Chapter 7
We don’t leave the office chair for a long time.
Eventually he leads me back down the hall, one hand light against my lower back, guiding rather than pulling, and it takes me a second to realize where he’s taking me. The exam room. The table.
“Here?” I ask.
“Here.” He says it simply, no explanation offered, but I think I understand anyway.
This room has been the whole reason for everything so far, the exam, the reaction I couldn’t hide, the finger that found something in me I didn’t know was there.
It makes a strange kind of sense that this is where it goes further.
He helps me up onto the table, and I lie back this time instead of curling onto my side. Not a patient. Just Tyler, on his back, watching Garrett shrug out of his shirt with the same easy calm he’s brought to every single thing he’s done to me in this building.
“You’re sure?” he asks, and there’s something almost careful in it, a real question, not a formality.
I don’t hesitate. Not the way I hesitated over every single thing that’s happened here so far. “I’m sure.”
“I mean it, Tyler. This is different than everything before it. Bigger, in every sense. If any part of you wants to slow down, or stop, I need you to actually say that, not just push through it because you don’t want to disappoint me.”
Something about him saying that, laying it out so plainly, steadies me more than anything else could have. This isn’t a man trying to talk me into something. This is a man making absolutely sure I know I have every option available to me before we go any further.
“I’ve never wanted anything this much in my whole life,” I tell him, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said since I walked into this building the first time. “I’m not scared. I’m just impatient.”
That gets an actual laugh out of him, warmth spreading through my chest at the sound of it. “Noted.”
He climbs onto the table between my knees, and reaches for the lube from the same drawer he must keep stocked for exactly this, and slicks his fingers, working me open again, thorough, patient, exactly the way he did the first time except every part of it now is aimed at something more.
He talks me through every step, the way he did in that very first exam, except now every word is want dressed up as instruction.
“Breathe out,” he says. “Same as before.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it keeps working.” A ghost of a smile, the first I’ve seen from him that isn’t careful. “Trust what you already know.”
By the time he’s got three fingers working me open, I’m right back to that same shaking, desperate place from last week, hips rolling to chase his hand, cock hard. He watches my face for every flicker, adjusting, reading me the way he read me on that very first exam table.
“Look at you,” he says, low, almost reverent, still working his fingers. “Falling apart before I’ve even given you anything real yet.”
“This feels pretty real to me.”
“This is nothing.” His fingers curl, deliberate, finding that spot again and pressing until my back arches off the table. “Wait until you feel what I actually want to do to you.”
“Garrett, please.”
“Please what.” He doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let up, drawing it out with the same maddening patience that undid me on the exam table two weeks ago. “Tell me exactly what you want. I want to hear you say it.”
“I want your cock,” I manage, my voice cracking around the words. “I want to feel you inside me. Please.”
Pride crosses his face at that, dark and pleased, and for a second his own composure slips, just enough that I catch it. “You have no idea what you just did to me, saying that.”
“You’re ready,” he says, and it’s not a question, just an observation, the same clinical certainty he had that very first morning except aimed at something else entirely now. “But I’m going to take my time with you anyway.”
“Garrett.” It comes out half whine. “I don’t want you to take your time. I’ve waited two weeks for this too.”
“I know.” He withdraws his fingers slow, reaching for the lube again, slicking himself with the same thoroughness he’s brought to everything, and I watch him do it, watch his hand move over his own cock, and my mouth goes dry all over again.
“That’s exactly why I’m not going to rush it.
I want to remember every second of this. So will you.”
“I need you,” I tell him, and I’ve never said anything truer in my life. “Garrett. Please.”
He settles between my thighs, lines himself up, and pushes the head of his cock against me slow, giving me time to adjust to the size of him before he pushes any further.
Just the blunt pressure of it against my hole has me gasping, nothing like his fingers at all, bigger, hotter, more overwhelming than I let myself imagine it would be.
“Breathe. Let me in slow.”
I tense at the first press regardless, everything in me registering something bigger than fingers for the first time, and he stops immediately, waits, one hand smoothing flat over my hip until I unclench under him.
“There,” he says, quiet, pleased. “Good.”
He pushes in another inch, then stops again, watching my face with that same unbothered focus that undid me on the exam table two weeks ago, reading every small flicker of discomfort and adjusting for it before I even have to ask.
“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, and the praise lands somewhere deep, somewhere I didn’t know wanted to hear it this badly. “Almost there. Just a little more.”
He sinks in slow, inch by inch, and it’s me who breaks first, a raw sound tearing out of my throat, my hands finding the edge of the table and gripping hard.
“There it is,” Garrett murmurs, something satisfied, a little wrecked in his own voice now. “First time I’ve heard you sound like that.”
“Feels like too much,” I gasp. “Feels like, fuck, don’t stop.”
He finally bottoms out, fully seated inside me, and goes still for a long moment, letting me feel the fullness of it, the stretch, the weight of him pressed flush against me. His forehead drops to mine, both of us breathing hard, neither of us moving yet.
“You’re twice my age,” I breathe, half laughing, half wrecked. “And you feel like this.”
“Don’t start that now,” he warns, though there’s nothing serious in it, just heat.
He doesn’t stop. He moves slow at first, reading every flinch, every roll of my hips, adjusting his pace to match what my body’s telling him even when my mouth can’t get words out fast enough.
Every drag of him inside me sends heat sparking up my spine, and I find myself rocking down to meet him before I’ve even decided to, chasing more of the same slow, deliberate glide.
One of his hands wraps around my cock, stroking me in time with every roll of his hips, refusing to let this be one-sided even now.
“Harder,” I beg. “I’m not going to break.”
“I know you won’t.” His hips pick up, driving deeper, and the sound that tears out of me this time is louder, rawer, nothing left of the careful, controlled version of myself I walked in with two weeks ago. “That’s not why I’m being careful, Tyler. I just want this to last.”
He gives me more, hips snapping harder, the table creaking under both of us, and every stroke drags against something inside me that has me shaking apart around him.
His hand keeps working my cock, thumb dragging over the head with every pass, and the two sensations together build so fast I can’t hold it back even if I wanted to.
“You feel incredible,” he groans, voice finally fraying at the edges, the last of his composure slipping away thrust by thrust. “I don’t think I’m going to last much longer either.”
“Don’t hold back,” I gasp. “I want to feel you lose it.”
That seems to break something loose in him. His rhythm turns ragged, less controlled, his grip on my hip tight enough to bruise, and every drive of his cock into me has me climbing faster toward something I can already feel cresting.
“I’m close,” I gasp. “Garrett, I’m right there.”
“Come for me.”
I come first, hard, spilling cum over his fist and my own stomach, every part of me clenching tight around his cock, and the sensation of that drags him right over the edge with me, his hips stuttering, a broken groan tearing out of him as he buries himself deep and comes inside me, his forehead dropping against mine, both of us breathing hard.
We stay tangled together on the table a long while after, his weight still braced over me, my legs loosely locked around him. I can feel his heartbeat slowing against my chest, two separate rhythms finally settling into the same pace.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough, brushing damp hair back from my forehead.
“More than okay,” I tell him, and mean it completely.
He doesn’t pull out right away, just stays there, still buried inside me, one hand tracing slow lines along my side like he’s not ready for this to be over yet either.
Outside the exam room the clinic is dark and silent, closed for hours now, and it strikes me that nobody in the world knows where I am right now except the man still catching his breath on top of me.
“That age gap,” I say again, quieter this time, not a challenge, just turning the fact over out loud.
“Feels like less every day you’re here.” He presses a kiss to my temple, easy, no trace of the careful reserve he walked in with tonight. “Feels like it might stop mattering at all, eventually.”
I don’t have anything to say back to that. I just pull him down closer, and he lets me, and neither of us moves for a long while after.