Chapter 34 Tex #2
"Because you're—" He waves a hand at me. All of me. The chest like a barrel and the arms like bridge cables and the physical reality of a man who takes up most of a king-sized bed. "You're you."
"Yes, last time I checked, I'm still me."
"And I'm—" He gestures at himself with a body that buys clothes in the boy's slim section and still has to roll the cuffs.
"Yes, you're you," I say. "You're perfect and I want you. Inside me. If you want that. Only if you want that though. No pressure for anything. It's only a suggestion."
He seems mystified and more than a little confused. "But you're so—"
"Big? Yes. We've established this. I'm a large man. It's been noted. It's on my driver's license under the section where they list things that are obvious."
He's grinning now. "Tex, come on. You're joking about this."
"Stormy."
"I'm being serious, Tex."
"So am I." I roll onto my side, facing him.
My hand finds his face. The line of his jaw.
"Listen to me. I've been thinking about this.
I've been thinking about it since the first time you touched me.
And what I keep coming back to is that you have spent your entire life having choices taken away from you.
What you eat, where you sleep, who touches you, how they touch you, when they stop.
None of that was ever yours. And I'm not going to be another man who decides what happens to your body.
I'm not going to be the one who says this is how it works because I'm bigger.
That's not my playbook. This isn't a power struggle. "
His eyes are bright. Not tears, not yet, but the shimmer that comes before them. The film of water that turns his eyes luminous.
"This way," I say, "you're in charge. Completely.
You set the pace and everything else. You decide when and how and how fast and if it's too much you stop.
You're not underneath someone. You're not pinned down or trapped.
You're on top and you're driving and I'm the one who's trusting you. And I do trust you. Completely."
"Have you done this before?" he asks.
"Been on the bottom?" I chuckle. "Uh… no. There's a first time for everything."
"What if you don't like it?"
"I'll love anything with you. Stop worrying about me. Trust me, I'm good to go anytime with anything. The answer will always be yes. I know you think I'm joking, but I'm not."
The laugh that comes out of him is sudden and unexpected.
It breaks through the weight of the conversation like sunlight through clouds.
He laughs and his whole face changes and for a moment there's no Ron, no fear, no history, just a man in bed with someone he loves who just made him laugh about sex.
"Okay," he says. "We can try it."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I want to if you want to."
"Hell, yeah, I do," I say. "Before we do it, we'll need to talk about the practical logistics."
Stormy raises his eyebrows at me.
"You look worried," I say. "Are you worried? Don't be. We're both technically virgins here. When we're done, I'll go downstairs, steal Sheila's daiquiri machine and make us virgin pina coladas to celebrate."
"Maybe I should have a real drink first," he says. "I might need liquid courage. I can't believe you're really letting me do this."
"Letting you? What do you mean? I'm begging you. But first I need a shower. Let me clean up so I can make a good first impression. Give you a minute to think. And if you change your mind, that's fine too. Zero pressure. We've got all the time in the world."
I kiss his forehead and roll out of bed. I'm aware of him watching me walk naked to the bathroom. I step into the shower and wash everything, including the parts that are about to have a brand-new experience.
I think about what I just offered. I'm not nervous. This is Stormy and everything with Stormy is right, even the parts that are new and unknown and terrifying in the best possible way.
I dry off but don't put clothes or wrap a towel around me. We've established where this morning is going and clothes would be counterproductive to the mission.
When I walk back into the bedroom, he's sitting cross-legged on the bed in his thinking position, still naked, and he looks up at me when I come through the door. His eyes move down my body and back up. The flush on his cheeks deepens.
I stand there for a second, letting him look. Then I turn around and drop face-first onto the mattress with a heavy bounce that nearly sends him airborne. Reaching back, I slap my own ass. Hard enough that the sound cracks through the room like a gunshot.
"All yours, cowboy," I say into the pillow. "Have at it. Do me."
Dead silence.
I turn my head to look at him. His face is a masterpiece.
His eyes are the size of dinner plates. His mouth is hanging open.
His hands are frozen in the air in front of him like a man who's just been told to defuse a bomb and isn't sure which wire to cut.
He's staring at my ass the way you'd stare at Mount Rushmore if someone told you it was all yours now and you need to figure out what to do with it.
"You should see your face right now," I say. "I would pay actual money to have a picture of your face right now."
"Tex… hang on a minute… I'm not sure… I don't know— "
"Relax, Stormy. I'm messing with you." I roll onto my side, grinning. "We're not doing the full thing right now. Breathe. I'm sorry, baby. You're freaking out."
"Tex! You can't just do that!" He shoves my shoulder. His face is red but he's laughing. "You can't slap your ass and say 'have at it' like I ordered a pizza."
"I absolutely can and I just did. Tactical humor, Stormy. It's my specialty. I deployed it to break the tension and based on the shade of red your face is, I'd say mission accomplished."
He shoves me again. I catch his hand and pull him toward me and he falls against my chest. We're both laughing, tangled up naked on a bed, and the laughter is the best sound in the world because it means the fear isn't running the show right now. We are.
The laughter fades into soft breaths against each other's skin.
His body is warm and solid against mine, cock half-hard and pressing into my hip, a gentle reminder of how much he wants this even when he's nervous.
I can feel the slight tremor in his arms where they bracket my shoulders, the way his heart beats fast against my ribs.
He's scared, but he's here. Choosing this. Choosing me.
"Okay," he says, catching his breath. "If we're not doing the big thing right now, what are we doing?"
"Whatever you want. I just took a shower and I'm lying here naked. The menu is open. Chef's choice. Put me where you want me."
He studies me a minute. There's curiosity in his eyes.
The tentative, bright-eyed curiosity of a person who's been told the world is bigger than they thought and is deciding which direction to explore first. His gaze travels down my body like he's seeing me for the first time without the filter of caution he's carried for so long.
"Turn over," he says.
I roll onto my stomach. Arms folded under the pillow, face turned to the side. My back is broad and bare and still warm from the shower, muscles loose but aware, every inch of skin prickling with anticipation under his gaze.
He straddles me. His thighs settle on either side of my waist, knees pressing into the mattress, his weight coming down gently but fully onto the small of my back.
Even that simple contact—his bare ass and balls resting against my lower back, the heat of him seeping into my skin—sends a current through my body.
He's light compared to me, but the intimacy of it is electric. His naked cock, half-hard and warm, nestled against the curve just above my ass, shifting slightly with every breath he takes.
His hands land on my shoulders first. Small but strong fingers dig into the thick muscle there, thumbs pressing into the knots that live between my shoulder blades from years of hauling kegs, plywood, and everything else this bar has thrown at me.
He works with focus, the same focus he brings to every task, kneading deeply until the tension starts to melt away and I groan low into the pillow.
"God, that's good," I say, voice muffled. "You have no idea how much I needed that. I didn't know you could give backrubs. You've been holding back on me. That feels fantastic."
He doesn't answer with words. He responds with his hands, moving lower, working down the center of my back.
His thumbs run along either side of my spine in slow, firm lines, pressing just hard enough to make the muscle yield.
He hits a knot below my right shoulder blade and I hiss softly.
He eases up immediately, then circles back with gentler pressure, working it patiently until it loosens and I sigh in relief.
His weight shifts as he moves lower. His thighs slide down to straddle my hips more fully, his cock now resting hot and thickening against the cleft of my ass, the head brushing sensitive skin with every small adjustment he makes.
He doesn't grind or push. Just lets me feel him there, hard and wanting, while his hands work the muscles along my sides, the obliques, the thick cords that run from ribs to waist. He's thorough.
Attentive. Learning the map of my back the way he learned it with his eyes from across the parking lot all those weeks ago.
"You know," I say, my voice muffled by the pillow, "I used to catch you watching my back when I was at the grill."
His hands pause. "You noticed that?"
"I noticed. You'd be at the serving station with a stack of plates and your eyes would be on my back like you were trying to read a book. I didn't know what you were looking at. I hoped it was appreciation. I was flexing, just in case."
"You were not."
"Yes, I was. Every time I lifted a keg or moved a table. I was doing entirely unnecessary physical labor in your line of sight because you were watching."