Chapter 8 — ZAY #2
I pull back and look at him, and he’s nodding, making it clear that yes, this is what he wants.
I reach behind me for the warming gel on the desk, the only thing close to right for this.
But it’s not good. Not for what I want to do to him.
Before I can say so, his hand is already under the pillow on my side and he pulls out a small bottle and presses it into my palm.
I look at the bottle. Then at him. He brought lube to a shoulder appointment. Slid it under the pillow. He walked into this room at ten fifteen on a Tuesday night and the tape was my plan and the lube was his.
“I brought this.” He grins up at me. No apology. No embarrassment. Just Teo, fully himself, refusing to pretend he didn’t want this before he knocked on my door.
I pour lube on my fingers and reach between us, circling his hole lightly. I press one finger inside him and his body opens for it immediately, his mouth falling open, his eyes locked on mine. I add a second finger as he exhales through his teeth.
“More,” he says, his fingers gripping my shoulder.
“Patience.”
“I’ve been patient for four months. I don’t have any left.” His laugh is more frustration than anything.
I curl my fingers and find the spot and his whole body jolts. I press into it, slow, deliberate, and his head drops back and his breathing goes sharp and fractured. I work him open with the same precision I use on his shoulder, the same attention to how the tissue respond.
I withdraw my fingers and he makes a sound at the loss. I slick myself, his eyes following my hand on my cock, and I settle between his thighs and press against his hole.
“Teo.” Not Marchetti. His eyes go wide.
“Yeah?”
“Look at me.”
He does. He looks at me while I push into him, slow, his body opening around me in degrees.
Not all at once. In increments. His breath fractures into short pulls and his hand grips my shoulder, the good one, fingers digging in.
The heat of him is devastating. I hold still when I’m all the way in, just breathing, feeling his heartbeat through his chest against mine.
“Move,” he whispers. “Please.”
I move slowly. His leg hooks tight around me, his heel pressing into the small of my back.
His hand finds the back of my neck, that same grip, thumb behind my ear, holding me there while I rock into him.
In the club he was loud, generous, performing even his pleasure.
Here they are quieter. Punched out of him. Each one honest.
I shift the angle. His head drops back, throat exposed, and his whole body clenches around me. I find the spot that makes his breath catches and I stay there, rocking into it, and his breathing goes ragged and his hips start moving with mine, meeting me on every stroke.
“Right there.” His voice barely his. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t stop. I build it slow, keeping the pace when his body is asking for more, because making him wait is doing something for both of us. His body tightens around me on each push, his leg locked around my back, his hand on my neck anchoring me.
He’s hard between us, leaking against his stomach, and I wrap my hand around his cock and stroke him in time with the way I’m moving inside him. His back arches off the bed. I speed up, just enough, tightening my grip, pressing deeper on every thrust.
“Zay, I’m close.”
I press my forehead to his shoulder. “Let go,” I tell him, my mouth against his skin, my hand working him steady, my hips driving deep.
His whole body locks around me, pulling me in, a ragged broken sound tearing from his mouth, his fist in my hair pulling hard.
I feel him come, hot and pulsing in my hand, his body clenching in waves around my cock, and the way he says my name while he comes, broken into two syllables like it’s the last thing his mouth knows how to do, takes me apart.
I hold on for three more strokes and then I’m gone. My face pressed into his neck, his pulse hammering against my mouth, and the orgasm rolls through me slow and devastating and complete. It empties me out and fills me back up.
Eventually, I come back down. His hand loosens in my hair but doesn’t leave. My room smells different now. Not the warming gel, not the hotel soap.
He runs his palm down my spine, slow, no pressure.
Tracing the full length of me from my shoulders to the small of my back and up again.
It’s gentle. The way you touch something you intend to keep.
Want has a shape I can work around. But his hand on my back, asking for nothing, touching me just to be close.
His hand keeps moving. I keep not knowing what to do with it.
I kiss his neck as I pull out of him. “Don’t go anywhere.” He laughs, eyes closed. I clean up in the bathroom and bring a washcloth out for him. I lay down next to him on the bed. He turns to me, throwing his arm over my chest after he wipes himself up.
“I should go,” he says, but not making any movement to go.
“Yeah. You should.”
“Five more minutes.”
I let him have fifteen. Long enough for his breathing to settle and his hand to go heavy against my ribs. Long enough to know what it feels like with someone tracing slow circles on my skin because he can, and because I’m letting him.
Eventually, he leaves the bed and gets dressed in the low light. Shorts, shirt careful over the shoulder. He doesn’t say anything clever. He just looks at me.
“Good night, Zee.”
“Good night, Tee.”
His mouth curves. Not the grin. Something underneath it that the grin has been covering for months.
The door clicks and the room is mine again. My kit on the desk, untouched. My coffee, gone cold. My bed, which smells like him now, which is going to smell like him when I try to sleep tonight.