3. Cyaire
Cyaire
The weight of this man’s hands on my thighs is the only thing tethering me to the earth.
Broad palms press into my flesh, fingers splay possessively as if he already knows my body better than I do.
My suit jacket lies discarded on top of my overnight bag on the elevator floor, a crumpled testament to how quickly I surrendered.
My tie hangs loose, the silk damp from where his mouth has been.
My shirt gapes open, half the buttons undone by impatient fingers that traced my collarbones, my sternum, the dip of my waist like he was memorizing the topography of my body with his touch alone.
The press of his belt buckle against my stomach is a brand, the heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of my dress pants, his breath stutters when I roll my hips just enough to make him groan into my mouth, low, guttural, the sound vibrates against my tongue.
This is insane. I know this, but I want it. With every floor we pass, I surrender to him a little bit more.
Blue. The man doesn’t know my name, yet he calls me Blue.
The nickname is dangerous. I want to get used to it, wear it like a second skin and get comfy.
No one has ever called me anything that felt so perfectly, irrevocably mine.
It’s ridiculous how much I like it. How much I like him, this stranger who carries me down a hotel hallway like I weigh nothing, like I’m something fragile rather than just man he met in a bar, or a body to pass the time with.
His grip is sure, his steps unhurried, as if we have all the time in the world instead of just the handful of hours before dawn steals this away.
I should probably care that I’m being carried like this.
My legs are locked around his waist, my fingers trace the neatly parted rows of his braids, my mouth finds the pulse point beneath his jaw without thought.
I cling to him like some damsel in distress, like I’ve never been held like this before, like I’m allowed to be small, to be needed, to let someone else take the lead for once.
Right now, the scent of his cologne, something dark and smoky, like vetiver and leather, mixing with the salt of his skin, is intoxicating.
I can’t bring myself to care about anything except the way his body feels against mine.
The way his breath hitches when I nip at his earlobe.
The way his fingers tighten on my thighs, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even for a second.
The door clicks shut behind us, and suddenly I’m dropped to my feet.
My overnight bag goes flying, and we’re moving, stumbling, crashing into walls and furniture with the reckless urgency of two people who know we only have tonight.
That tomorrow, we’ll both go back to whatever lives we’ve built for ourselves.
Lives that don’t include this—this heat, this connection, this feeling of being seen in a way that makes my want to weep.
His hands are everywhere, on my hips, my back, my thighs, strong in a way that doesn’t feel performative, doesn’t feel like he’s trying to prove anything.
He’s just capable, like he could carry me forever if I asked him to, and I probably wouldn’t have to ask.
“Bed,” I manage against his mouth, my voice rough with want, with the kind of desperation that borders on embarrassing. “Or I’m going to cum in these pants like a fucking teenager.”
He laughs, low and dark, the sound vibrates through me, seeping into my bones. “Patience, Blue.”
“Fuck patience.”
Another laugh, this one rougher, edged with arousal.
Then he’s walking us backward, his hands cupping my ass, squeezing hard.
The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and then I’m falling, bouncing slightly as he looms over me, his eyes dark and hungry in the dim light filtering in from the city outside.
The neon glow paints his skin in shades of blue and gold, turning him into something otherworldly. An abstract painting of a god.
I reach for him, but he catches my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand.
The other trails down my chest, my stomach, fingers unbuttoning my pants, pulling and tugging at my waistband until I lift my hips.
The fabric gives way with sliding down my thighs until I hear a rip, and I don’t even care.
I’m too busy watching his eyes rake over me, like he’s savoring the sight of me spread out beneath him.
My skin prickles under his rapt attention, my dick throbs against the confines of my boxer briefs.
“You’re overdressed,” I tell him, my voice gruff. My hips lift instinctively, seeking friction.
“So are you.”
I arch into his touch when his fingers finally, finally brush over the waistband of my boxers, teasing, torturing. “Then do something about it.”
The rest of our clothes disappear in a blur of fabric and frantic hands.
His shirt hits the floor, buttons scattering like confetti.
My pants follow, pooled at my ankles before I kick them away.
His belt buckle clatters against the nightstand, the sound sharp and final, and then he crawls over me, his body warm and solid and real.
He’s beautiful, big and muscular making me feel small.
I admire his golden-brown skin, wishing I had the type of appreciation for the gym that I’m sure he has.
I reach for him, pulling him down until our mouths crash together again, teeth clashing, tongues tangling.
His skin is hot against mine, his muscles shift beneath my palms as he fits between my thighs.
The weight of him is perfect. The way he molds against me is perfect.
The way his dick rubs against mine, hard and leaking, is so fucking good that I whimper into his mouth, my hips roll up instinctively, seeking more.
“Please,” I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please, I need—”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his breath coming in sharp pants, his lips swollen from my kisses. “Tell me what you want.”
“You.” The word is out before I can think better of it, raw and honest and terrifying. “All of you. Inside me. Now.”
His eyes darken, his pupils swallowing the color of his irises. “You sure?”
I nod, my throat tight, gripping him harder like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I let go. “I’m sure. I want to feel you for days.”
Something flickers across his face, something raw and a little bit desperate.
Then he kisses me again, deep and filthy, his tongue slides against mine as his hands roam my body.
His touch is possessive, reverent, like he’s committing me to memory.
I arch into him, my body aches with need, my dick throbs against his stomach, screaming for his attention.
He reaches over me for lube and condoms from the nightstand.
Then his fingers are there, slick and cool against my hole, pressing inside with a slow, deliberate stretch.
I gasp. My body tenses for a second before relaxing into the intrusion, my breath hitches as he works me open with practiced ease.
I don’t usually bottom, but for him, I want it all.
“Fuck!” My head falls back against the pillows, my fingers tangle in the sheets. “More.”
He obliges, adding another finger, scissoring them inside me until I’m a writhing, panting mess beneath him. His free hand wraps around my dick, stroking in time, and I spiral, my body tightens with every thrust. The dual sensations are almost too much, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
“I’m—”My hips jerk up into his touch. “I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that.”
He smirks, slow and wicked, his lips brush against my ear. “Not until I’m inside you.”
I groan, my body arches off the bed, my nails rake down his back. “Then hurry the fuck up.”
“Oh, Blue. You’re bossy,” he teases, but he doesn’t make me wait.
His fingers disappear, leaving me empty and aching.
The tear of the condom wrapper is unnaturally loud.
He lines himself up, the head of his dick presses against my entrance, slick and hot.
I take a deep breath, force myself to relax, and he pushes inside, filling me, slow and steady.
My vision blurs. The stretch is intense, bordering on painful, but it’s the good kind of pain, the kind that curls my toes and steals my breath.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re. . .it’s, ah, so big.”
He chuckles, low and rough, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm against my lips. “You can take it. All of it.”
And I do. I take every inch of him. My body stretches to accommodate his size until he’s fully seated inside me, his hips flush against mine.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, our bodies adjusting to the sensation.
His dick kicks inside me, thick and heavy, and my body clenches around him, trying to pull him deeper.
Then he moves.
It’s slow at first, shallow thrusts steal my focus and trap the air in my lungs.
He picks up the pace, his hips drive into mine as the bed creaks beneath us.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper and lifting to meet each thrust. The angle shifts, and the next stroke catches my prostate dead-on.
A sharp jolt races through me, whitening the edges of my vision and pulling a full-body shudder from me.
“Harder,” I gasp, dragging my fingers down his back, my nails leaving half-moon marks in his skin. “Fuck me harder.”
He obliges, his hips slam against mine. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with our ragged breaths and the occasional groan or whimper.
His hand wraps around my dick again, matching the pace of his thrusts, and every stroke pulls me closer.
The pleasure builds, coiling tight in my gut, my balls draw up against my body.
“I’m close,” I pant, lifting my head from the pillows as every muscle strains against the urge to let go.