7. Fabián #4
It hits like a freight train. My vision whites out, my whole body going rigid, and I’m spilling into him, pulse after pulse, filling him while he clenches around me, taking it, taking me.
I groan against his neck; the sound rips out of me, raw and broken and his.
The piercing drags through my orgasm, making it sharper, almost painful, dragging the pleasure out until I’m shaking, spent, and collapsed on top of him with my face buried in his sweat-damp hair.
For a long minute, there is nothing but breathing.
His.
Mine.
The fan.
His fingers move slowly against the back of my neck.
Gentle, and it’s intimate in a way I’ve never experienced after coming. He presses kiss after kiss to my temple, and it fucking ruins me. I can feel the hot tear trickle from the corner of my eye, and I go to wipe it before he notices and makes a joke.
“You alive?” he whispers.
“No.”
He laughs softly, and I feel it around me.
“Quiet,” I mumble.
“Oh, now you care?”
I kiss his shoulder quickly and pull back. “Yeah, about your mom finding us like this because of your loud mouth.”
“Sure. My mom.”
I lift my head enough to look at him, and his face is soft. No glasses, his hair a mess. His mouth swollen from mine, and his neck marked. Eyes bright with something he’s not saying and cum drying on his stomach and chest—smeared where my hand had been.
I probably look the same.
Carefully, I start to pull out—
“Wait.” Elías catches my wrist.
I freeze, and he looks down at himself—at the mess between us, the cum painting his skin—and then back at me. His eyes are dark and unreadable.
“Have you ever tasted it?” he asks softly.
I blink. “What?”
“Cum.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Have you ever tasted it?”
My face heats. “Yeah, when I was going down on you.”
“I mean cum, not precum.”
I shake my head, and he holds my gaze. Then he looks down at his own stomach, at the white streaks drying there, and back at me.
Something in his expression shifts. Challenge. Invitation. Want.
I look down at him, at the mess we made. At the evidence of what I did to him, what he took from me, and what he gave.
I shift a little and lean down. My tongue touches his chest, and I lick upward—slow, deliberate, gathering him on my tongue.
He tastes like salt and musk and something uniquely him.
His taste bursts on my tongue, and I groan.
The sound vibrates against his skin, and he shudders, his hand flying to my hair, gripping tight.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck, Fabián—”
I lick again, cleaning him and marking him in a different way. My own cum fills his ass, but his—his is on my tongue, in my mouth, and I’m swallowing him down with a groan that sounds like surrender. When I lift my head, his eyes are wide, blown, as if I’ve done something obscene and holy at once.
“You—” he starts, then stops, throat working.
I kiss him so he can taste himself on my tongue, and he moans into my mouth, pulling me closer, his legs still wrapped around my waist like he can’t bear to let me go.
“Eres perfecto,” he whispers against my lips. “Fucking perfect.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all.
I just hold him and let him hold me and try to remember how to breathe.
Carefully, I pull out, and we both shiver. I want to say something. Anything. My brain gives me nothing useful. I look down between us—at the mess, the cum drying on his stomach and mine, the wetness on his thighs, the evidence of what we did.
Elías reaches for the tissue box on the nightstand and hands me a few. No big speech. No awkwardness. He is just practical, quiet, and still watching me like he is making sure I don’t disappear.
We clean up in silence broken only by breathing and the occasional creak of the bed. The tissues are rough and insufficient. He reaches down, touches himself gingerly, and hisses.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. Just—” he laughs, breathless. “You were thorough.”
“Sorry.” I wince.
Note to self… do some internet searching on being a better top.
“Don’t be.”
He stands, wobbles slightly, and tosses the tissues in the trash. I sit on the edge of the bed, naked, suddenly aware of my own body, his room, the dampness between us, and the enormity of what just happened.
Elías catches it. “Fabián.”
I look at him. “Hmm?”
“You good?”
“I thought I’d feel different after.”
His face goes still. “Do you?”
“Yeah.”
His throat works. “Bad different?”
I shake my head, and the relief that crosses his face is so fast he probably thinks I missed it.
“No,” I say. “Not bad.”
He reaches for me.
Slow.
Like I might spook.
I let him pull me down, and he shifts carefully, making space in the bed, and I lie beside him even though the mattress is too small and the room is too hot and everything in me is still buzzing. His leg hooks over mine, and my arm goes around him.
Easy, like my body already knows this part.
He rests his head against my shoulder.
A man.
Elías.
Warm and sweaty and real.
Holding me and letting me hold him.
Nothing breaks.
The world keeps spinning.
Somewhere down the hall, his mother coughs once in her sleep.
We both freeze, and Elías clamps a hand over his mouth.
My eyes widen.
Silence.
More silence.
Then nothing.
He slowly lowers his hand and whispers, “We are so fucking dead if she wakes up.”
I laugh soundlessly, chest shaking.
He elbows me.
“Don’t laugh.”
“You started it.”
“You came to my house after midnight.”
“You told me to come get you.”
“And look at you, following directions.”
I look down at him while he looks up at me. His smile is soft and smug and sleepy around the edges.
“You’re annoying,” I whisper.
“You came inside me.”
My entire soul leaves my body. “The fuck, Elías—”
“What? Am I wrong?”
“Your mom is asleep.”
“And yet you’re the one yelling.”
“I am whispering.”
“You’re emotionally yelling.”
I drag a hand over my face.
He laughs into my shoulder, and there it is again.
That feeling—not panic.
Not shame.
Something warmer.
Something worse.
I tighten my arm around him before I can stop myself, and his laughter quiets; his hand settles on my chest, over my heart. For a long second, neither of us says anything.
Then he whispers, “You can stay until morning.”
My chest goes tight.
“It is morning. But I should go before she wakes up, especially since I have to go to Mass with my tía. Might be awkward going with your cum on my chest.”
“Maybe.”
His fingers trace a slow circle over my skin. “But you don’t have to go right now.”
I stare at the ceiling.
The fan clicks with every rotation.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“I’ll stay for a little bit,” I say.
Elías’s hand stills.
Then he presses his face closer into my shoulder.
“Okay,” he whispers.
I close my eyes.
I’m naked in Elías Cárdenas’s bed, in his mother’s house, with his leg thrown over mine and his cum drying on my stomach and my soft dick pressed against his thigh and the taste of him still on my tongue.
I should be freaking out.
I am a little.
But under it, beneath the noise, beneath the old fear and new desire and every label I still don’t know how to touch without flinching, there is this…
I wanted him and he wanted me.