Chapter 34 Tex
I wake up to Stormy's mouth on my stomach.
His mouth is marking a path just below the navel, where the trail of hair gets thicker and the skin is soft and the nerve endings apparently have a direct line to every part of my brain that isn't ready to be awake yet.
His lips are warm. His hand is flat on my hip, pressing lightly, holding me in place, and his mouth is moving south with the slow patience of a man who has a plan and is in no hurry to explain it.
I was dreaming about pancakes. I don't know why that's the detail my brain offers up first. I was dreaming and now I'm not. The transition between those two states is the best transition I've ever experienced in my life.
"Stormy." I'm barely thirty percent functional. "What are you—"
"Shh."
"It's—" I crane my neck to look at the clock on the nightstand. The numbers swim. "Six fifteen in the—"
"Shh… be quiet."
His mouth moves lower. His fingers hook into the waistband of my boxers and he pulls them down with a confidence that I haven't seen from him before. Stormy has always been careful in bed. Every touch has been a question he's asking with his hands. Is this okay? Can I do this?
This morning the questions are gone. This morning he's not asking.
He's deciding.
He pulls the boxers past my hips and down my legs. I kick them off because I'm a helpful participant and also because the blood that was in my brain thirty seconds ago has relocated to a dick and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.
His hand wraps around me and the sound I make is not dignified. It's not the sound a big, strong man should make. It's closer to the sound a man makes when he's been woken up by the man he loves doing extraordinary things.
"Jesus, Stormy."
He answers with his mouth. His lips close around me and the world reduces itself to a single point of contact. Hot. Wet. His tongue moving with a slow, curling pressure that tells me he's been thinking about this.
He's mastering the blowjob.
My hand finds his hair. The blond strands between my fingers, soft, and I don't push, I don't guide. I just rest my hand there because I need to touch him and his hair is the closest part of him I can reach.
He takes me deeper. His hand works the base where his mouth can't reach. And there's a lot his mouth can't reach, which is a fact I'm aware of and mildly self-conscious about, and which Stormy is currently treating as a challenge rather than an obstacle.
He pulls back. Runs his tongue along the underside from base to tip, slow, a long wet stripe that makes my spine arch off the mattress.
Then he takes me in again, deeper this time, and I feel the back of his throat and his swallow around me.
My hand tightens in his hair because my body has stopped accepting commands from my brain.
"Stormy, I'm going to—if you keep—"
He keeps going and his hand tightens. His other hand finds my thigh and grips hard.
I look down at him. This beautiful, fierce man with storm-colored eyes and scars I've memorized with my fingertips.
He looks up at me through his lashes and his eyes are steady and present. He's here. Every movement is his.
This is not what Ron built with his disgusting hands.
This is what Stormy built.
On his own. For me.
I come hard with my hand in his hair and a sound ripping from my chest that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for embarrassment left, which I do not.
He takes all of it. Swallows and stays and doesn't pull away. When it's over, he rests his cheek against my thigh and breathes. I can feel him smiling against my skin.
"Good morning," he says cheerfully.
I'm staring at the ceiling. I'm a man who has been unmade and reassembled by his mouth. "That's one word for it."
He climbs up my body. He's hard. I can feel him against my hip through his shorts.
He settles onto my chest with his chin on his hands and looks at me with an expression that is half satisfaction and half mischief.
I've never seen mischief on Stormy's face before and it is the most perfect thing I've ever witnessed.
"Where did that come from?" I ask.
"I woke up and you were hard."
"I'm a man. It's early in the morning. That's physics, otherwise known as morning wood."
"And I wanted to." He says it simply. Three words. I wanted to. Not I felt like I should. Not I thought you expected it. I wanted to. His words. His mouth on my body because he woke up and looked at me and wanted.
I pull him up and kiss him. I need his mouth on mine. I need him close. He melts into the kiss the way he's learned to melt into me, boneless and warm and trusting.
My hand finds the waistband of his shorts.
I push them down and take him in my hand and he makes a sound against my mouth—a sharp, catching breath, almost a gasp—and his hips roll into my grip.
He's so hard it's almost urgent. The tip is wet and I use it, sliding my thumb over him, spreading the slick, and his whole body shivers.
I work him slow. Long, steady strokes from base to tip, learning him the way I've been learning him for weeks, memorizing every response.
The way his breath hitches when I twist at the top.
How his hips chase my hand when I slow down.
His face burying in my neck when the pleasure gets too big to hold behind his eyes.
He's rocking into my fist now, his hips finding a rhythm, his breath coming fast. I tighten my grip. He gasps. I speed up. He makes a sound that's closer to a whimper than anything and it goes through me like an electric current.
"Tex—"
"I've got you, baby."
"I'm—"
"I know. Let go."
His body tightens against mine, every muscle drawn taut like a wire, and then the wave breaks and he comes across my stomach in warm, pulsing strokes, his face pressed into my neck, his mouth open against my skin.
The sound he makes is quiet. Not loud like me. But it's perfect and it's mine. That sound belongs to me. No one else has heard it because no one else has earned it. No one else has ever loved him the way I love him.
We lie there tangled together, barely breathing. His hand is on my chest, over my heart, and my hand is on his back, tracing the ridge of his spine with my fingertips.
"Tex? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, you can. What's going on?"
He's quiet. His finger traces a circle on my chest. I wait. Waiting is the thing I've gotten best at in this relationship. Not pushing. Not filling silences. Just being still and letting him find the words in his own time.
"Do you want to fuck me?" he asks.
The words land in the room like a water balloon dropped from the Empire State Building. Direct. Stormy's way. He doesn't dress things up or circle around them. He walks straight at a thing, drops it on the table and waits to see what happens.
My brain, which was approximately four percent operational after what just happened, attempts to reboot. It fails. It tries again. Partial success.
"Whoa, hang on," I say. "Where did that come from all of a sudden?
Give me a minute here to get some blood back to my brain.
" I blow out a breath. "Okay, I heard the question and I'm trying to give you an honest response.
Of course, I want to fuck you. I want to do everything with you, Stormy.
Anything and everything. That's a given. "
He nods against my chest. Like he expected the answer. Like he's been carrying the question for weeks and the answer is the one he anticipated and now he's thinking about what comes next.
"But I'm not going to do that," I add.
His head lifts. His puzzled eyes find mine. "Why not?"
"Because I'm a huge guy with a big dick and I am not going to do anything that hurts you.
I watched you flinch the first time I touched your back in the shower.
I've watched you figure out what it feels like to be touched by someone who isn't trying to take from you.
I'm not going to rush past that. There's no reason to.
I'm not going to put you in a position where your body is doing one thing and your brain is doing another.
Not for anything. I can't do that right now. I can't and I won't."
He looks at me and I can see him working through it.
The history of his body. The physical issue of our size differences.
He's always assumed he'd be the bottom. Of course he has.
Why wouldn't he? Even if he wasn't taking into account my size.
Every experience he's ever had has put him there underneath.
Always receiving what someone else decided to give.
That's the only version of sex he knows.
"I want to, though," he says. "Eventually. I want all of it with you. Anything and everything, the same as you said."
"Me too. We have time. We have so much time, Stormy. But there's no rush. There's never a rush. It's not a big deal and certainly not anything to worry about."
I can feel him thinking, the gears turning. Stormy's brain never stops running equations.
"What do we do though?" he asks. "In the meantime. I don't want to lose you."
Ah… there it is.
"That's not going to happen," I tell him. "What do you think I'll do? Drop the guy I'm crazy in love with to go stick my dick in some random person? Do you really think there's anything that would make me do something crazy like that?"
He looks at me and shakes his head. "No, I don't think that. I just… I want to be good for you and… I'm still working through some things."
"I understand and I've got an idea. It's just an idea, so don't freak out. Why don't you fuck me instead?"
If he can drop word bombs in the middle of conversations, then so can I.
The look on Stormy's face. Oh my God. His eyes go wide. His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. He looks like a man who's just been handed a menu he didn't know he was allowed to order from.
"You—" he starts. "Wait. I—you want me to—"
"Why not? What's the issue?"