Chapter 22 #2
It was different from our first times when it was all tentative exploration. Different from the reconciliation weeks when we moved at a slow and deliberate pace. This was two people who knew each other's bodies well enough to skip the preamble.
He unhooked my belt with one hand while kissing my neck.
"You practiced that," I said.
"On my belt. Repeatedly. I have a process."
"You have a process for undressing me?"
"I have a process for everything." His teeth grazed my collarbone. "You like it."
I did. Every process in my life had been about containment. Heath’s were about getting me off.
We fell onto the bed. He caught his weight on one arm and used the other to shove the decorative pillow onto the floor.
"I hate that pillow," he said, mouth against my shoulder.
"You own one throw pillow."
"And I hate it. Maggie sent it. It says Live Laugh Lace Up."
"That's objectively terrible."
"I know. I can never throw it away."
He kissed down my chest. Unhurried. He knew where to slow down. He'd learned me through observation and repetition and knew what made my breathing change and the exact pressure along the inside of my hip that made rational thought difficult.
His lips reached my waistband. He looked up. Eyes steady.
"I want to try something tonight," he said. Quiet. No bravado. "I want to be inside you."
My breath caught. I'd thought about it in the dark, in hotel rooms, and on planes while Heath slept beside me. Set it aside the way I set aside everything that required me to stop narrating my life and actually inhabit it.
"Yeah," I said. "I want that."
He exhaled. Relief and desire braided together. "The idea is we start slow. Work up to it."
"You read the guide."
"I'm an overachiever." He kissed me, and his hand slid into my waistband. "I want to make this good for you."
"You know it's my first time."
"I know."
We wrestled the rest of our clothes off. Heath's pants tangled around one ankle because he'd forgotten to take off his shoes first. He kicked them free, swearing under his breath.
He reached for the lube. Poured it over his fingers with the same focus he gave pregame prep, deliberate, with no waste.
"Tell me if anything's wrong," he said.
"I will."
"I mean it. This isn't a shift you grit through."
He settled between my legs, one hand on my thigh, thumb tracing the inside of my knee. "Okay?"
"Yeah."
The first touch was careful. Slick and warm, circling before pressing, letting my body decide the pace. I breathed into it the way you breathe through a hard interval on the bike, steady, deliberate, the part of my brain that monitored everything loosening its grip one vertebra at a time.
One finger. Slow. My breath hitched.
"Good?"
"Yeah."
He worked slowly. Added more lube. His other hand rested flat on my stomach.
The second finger was more. The stretch, the strange fullness, and the moment where my body resisted and then didn't. Heath waited through all of it, reading me the way he read the ice, watching for the opening, and committing when it came.
He curled his fingers into the perfect angle, and my hips lifted off the bed. The sound I made was involuntary, sharp, and stripped of filters.
Heath's eyes darkened. "There," he said.
He stayed there. Worked the spot with patient, relentless pressure, pushing the pleasure higher until my legs were shaking and the part of my brain that narrated everything had gone completely, mercifully quiet.
"Ready for this?" He held up the plug.
"Ready."
He slicked it and pressed it in slowly. My body closed around the widest point and settled. The fullness was constant, every nerve ending from my ribs to my knees recalibrating around it.
"Full," I said.
He kissed me while I adjusted. The plug shifted with every movement. When he pressed against me, and when his hand slid between us and wrapped around my cock. Each motion sent a pulse through my spine that I felt in my teeth.
He stroked me slowly while I kept it inside. Not building toward a climax yet. His cock lay against my thigh, hard and waiting.
"I want you." The words came out raw. "Heath. Now."
He pulled the plug out slowly. The absence was immediate; my body hungry to be filled again. He reached for a condom. Rolled it on. More lube. Generous.
"On your back? Or—"
"Like this. I want to see you."
He guided himself into position. The tip pressed against me.
"Breathe," he said.
I breathed.
He pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch while he watched. He stopped when I gasped. Waited. Moved again when my body opened.
The burn faded as he gave me time, and underneath it was pressure, deep, specific, unlike anything I'd known. My body was making room for Heath. The literal act of opening to let someone further inside than I'd ever allowed.
"Okay?" His voice was low.
"Move."
He did. Slow at first, rocking his hips in long movements that let me feel every inch. I reached out for his back, feeling the muscles work.
He changed the angle. "There. Right there. Don't—"
"I know."
He held the position and then settled into a rhythm, forward and back. Neither frantic nor careful. I listened to the slap of skin against the backs of my thighs. The wet sound of bodies working together.
Heath gripped my hip to adjust the angle, fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks.
I wanted the evidence. My whole life had been about leaving no trace, performing so cleanly that nothing stuck, and I wanted bruises in the morning the way I'd never wanted a trophy—proof that I'd been here, in my body, in this bed, choosing to open myself to this man.
I dug my fingers into his back hard enough to leave marks of my own. He pressed his face against my temple, breathing ragged and hot against my ear. He increased the pace.
"Close," I said.
He reached between us. Wrapped his slick fingers around my cock and stroked in time with his thrusts. The combined sensations, inside and out, pushed me over the edge.
I came hard. My back arched, and I reached up to clamp the back of his neck. Wordless sounds erupted out of me. Heath held me through it, slowed his hips and kept slowly stroking.
He came less than a minute later. His rhythm faltered. He pressed deep and held. His entire body locked and then released in one wave, his face buried in my neck.
We stayed like that. Connected. Breathing.
He pulled out gently. Dealt with the condom. Collapsed beside me and pressed his face into my shoulder.
"Scale of one to ten," he asked. Muffled. Hoarse.
"Eleven."
"The scale only goes to ten."
"Then the scale is insufficient."
He laughed into my skin.
We lay tangled in his sheets. My legs were still vibrating. The city hummed through open blinds. Heath laid his head on my chest, ear over my heart, one leg hooked over mine.
"You're worth it," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "You too."
He kissed my chest.
"Say it again."
"You're worth it."
He lifted his head. "We should eat. Our bodies need protein."
"My body is horizontal and committed to staying this way."
"My apartment. My rules. There are eggs."
Heath pulled on boxers and a faded Rhinelander Hockey t-shirt. He walked barefoot into his kitchen. Methodically turned on the stove and placed a pan on the burner.
I heard the refrigerator open. "There are eggs," he called. "Four. One is suspicious."
"Suspicious how?"
"It's giving off energy."
"Eggs don't give off energy."
"This one does. I'm making an executive decision."
I found my boxers. Walked to the kitchen doorway.
He stood at the stove, cracking eggs one-handed. He didn't know I was watching. Or he did, and it changed nothing.
"Scrambled or fried?" he asked without turning.
"Scrambled."
"Good. The pan's too small for frying."
I crossed the kitchen. Put my hand on his lower back. Felt his weight settle toward me. I leaned my head on his shoulder and let Heath take care of us.