Chapter 7 Ant #2
I’m aware of everything—the subtle rock of the mattress, the way his fingers flex around my cock, the small drag of his skin under my palms as I hold on while encouraging him to rock his hips.
I want him as deep as I can get him. I want him to fuck my face and scratch my throat so that every time I release a raspy breath, I’ll remember this moment: the weight of his cock, the feel of his body, the taste of him.
My senses feel cracked wide open. The air is thick with his scent—warm skin, faint cologne, clean sweat—and every breath drags it deeper into me.
There’s salt on my lips when I swallow around him, heat flooding through me with every movement between us.
The sounds are different now—low, unsteady, almost muffled—coming from both of us in the same ragged rhythm, our focus so complete, it’s like the rest of the world has fallen away.
The urgency climbs higher, winding tighter, and I can feel he’s there too—in the urgency of his thrusts, the way his rhythm falters for half a beat before finding itself again.
His hands shift, one sliding down to my hip, steadying me.
The other skims lower, brushing under my balls, across my taint, and to my hole.
The soft press, the smooth spit-slick circling steals what’s left of my breath.
A sound escapes me—low, broken—and his answer is a quiet, guttural “Yeah… fuck, me too.”
I want more. I want him, all at once. I reach for him, sliding my fingers between his cheeks with an urgency that surprises even me. He exhales hard as I dip a finger inside his tight channel. The heat of him sends another shock through my body.
We move together then—my finger inside him, his inside me, both pushing in and out, curling and searching for the place I just know will make us both pop and come down each other’s throats.
We find a pace that feels inevitable. Desperate.
Every pass, every squeeze, every shift sends another wave rolling through me.
The sounds between us change, deeper now, less measured. There’s nothing careful left.
The air in the room feels hot, heavy. I can feel the way his breathing shortens, the not-so-subtle tremor in his thighs. I know he’s close because I am too—so close it’s almost unbearable.
I gasp when he sweeps a finger against my prostate and pull away enough to cry, “Eli….” His name breaks out of me, and it’s not a warning so much as a confession.
“Don’t stop,” he says, and it comes out half plea, half order.
We don’t—latching on to each other’s cocks and massaging prostates like we’re on a mission.
The rhythm builds, faster now, each pass a little rougher, each breath sharper.
The tension in my stomach coils impossibly tight, my whole body alive with sensation.
His arms tremble while everything rushes towards that edge.
It hits me fast. The rush breaks over me in a flood of heat and release, my body jerking under his as my hand falters, then reflexively speeds up again. I make a sound I couldn’t repeat if I tried.
He follows a heartbeat later, shuddering from head to toe as the tension leaves him in a rush. The pace between us falters, slowing naturally as the intensity ebbs. We stay connected for a moment longer, both of us catching the aftershocks, before we ease apart with unspoken care.
He shifts away first, hands gentle as he moves, and then turns to face me. The look on his face, so open and unguarded, almost undone, clenches deep in my chest in a way that isn’t physical at all.
We collapse back against the bed, still touching in little ways—shoulders pressed, fingers brushing. The air between us is thick, not just with heat but with the knowledge that we’ve tipped into territory we can’t easily undo.
He’s the first to speak, low and a little unsteady. “Been wanting that for a long time.”
I smile, still catching my breath. “Yeah. Me too.”
And neither of us moves to break the contact.
For a while, we simply stay there. The heat of his body is still pressed along mine, our breathing slowly finding its way back to normal. My skin is damp, my muscles loose, but there’s no rush to shift away. Not when it feels this good to stay.
Eli traces a faint lazy line up my arm like he’s not even thinking about it. But it keeps me tethered, the light contact doing something to my chest I don’t want to name too soon.
“Wasn’t planning on this,” he says eventually, voice low and a little rough from everything we just did.
I laugh softly. “Yeah, neither was I. But…” I tip my head towards him so I can meet his eyes. “Not sorry.”
His mouth curves, slow and genuine. “Good. Me neither.”
The quiet stretches again, but it’s different now—full, not awkward.
I find myself studying him, not in the way I have been for the past few weeks when I thought I was being subtle, but openly.
The small flecks of gold in his eyes. The faint crease at the bridge of his nose, like he frowns a lot when he’s concentrating.
The way his hair’s gone a little wild from my hands in it.
“I like this,” I admit before I can overthink it.
“This?” he asks, one eyebrow ticking up.
I gesture between us. “Being here with you. Talking. Not talking. All of it.”
There’s a shift in his expression; it softens. He nods. “Yeah. Same.”
We lie together, the weight of that hanging in the air, and it feels like the safest thing in the world to stay in this space with him.
“Guess the kids are going to wonder why we’re both looking so smug when we see them,” he says, breaking into a grin.
I huff a laugh. “They already think we like hanging out too much. Henry asked me yesterday if we’re best friends now.”
“Best friends, huh?” He leans in just enough that his shoulder presses more firmly into mine. “Could be worse.”
I swallow, my voice quieter now. “Could also be more than that.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. “Yeah. Could.”
And there it is—clear, simple, and sitting right there between us.
We don’t rush to define it. We don’t need to. But the way he brushes the back of my hand with his thumb before linking our fingers tells me all I need to know: We’re heading somewhere we both want to go.