Epilogue Stormy #2
He hums against me and the vibration travels straight through me. My cock jerks against my stomach, already leaking steadily. He keeps going, tongue dipping just the barest bit inside, then retreating, teasing the sensitive skin until I'm trembling, thighs shaking under his hands.
"Still good?" he asks, breath hot against me.
"So good. Don't stop. Please."
He doesn't. He explores, learning every hitch in my breath, every tiny shift of my hips. When my body starts to relax, he presses his tongue deeper in shallow thrusts that make my toes curl and a low, broken moan spill out.
He reaches up with one hand and wraps it around my cock, stroking slow and steady while his mouth continues its work, and the dual sensation makes my spine arc off the bed.
The pleasure is layered now, his hand and mouth working together, two points of contact building toward a single goal and I'm making sounds that I didn't know I was capable of and I don't care.
He pulls back. I hear the nightstand drawer open. The click of a cap. Then his hand returns—slick now, lube coating his fingers—and the care of that, the fact that he stopped what he was doing to make sure this wouldn't hurt, sends warmth through me. It's trust. Confirmed. Reinforced.
Tex will never hurt me.
One finger is touching me there now. Gentle. Pressing where his tongue has been, where the skin is sensitive. The press is a question. I feel the pad of his finger against me. Not inside, not yet, just there waiting.
"This okay?" he asks quietly.
"Yes," I breathe.
His left hand works inside me while his mouth moves to take me in, and the combination—his finger and his mouth, makes the room tilt.
His finger slides in—slow, so slow—barely a stretch at first, just warm, slick pressure. I breathe through it, and he pauses when he's one knuckle deep, letting me adjust.
"Talk to me, baby," he murmurs. "How's that feel?"
"Full. Keep going."
He does. Inches deeper. When he's fully inside, he curls gently—searching—and brushes that spot. Pleasure detonates, sharp, electric, radiating out from deep inside. My back arches and a sound rips out of me.
"There?" he asks, voice thick.
"Yeah… fuck… right there."
He strokes that spot again while his mouth returns to my cock.
Lips close around the head, tongue swirling, then sliding down halfway.
The dual sensation of his finger curling inside, pressing that swollen bundle of nerves, and his warm, wet mouth sucking me short-circuits every thought.
My hips rock instinctively. He takes it, humming around me, the vibration making my balls draw up tight.
He adds a second finger in a slow stretch. I gasp, but it's pleasure-pain, the good kind. He pauses again, his mouth lifting.
"Still okay?"
"More than okay. Feels so good… don't stop."
He works both fingers now, slow, steady thrusts, curling against my prostate on every pass.
His mouth takes me deeper. Lips stretched, throat relaxing, sucking in perfect rhythm with his fingers.
The pleasure builds fast, layered, overwhelming, deep inside and along my shaft at once.
My hands fist the sheets. My breathing fractures into gasps and moans I can't control.
"Tex… close… fuck… I'm gonna—"
He doesn't stop. Fingers press harder, curl deeper; mouth takes me to the root and swallows.
I come so hard that I can't see straight. The orgasm starts deep, originating from the place where his fingers are pressing, radiating outward through my hips and my spine. The loud sound I make fills the room and I don't care because this is mine.
This pleasure is mine.
My cock pulses in his mouth, ass clenching around his fingers, whole body shaking as I spill down his throat. He takes it all. Swallowing, humming, working me through every tremor until I'm oversensitive and boneless.
He withdraws his fingers gently and kisses the inside of my thigh, then crawls up and pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me, big, warm. I'm still shaking, aftershocks rolling through me.
"That," I manage when I can speak, "was not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Not that. I've never… nobody ever—"
"I know." He kisses my temple. "You okay, baby? Really okay? You can tell me if something was wrong."
"Yeah. More than okay. That felt… new. Like something just for us. It's just ours."
He exhales, relieved. "Ah…I love that, baby. Because I've never been more focused on anything in my life." His hand strokes my back. "We go at your pace. Tomorrow, if you want, we try a little more. Just the tip. Seriously. Or whatever feels right. No rush."
"I know." I press closer, listening to his heartbeat. "Thank you for making it feel like this."
"Remember, no thanks for sex," he says softly, echoing our old rule. "But you're welcome. Always."
"What about you?" I ask. I can feel his hard cock against my hip. He hasn't been touched.
"Tonight was about you. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're hard enough to hammer nails."
"That is a vivid and accurate description. I'm still fine. Tonight was about learning you. I liked it. The physical evidence of how much I liked it will resolve itself."
"Or I could help it resolve itself."
"True, you could help it resolve itself. That's also an option. A very good option. An option I would enthusiastically support."
I help resolve it. With my mouth, because my mouth is good at this and because the symmetry feels right.
He gave, I give. The circle closes. He comes fast because the last thirty minutes of touching me wound him tight and the spring was ready to release.
I swallow and he moans my name the way he always says it as if the word itself is sacred.
Afterwards I rest my head on his thigh until his breathing slows and then I crawl up beside him.
"Tomorrow night we keep going?" I say into the dark.
"If you want."
"I want."
"Then tomorrow night it is. If you still feel up to it tomorrow."
The next day passes in a haze of work and want.
We spend the morning on the east wall trim with Tex cutting, me holding, both of us measuring twice because we can't afford to waste lumber at the rate the hardware store is charging.
The vendor calls have become my domain because Tex negotiates like a man buying a friend a beer and I negotiate like a man who knows exactly what the markup is and isn't paying it.
The whole day, the electric tension hums between us. Tex brushes past me in the kitchen and his hand trails across my lower back. The touch lasts half a second but the heat of it lasts an hour. I reach past him for a box on a high shelf and my body presses against his and he goes completely still.
We don't talk about it. We don't need to.
The conversation happened last night. The opening act happened last night.
What's left is the anticipation, and the anticipation is its own kind of pleasure.
A slow, warm current running beneath the surface of a normal day, making everything sharper, brighter, more alive.
The bar closes early at nine. Sheila leaves with her forehead kiss and then it's us.
"Shower," Tex says. Not a question. A shared understanding. We've been working all day in sawdust and the grime of a bar that's still under construction. Tonight requires the respect of showing up to each other fresh and clean.
We shower together. He washes my hair the way he always does.
His big hands working the shampoo through the blond, his fingers against my scalp.
And I wash his chest and his shoulders and the broad plane of his back and we don't rush.
The water is warm. The steam fills the bathroom.
We wash each other like a ritual it's become for us.
We dry off and go to the bedroom. The bed is already made because order is one of the ways I reassure myself that I live here now and this is my home. I like being able to take pride in our home.
Tex sits on the edge of the bed and looks at me. His grin is gone. In its place is the serious face, the focused face of a man who desperately wants to get this right.
"How exactly do you want to do this?" he asks. "Do you want to ride me? You'd be on top, in control. You lower yourself down at your own pace, set the depth, the speed. Everything. You'd be driving."
I've been thinking about it all day. Turning the various positions over in my head the way I turn everything over, examining the angles. On top gives me control. On top is the safest choice.
But on top also means I'm looking down at him while my body does the work, and what I want most—what I realized sometime between the trim work and the vendor calls—is to see his face above me.
I want Tex's eyes on me. I want to look up into his face and know that the face above me is the one I love.
Ron never did it face to face. Always from behind. His hand on the back of my neck, pushing my face into the pillow. Four years of a weight on my back and a face I couldn't see. That's why the position matters to me. It has to be this way.
"On my back," I tell him. "I want to be on my back. With you above me. I want to see your face the whole time."
Tex doesn't need to hear the specific details of why I want it this way. He's carried enough of my pain and I'm not adding anymore to it.
He reads my face and he sees my trust. That I trust him enough to lie beneath him. That his weight on me is something I want.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
"I want to be looking at you, Tex. I'm completely sure."
He nods slowly. The understanding settling into him.
"Okay," he says. "I want you to talk to me the whole time. Tell me everything you feel. The word stop is the end of everything. And Stormy—"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. I need to say that before we start because I might not be able to form words once we do. I'll probably be babbling like a lunatic."
"I love you too, Tex."