I cover my mouth with my hand to muffle the laugh that bursts out. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. What kind of cousin sets up a condom stash for you like a care package?”
“He did it for all the guys. Even though everyone’s in a committed relationship.” Connor lifts his shoulder casually, though the curve of his mouth betrays him. He leans closer, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “You cannot tell him I am very, very grateful for his care package.”
That does me in. I laugh again, softer this time, and tug him closer by the back of his neck.
“So…”
“Yes,” I say, and it’s the easiest yes I’ve ever given.
He tears it open with his teeth, quick and practiced but not detached. When he settles between my thighs again, he doesn’t push right away. He hovers over my body and looks down at where we meet, then up at me again, like he’s giving me another chance to change my mind. I don’t.
The first press of him makes my breath catch, stretch and heat in one long, patient push. My hands fly to his shoulders, then slide up to frame his face because I need to see him. His eyes flutter shut, a curse breathed into the space between us.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, jaw tight like he’s on a cliff edge.
“It’s perfect,” I hear and then realize it’s my voice.
He moves like he’s listening: small adjustments, a shift in angle, a deeper stroke that drags along nerves that haven’t been touched in so, so long. The bed creaks in soft protest. The rain patters against the balcony floor, but I can’t focus on anything else but Connor.
He keeps kissing me—mouth, jaw, the very corner of my lips, as if to anchor me to something. As if he needs the anchoring too.
I wrap my legs around his waist, and the change in depth rips a cry from my throat that I barely smother.
“You need to be quiet, baby,” he says, whispering in my ear. “Fuck, you’re so hot.”
He swears, lowers his forehead to mine, and the next roll of his hips is deliberate and devastating. The pleasure builds again, impossible and fast and slow all at once, and I cling to him like that will slow it down. It doesn’t.
“Manu,” he warns, a little broken, voice gravelly and low. “I’m?—”
“Yeah,” I say, exhaling. “Please.”
Everything in my body tightens, dissolving once I climax and the world tilts bright and breathless. He follows on a ragged groan, his movements stuttering as he shudders above me, buried deep. For a second, we’re both suspended there, held up by nothing but the aftershocks and the way we’re still clinging to each other.
Silence, except for breathing and rain.
The faint, clean smell of laundry beneath us.
A soft click somewhere outside the door.
He rolls to the side, careful, and immediately drags me with him, tucking me against his chest like he’s not ready to let any part of me go. His skin is hot under my cheek, and his heartbeat is a steady knock against my ear. He presses his lips to my forehead once, again, a third time like a habit he’s testing.
I stare at the slope of his collarbone, the tiny constellation of freckles there I didn’t notice before. My body hums.
“Hey,” he says after a while, voice gone soft at the edges. “Are you okay?”
I nod, then realize he can’t see it. “Yeah. Yes.” My voice comes out wrecked. I clear my throat, softer. “I’m great.”
He exhales, something like relief loosening his hold.
I don’t know how long we stay like that—long enough for him to disappear into the bathroom to clean himself up, for me to go pee right after. For Connor to tuck us under the covers and wrap his hand around my waist, holding me against his chest.
I trace a line over his bicep with the tip of my finger, and it exhilarates me, a quiet thrill that comes from touching without asking permission every time.
“Connor,” I whisper, turning to face him. His hand plants against my hip, and I can feel his skin still slick with sweat.
"Yeah?” he replies, sleepy but pulling me closer to him.
“I actually do need your charger.”
