Chapter 9 The Same Side #2
The first of it took the words clean out of me.
He was tight and hot around the head of my cock, and then closer, working himself down in small drops, lifting and settling, holding his breath and letting it go, his teeth set in his lip.
I held his hips and I held still and I let him take me at exactly the speed his body voted for, and it was the hardest thing I did.
Everything in me wanted to drive up. I didn’t. This part was his.
He settled all the way down, seated, both of us making the same sound at the same time, and stopped there with one hand braced on my chest and his head hanging.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. Give me a second.”
“Take all the time you want.”
“Don’t move.”
“I won’t. Fuck.”
He was tight around me in a way that had me setting my jaw and counting the cracks in the ceiling, the grip of him giving and taking by fractions while he got used to me, and holding still through it put sweat at my own hairline.
He stayed like that until his body made up its mind about me, and then he started to move, and I got to lie there and watch Ryan Carlson take himself apart on my cock at his own pace.
He rolled his hips, found the angle he was after, lost the last of his self-consciousness somewhere around the third stroke.
He rode me slow and deep to start, and then faster, grinding down hard at the bottom of every stroke where it did the most for him.
His cock stood engorged and wet against his stomach the whole time and he never once reached for it, spending everything on the deep thing he was chasing instead.
Sweat ran down his chest. The bed had started to knock the wall, slow at first and then not slow, and the room filled up with the sound of us, his breath and mine and the wet drag of where we were joined and the low words he wasn’t bothering to hold back anymore.
My hands stayed on his hips, not guiding him, just holding on, feeling the work of it in the muscle of him every time he lifted and dropped.
I moved one up over his breastbone, and under it his heart was pounding as hard as mine, and I left it there and let him feel I’d found it.
He dropped his weight down and stayed a beat, grinding, chasing the angle, and what it pulled out of him was raw enough to feel in my own chest. His body had gone taut and gleaming over me, past caring how he looked or how loud he got.
I’d told him he looked like a wet dream. I hadn’t known the half of it. The sight of him over me, braced on my chest, sweat on his skin and his mouth open and his eyes gone half-blind, was going to follow me into every dull briefing for the rest of my life.
Ryan talked the whole way through it, half of it my name and the rest of it filthy and unguarded, the man who chose his words in front of a Crown attorney for a living gone completely off script.
I lay there and took it and gave back what I could, my hands on him, my hips coming up to meet him when he wanted it deeper, and the whole miserable week went out of the room for good.
I couldn’t stay flat under him forever. I sat up into him, got an arm around his back and my mouth on his, and he let me have that without breaking his rhythm, the new angle dragging a sound out of both of us at once.
He rode me sitting up like that, chest to chest, my arm around his back and his around my neck, our foreheads together, both of us slick where we met and breathing each other’s air.
My own body had gone past wanting. It was all I could do not to roll him under me and take it.
I stayed still and let him keep the pace anyway, because it was his, and because I would have given him anything he asked for and this was the thing he wanted.
His rhythm started to fray. His breath went short.
“Luke.” His voice was down to gravel. “I’m close. I’m going to…”
“Look at me.”
He looked at me. That was the thing between us, had been since the first night, the looking.
I got a hand between us and closed it around his cock and stroked him in time with the way he was already moving, and it took him fast. He came with a sound he made no attempt to hold, spilling hot over my fist and both our stomachs, his whole body clamping down around me in hard, helpless pulls.
He kept grinding through it, riding it out, working himself on me like he meant to drag me over the edge with him, and it did exactly that.
I came buried in him with my face in his neck and his name in my mouth, and it kept going longer than it had any right to, my hands locked on his hips and his palms flat on my chest, holding me down through the shaking of it.
He folded down onto me, boneless, both of us soaked and breathing hard, his heart slamming against mine.
For a while the room was nothing but that, the two of us catching our breath, his weight on me and my arms around him.
I wanted every pound of it. A car went by on the street below, screeching tires, and I didn’t care.
“So,” he said finally, into my neck, hoarse. “The wall thing was new.”
“Too much?”
“No.” He turned his face far enough to be heard. “Do that again sometime.”
“Noted.”
“I mean it. Put that in a report somewhere.” He was quiet a moment, his breath slowing against my throat.
I eased him off me when we could both manage it, dealt with the condom, and went and got a warm cloth from the bathroom.
He let me clean us both up without one word about it, which from Ryan was practically a love letter.
By the time I got the blankets up over us he was heavy-eyed and loose, his hair a disaster, his mouth swollen, and he lay there and watched me watch him.
He turned into me, one leg thrown over mine, his head finding the spot on my chest he’d claimed early on and never once given back. I laid my hand on his back. The lamp was still burning. Neither of us reached to turn it off.
Then his stomach growled into the quiet, loud enough that we both heard it clearly, and he groaned and pressed his face into my chest, disgusted with himself, and I felt the laugh start in him before it got out, and the last of the week let go of both of us at once.
We got up. He came down the hall after me in his shorts, and the plate was still by the stove where he’d left it, the second plate turned over on top of it to hold the heat that had gone out of it hours ago.
We ate it cold, standing at the counter, hip to hip, passing the one fork back and forth.
The stool was still lying on its side on the floor where it had gone over earlier.
Neither of us picked it up. I filled a glass at the tap and we shared that too, and when I put it away the cupboard door closed soft under my hand and the glasses inside it didn’t make a sound.
He hooked his bare foot over mine on the cold floor and worked through his half of the plate like it was the best meal of his life, and neither of us said anything about that.
Outside the street had gone still, one car passing, a porch light on across the way. It was late. Neither of us checked how late.
We went back to bed after the plate was rinsed in the sink.
His breathing evened out long before mine did.
I lay in the dark of our room with my hand moving over his back, and his heart ticked along against my ribs, slower now, unhurried, and I stayed awake a while just to feel it come all the way down.