Chapter Sixteen #2
I added a second, scissoring, stretching him open. His breathing got ragged, the little moans turning into a low, steady chant, “fuck, fuck, yes—”
I kept going, working him open, three fingers now, and he was taking it, hips rolling in time with my hand, cock leaking onto his stomach.
I twisted, found the spot, and pressed. He gasped, back arching so high he nearly bucked me off the bed.
I withdrew, slicked my own cock, and lined up. I braced myself above him, one hand on the bed, the other guiding myself in. I pushed, slow at first, and watched as his face went from tight to open to something that looked a lot like surrender.
I drove in the rest of the way, burying myself to the hilt. He took it, the whole thing, legs coming up and locking around my waist, heels digging in.
I started to move—shallow at first, then deeper, each thrust measured, controlled, the way you walk a grenade into a clearing. His ass clenched around me with every stroke, the sensation raw and immediate, electric from root to tip.
He was loud now, moaning my name, begging, not shy about any of it. Every time I bottomed out, his cock twitched, a spurt of precum hitting his stomach.
I angled my hips, changed the vector, and hit him dead on.
He broke.
He came, loud and hard, the first jet splattering against his chest, the rest leaking down his abs. His ass tightened around me, milking my cock, and the feeling was so intense I nearly lost it right there.
I grunted, braced harder, and fucked him through it, never losing rhythm.
He kept coming, body shaking, and I let myself go, hips snapping forward, filling him with everything I had. The orgasm hit like a flash bang—whiteout, then nothing but the throb, the shock of skin on skin.
I stayed inside him, grinding my hips until every pulse was spent. He held onto me, arms wrapped around my back, nails digging in.
We stayed like that for a while, neither one of us able to talk, both of us panting, sweat cooling on our skin.
Finally, I pulled out, slow, and watched as the mix of come and lube leaked from him, pooling on the sheets. I collapsed beside him, one arm thrown across his chest, the other tangled in the sheets.
He turned his head and looked at me, eyes glazed but bright.
I said, “Stay.”
He smiled, soft, real, and said, “I already am.”
Down the hall, Emilio slept, untroubled by any of it.
I lay there, the heat of him pressed against my side, and let the silence fill the room.
For the first time in my life, I had nothing left to prove.
The thing no one tells you about good sex is how fucking personal it is.
They make movies and jokes and a whole sub-industry out of the choreography, but the part that matters—the part that gets under the skin and rearranges the furniture in your head—shows up only after the rest of the world has shut up and you finally let yourself look at the person you’re holding down.
It would have been easy to let it end with the bed.
The comfort, the slow melt, the feeling of having taken a thing to its logical conclusion.
But when I looked at him, sprawled out with the last of the shower drops still shining on his skin, his hair pasted down to one side and his mouth slack with the kind of satisfaction you don’t get from pretending, I realized we were only halfway through the necessary business.
His eyes were closed, but I knew he was still awake. I could see the flutter of his lashes, the micro-tremors in the muscles of his thigh as the last of the aftershock bled off.
His chest rose and fell, the ribcage just a little too prominent under the skin, and I thought about how many times he must have run, how much effort it took to keep that kind of body going when every part of the world was trying to break it down.
I ran my hand along the length of his thigh, palm flat, just feeling the texture—the fine gold hairs, the old tan lines, the occasional shiver that meant his nerves still had work to do.
I traced it up to his hip, where a faint bruise was already blooming, courtesy of my hand or my mouth or maybe just the landing when he hit the bed. There was a strange pleasure in that, a satisfaction I’d never learned to distrust.
He opened his eyes, just a crack, and looked at me.
“What?” he said. It wasn’t a challenge, just a question, almost lazy with the slack in his jaw.
I said, “Nothing. Just thinking.”
He made a noise that was half laugh, half exhale, and stretched his arms up over his head, the movement making every muscle along his torso stand out in relief.
His cock, still mostly hard, rested against the inside of his thigh, streaked with the drying aftermath.
He reached down and ran his fingers through it, then wiped his hand on the sheet with a carelessness that made my heart punch a little faster.
“You want a towel?” he asked, voice low and sarcastic.
I shook my head. “Not unless you’re planning to run away again.”
He looked at me, and the line of his mouth changed, the muscles pulling tight for a second before going loose. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and it was as much for himself as for me.
I sat up and reached for him again. This time I caught his wrist and pulled him up, so he was sitting, legs dangling off the side of the bed. I slid between his knees and set both hands on his shoulders, squeezing until the muscle there went soft.
He didn’t resist. He let his head fall forward, the damp tangle of hair falling in front of his eyes. I took his chin in my hand, made him look up.
“You sure?” I said.
He nodded.
I kissed him again, and this time it was different—not softer, but less like a negotiation, more like a habit I wanted to reinforce.
His lips parted, and he let me set the pace, his tongue moving slow and deliberate against mine.
I tasted the salt of his skin, the faint metallic tang of blood where I must have bitten too hard.
When I pulled back, he was breathing through his mouth, and I could see the pulse in his throat, high and fast.
I slid my hands down his back, feeling the way his spine curved, the way every muscle seemed to tense in anticipation. His ass was pale and marked with the ghost of my handprints. I gripped it, hard, and pulled him forward on the bed until our hips lined up.
He let out a small sound—almost a whimper, but not the kind you make when you want someone to slow down.
“You good?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
But I knew better. I could feel the hunger in him, the thing he never let anyone else see, the raw edge that had driven him halfway across the country to stand in my kitchen and lie about wanting to keep it simple.
I said, “Bed’s too soft for what I want.”
He looked at me, eyes wide. “What do you want?”
I grinned, slow. “Get up.”
He did, legs a little shaky, but he made it to his feet without losing his balance. He stood there naked, arms at his sides, waiting for the next instruction.
I said, “Wall,” and he went without hesitation, crossing the room and bracing himself against the plaster, back to me.
The muscles of his back were a map of scars and old stories, and I let my hands follow them down to his hips. I pressed my body up behind his, my cock already hard again, and let him feel it against the curve of his ass.
He turned his head, just enough to see me over his shoulder. “You’re not tired?”
I bit his neck, just below the ear, hard enough to make him flinch. “Never.”
He shivered, and I ran my hands up his sides, thumbs tracing the lines of his ribs. I set my mouth against his shoulder blade, sucking a mark into the skin there, then did it again on the other side, not caring if it left him sore.
He pressed his palms flat to the wall, fingers splayed. I pushed his legs apart with my knee, then ran a hand down his spine to his tailbone, feeling the heat of him.
“Spread,” I said.
He did, and the movement exposed everything—balls pulled tight, cock hanging down, ass already slick from the last round.
I stepped back, just enough to get a good look, and let the satisfaction roll through me.
“You like this,” I said, not a question.
He nodded, cheek pressed to the wall.
I reached down and slid two inside him without warning. He gasped, whole body tensing, but he took it, pushing back onto my hand.
I worked him, slow at first, then faster, twisting my fingers, scissoring them to open him wider. He moaned, the sound echoing off the drywall, and I could see his arms shaking with the effort to hold himself up.
“Fuck,” he said, voice gone raw.
I pulled my fingers out and then lined up, the head of my cock pressing against his hole.
I pushed in, slow at first, just the tip, then farther, then all the way.
The stretch was perfect, tight and hot, and I held him there, both hands gripping his hips, fingers digging in so hard I knew he’d feel it for days.
He made a noise, a high, desperate sound, and I started to move, pulling out and slamming back in, each thrust rougher than the last. He took it, every inch, every impact. He pushed back against me, meeting my rhythm, his cock bobbing with every movement.
I reached around and grabbed it, jerking him in time with my hips. He moaned again, louder, and the sound of it went straight to my spine.
I fucked him like I meant it, like I could drive away every bad thing that had ever happened to him with just the force of my body.
The wall shook with the impact, and the slap of skin on skin was loud enough I worried for a second about the baby, but then I remembered the monitor was set to mute, and Emilio could sleep through a tornado if he wanted to.
I angled my thrusts, aiming for the spot that made him go weak, and when I found it, he shouted, a sound so sharp and honest it made my heart stop for a beat.
I kept going, not letting up, fucking him through it, and he started to come, the first jet hitting the wall, the rest splattering down his thigh and my hand.
His ass clenched around me, and the sensation was too much. I grabbed him tighter, slammed in as deep as I could, and came, hips stuttering, cock buried to the root.
I stayed like that, holding him up, both of us panting and slick with sweat and come.
After a minute, I eased out, and he nearly collapsed, but I caught him, lifted him, and carried him back to the bed. I dropped him onto the mattress, then flopped down beside him, the two of us a mess of limbs and heat and the fading echo of something neither of us would ever have words for.
We lay there, side by side, breathing in sync.
After a long while, I said, “Stay.”
He turned his head, looked at me, and smiled.
“I already told you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Down the hall, the world kept spinning. But in that room, in that moment, it was enough.
And this time, when the silence settled in, I let it.