Coastline #3
“Fuck,” I gasped. “So big. So full.”
“You can take it. You always take it so well.” He pushed in deeper, and I felt every inch. “Such a good boy for me. Taking Daddy's cock so perfectly.”
When he was fully seated inside me, we both went still, breathing hard.
“Move,” I begged. “Please move, Daddy.”
He pulled back slowly, then slammed back in, and I cried out. He did it again, harder this time, setting a brutal pace that had me gasping and clinging to the headboard.
“Hands,” he growled. “Keep your hands where they are.”
I forced my hands back to the headboard, gripping it desperately, and he fucked me harder. Every thrust hit that spot inside me that made me see stars, and I was making sounds I didn't recognize—desperate and needy and completely gone.
“That's it. Take it. Take Daddy's cock. Show me how much you love it.”
“Love it. Fuck, I love it. Love your cock. Love how you fuck me. Love how you make me feel.”
His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, and I loved it. Loved the marks he was leaving, loved the evidence that this was real, that he was claiming me.
“Gonna come,” I gasped. “Gonna come, Daddy, please—”
“Not yet. You don't come until I say so.”
“Please. Please, I can't—”
“You can.” He shifted the angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting my prostate with every thrust, and I was shaking, trembling, right on the edge of orgasm but unable to fall over without his permission.
“Please, Daddy. Please let me come. I need it. Need to come on your cock.”
“Touch yourself. But don't come until I say so.”
I let go of the headboard with one hand and wrapped it around my cock, stroking myself in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was overwhelming—his cock inside me, my hand on my cock, pleasure building and building with nowhere to go.
“Good boy. Look at you. So desperate. So needy. So perfect for me.”
“Please. Please, Daddy, I can't hold it. I'm gonna—”
“Hold it.” His voice was commanding, absolute. “You hold it until I tell you to come.”
I was shaking, trembling, tears leaking from my eyes from the effort of holding back. My cock was leaking steadily, my hand slick with precome, and every thrust pushed me closer to the edge.
“Daddy, please—”
“Look at me.” His voice was rough. “Look at me when you come.”
I forced my eyes open, met his gaze, and saw the same desperate hunger reflected back at me.
“Come,” he ordered. “Come for me now.”
I did, my whole body going rigid as I came harder than I ever had before. My cock pulsed in my hand, come painting my chest and stomach, and I felt my ass clench around him, milking his cock.
“Fuck, Jace—” He buried himself deep and came with a groan, and I felt him pulse inside me, felt the warmth flooding me, felt him shake with the force of his orgasm.
He collapsed on top of me, both of us breathing hard, sweaty and spent. His weight pressed me into the mattress, and I wrapped my arms around him, holding him close.
“Holy shit,” I managed after a moment.
“Yeah.” His voice was muffled against my neck. “Holy shit.”
We lay there for a long moment, neither of us willing to move, neither of us wanting to break the connection. His cock was still inside me, softening but still there, and his come started to leak out.
“I love you,” I said quietly.
He lifted his head to look at me, and his expression was soft. Vulnerable. “I love you too.”
“This is real, right? We're really here. In our house. Together.”
“We're really here.” He pressed a kiss to my forehead. “This is real. We made it.”
My throat went tight. “I was so scared we wouldn't.”
“I know. I was too.” He pulled out carefully, and I felt the immediate loss, felt his come start to leak out more freely. “But we did. We fought for this, and we won.”
He moved to get up, probably to get something to clean us up, but I grabbed his wrist.
“Stay. Just for a minute. I want to feel this.”
He settled back down beside me, pulling me into his arms, and I pressed my face into his chest. We were both sticky and sweaty and covered in come, but I didn't care. I just wanted to be close to him, to feel the reality of this moment.
“You have me.” His hand stroked down my spine. “You've always had me.”
We lay there in comfortable silence, the ocean air drifting through the open window, the sound of waves in the distance. This was ours. This house, this bed, this life. We'd fought for it, survived for it, and now we finally got to live it.
Eventually, Grant did get up to get a warm washcloth, and he cleaned me up with the same gentle care he always did. Cleaned my stomach, my chest, between my legs where his come was still leaking out. His touch was tender, reverent, and I felt something in my chest clench at the intimacy of it.
When he was done, he climbed back into bed and pulled me close. I went willingly, tucking myself against his side, one leg thrown over his hips.
“Better?” he asked.
“Perfect.” I pressed a kiss to his chest. “Everything's perfect.”
When it was over, we lay tangled together with the ocean air drifting through the open window.
“You good?” Grant asked.
“Yeah.” I pressed my face into his neck. “I'm good.”
We lay there in comfortable silence, and I let myself drift. Felt safe and loved and finally, finally allowed to just exist.
This was the part they didn't show on TV. The quiet after the win. The domestic intimacy. The life we'd built from the wreckage of scandal and fear.
“Jace?”
“Mm?”
“We need to talk about the dog.”
I laughed despite myself. “We're not getting a dog yet.”
“Good. Because I'm pretty sure we can't handle a dog right now.”
“Agreed. Maybe after playoffs.”
“Maybe.”
I felt sleep pulling at me, warm and heavy and safe. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Tomorrow we'd unpack. Tomorrow we'd figure out where everything went. Tomorrow we'd start building the life we'd fought so hard to have.
But tonight, we just held each other in our house, in our bed, and let ourselves be exactly what we were:
Two people who'd survived the worst and come out the other side together.
And that was enough.