Chapter 11 — TEO #2
He tightens hand into my cock and I make a sound that is not a word and his grin widens.
“That’s more like it.” He strokes me once, slow, thumb dragging over the head, rubbing the drop of precome around.
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
He does it again and watches my face while he does it and the combination of his hand and his eyes makes the heat build embarrassingly fast.
He lowers his mouth and takes me in his mouth. His mouth is hot and wet and sure and he takes his time, unhurried and precise. There is absolutely nothing clinical about the way his tongue drags up the underside and swirls over the head.
“Fuck.” My hand finds the back of his head. “Right there.”
He pulls off grinning up at me, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me. His lips are wet and his hand is still moving slowly. “Any more feedback?”
“I hate you. That’s the feedback.”
“Noted.” He takes me deep again and the world narrows to his mouth and his hand.
He’s finding the rhythm I respond to and locking it in, and when my hips start pushing forward he lets me, opens for it, his hand gripping my thigh.
The heat builds in a wave, cresting, and I’m close, I’m right there, and he pulls off again.
“Zay. What the fuck!”
“Patience, Marchetti.” He presses a kiss to my hip. Casual. Like he didn’t just edge me on purpose. “I thought you liked attention to detail.”
“I am going to remember this.”
“I hope so.” His smile is devastating and genuine and I pull him up by his shoulders and kiss him, tasting myself on his mouth, and his joggers are still on which is a problem I fix with both hands.
I shove them down and get my hand around his cock and he exhales hard against my mouth.
He’s thick in my palm and I stroke him and feel his whole body react, the composed control of him cracking at the edges.
“Wait,” I say because I know what I want from Zay and lube is required.
I grab the bottle from the nightstand and hand it to him as he settles between my thighs. His hands are warm on my knees, pushing them apart, and he looks at me, steady and wanting and a little wrecked. He reaches between us and circles me, slow, and I let my head drop back and breathe.
“Easy.” His voice is quiet as he kisses me. “We’re not in a rush.”
He curls his finger and I jolt when he finds my prostate.
He adds a second and I feel the stretch, the slow burn of it, and he watches my face while he works me open with the same careful attention he uses on everything.
My body opens for him in increments and his breathing changes while he does it, gets shorter, less controlled, and I realize his composure is costing him.
“You want this.” I’m not asking.
“Obviously.” He twists his fingers and my back arches and whatever I was going to say next is gone. He finds the spot and presses into it and the sound I make is loud enough that he pauses.
“Your neighbors could hear you.”
“Fuck my neighbors.”
“I’d rather fuck you.” He says it deadpan, clinical, like he’s reporting a treatment plan, and the laugh that explodes out of me is sudden.
“Don’t make me laugh right now.”
He withdraws and I watch his hand on his own cock, slicking himself, and the sight of him over me, controlled and wrecked simultaneously, jaw tight and eyes dark, is the hottest thing I’ve seen in this apartment.
He pushes into me slow. My breath goes short and fractured and his hands grip my thighs, holding me open. The stretch is full and good and when he’s all the way in he holds still.
“Good?” His voice rough, against my ear.
“Good.”
He starts to move and I grab his hips and pull him deeper.
His rhythm is slow and deliberate, the way he does everything, and each thrust is full and precise and I feel him everywhere.
His mouth finds mine and I turn my head to give him more.
We find the pace together, push and pull, the creak of the bed underneath us.
I open my mouth to say his name and from the doorway there is a very distinct, very judgmental chirp. Parker is sitting on the threshold. Tail wrapped around her paws. Watching us with the unblinking stare of a creature who has zero concept of privacy.
Zay stops moving. His face is buried in my neck. I feel his shoulders start shaking.
“Don’t look at her,” I say, and I’m already losing it, the laugh building in my chest while he’s still inside me and the absurdity of this moment is so specific, so ridiculous, so ours, that I can’t hold it. “Parker. Go.”
She blinks. Stretches one paw forward. Begins what promises to be an extremely slow approach toward the bed.
“No. No no no no no.” I grab a pillow and toss it toward the door. It lands two feet short. Parker pounces on it.
Zay is gone. Full laughter, his forehead on my chest, his arms trembling with it, still inside me, and I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.
This might be the best sex I’ve ever had and we haven’t even finished.
Parker wrestles the pillow, kicks it twice with her back legs, and then drags it triumphantly out of the room.
“She took the pillow,” Zay says, wiping his eyes.
“She can have it.”
He lifts his head. His face is open, stripped bare by the laughing, tears in his eyes, his hand still braced by my head.
He looks at me. Just looks. And the laughter fades into something quieter, warmer, and he cups my jaw and runs his thumb across my cheekbone and the tenderness in it cuts through everything.
He starts moving again. Slower this time, and the laughter is still there.
He angles his hips and I feel it deeper and my hand grips his shoulder and my eyes close.
His pace builds, each thrust more deliberate, and I’m meeting him on every stroke.
His hand finds my cock between us and strokes me in rhythm and the two sensations together, him inside me and his hand on me, pull a moan out of me that surprises us both.
“There,” he says, and there’s satisfaction in his voice and warmth and I want to say something but his hand twists on an upstroke and my brain goes white.
He keeps the rhythm, steady, building, and my body is climbing toward a wave I can feel approaching and he reads it, reads me, and he speeds up just enough, his grip tightening, his hips driving deeper.
My hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him down and I kiss him messy and desperate and grinning.
“Zay, I’m close.”
“I know.” He doesn’t slow down. His forehead presses to mine and I come with his name in my mouth and my hand fisted in the sheets. His hand works me through it until I’m shaking and oversensitive and pulling his wrist away.
He buries his face in my neck and his rhythm breaks, hips stuttering, and I tighten my leg around his back and pull him deep and hold him there and he comes with a sound pressed into my skin that I will think about for the rest of my life.
We breathe. His weight settles onto me and I let it, my arms around him, feeling his chest heave against mine and the slowing hammer of his heartbeat. His hand is still on my hip. My fingers are still in his hair. The playlist ended at some point and neither of us noticed.
He lifts his head. Looks at me. His face is wrecked and happy and entirely unguarded.
I think if I could keep one single image from this whole messy, secret, impossible thing, it would be this.
His face right now, in my bed, in my apartment, with bolognese bowls on the coffee table and a cat in the hallway and no professional distance left between us.
He kisses my forehead. I press my mouth to his jaw, then roll him off me and find a towel from the bathroom. I clean us both up, and he watches me do it with an expression I haven’t seen on him before. I toss the towel toward the hamper, miss by a foot, and his mouth twitches.
“Your aim.”
“I just came. Cut me some slack.”
He lies on his back and I press into his side and his arm settles around my shoulders without negotiation, like his body already knows where mine goes.
His fingers move through my hair in slow strokes that don’t have a pattern.
My hand rests on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat under my palm, steady now, coming down.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
“Funny.” I trace a line down his sternum. “Do you always want it like this? You on top.”
He doesn’t tense. His fingers keep moving in my hair. “I like both. I'm vers.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I don’t have a default.” His thumb traces behind my ear. “Tonight is what I wanted tonight.”
“Good.” I press my mouth to his collarbone. “Because next time I want to take my time with you.”
His breathing changes for half a second. A barely-there catch. Then his hand tightens in my hair, a small pull that says he heard me. “I want that too.”
I listen to his breathing level out. Tomorrow morning he’ll leave before it’s light, or maybe he won’t, and either way this room will still smell like us and the kitten will still be in her corner and nonna’s recipe will still be taped to the cabinet and the song he sent me at one in the morning last Tuesday will still be on my phone.