not moved in four minutes. We are sleeping on the couch."
His breathing evens out and his weight settles against me and his hand stays on my chest. I can tell the moment he falls asleep. I pull the blanket off the back of the couch and cover us both without waking him.
We sleep on the couch.
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