He prowls toward the bed. There’s no other way to describe it. It’s aprowl,his eyes darkening, shoulders tensing—this, I know what to do with.
So when he says, “Just a hot guy, huh?” in a teasing voice, he’s going along with my energy shift. Making it light, making it easy.
He crawls over top of me, holding himself up on hands and knees.
I lay my fingers on his hips; even that minimal contact is electric. “No.”
His brows pull together. “No?”
I dig my fingers against his skin, mouth dry, heart overtaxed already. “Not just a hot guy. My—”
Everything I told him in his dining room was terrifying.
This is… excruciating.
Thio takes one of my arms. Angry red scratches run up from my wrist; they’re almost always there. He presses his lips to those lines, peppering kisses over the physical proof of my anxiety.
Pressure, from both pain and comfort, squeezes my throat.
“Do you want me to say it?” he whispers. “What you are to me?”
I shake my head again. No more talking. I’ll ruin it, or it’ll open too wide and eat me whole.
Thio doesn’t agree, doesn’t do anything to say he understands. But he tells me by the way he moves those kisses to my mouth, agonizingly sweet again, and taps whimpers out of me in no time. He’s whimpering, too, and seems to lose control of the kiss; it stops being gentle, teeth crushing together, tongues and delving fingers and our bodies grinding.
I need to feel the expanse of him against me. I haven’t felt that yet. Suddenly everything we’ve done is the worst kind ofnot enough,morsels that have barely sustained me and underneath it all, I’m starving.
I work his belt and pants open and shove them down. He kicks his shoes off, loses his clothes, then we’re twisting in a lurch and I throw him onto his back. I rid myself of my remaining clothes and lay my body out over his.
Skin connects with skin from head to toe, warmth shuddering through me in cresting wave after cresting wave and I hold there on him, hips gyrating, the two of us breathing frantically.
“Want you,” he says into those breaths. “Want you so damn much.”
Still can’t speak. Don’t trust myself. Too many words want to come, words I can’t say; if I strip any more bare, I’ll turn inside out.
I slide down his body, tracing his tattoos with my tongue. I owe him something, after the Founder’s Day challenge; he got back to the wall with the components first. Even if we hadn’t made that bet, I’d be salivating for him.
I lick one nipple until the hollow of his throat throbs with a stifled moan. I watch it beat, beat, hips canting to the drums. His fingers tangle in my hair and knock my glasses askew; I rip them offand toss them onto his nightstand. I can see fine up close, but if I couldn’t, he so vibrantly dominates all my other senses that sight is a distant concern.
I continue down, mapping his body, rememorizing it from all our hasty blowjobs and fumbled, chaotic interactions.
Yes, sweet is frightening. It’s real and foundational.
But gods, it’sgood.
So good, the noises he’s making in these gradual, syrupy touches. The way the muscles in his abs jump when I coast my lips down his defined V. His eyes lidding and bursting back open because he wants to watch but also can’t stay present in the onslaught.
By the time I take him into my mouth, he’s shaking all over and so am I.
“Sebastian,” he gasps, and I answer with a long, thorough suck that has him hissing. “Sebastian.” Just my name, some filthy prayer as I drag my tongue through his slit.
He slaps at his nightstand, wrenches the drawer open, and a container of lube plunks onto the mattress next to me, followed by a condom.
I pull off. Look at the condom, then up at him.
We talked about our test results the night we hooked up the first time, but if he wants to use protection, that’s fine. Probably for the best; hey, I get to keep one barrier in place today.
He’s panting, but he comes through the haze enough to say, “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to use it?”
