"Hog. Take your pants off."
He rolled his hips just enough to unhook the button, then froze, uncertain. The bed springs complained as he shifted. I'd never found the noise so fucking hot.
I leaned in, nipping at his jaw and down his neck. He was so much larger than me in every way, and I liked how he didn't try to hide it. I liked the rumble of his laugh under my lips, the shyness that flashed in his eyes when I slid down and traced thelines of his gut with my fingertips, hard-earned and soft at the same time.
I stopped at the waistband of his jeans—a dark blue, faded from hundreds of washes, stretched at the thighs and ass. I had to see him as he was, with no filter and no distance—Hog in my space, under my hands.
He watched me, lips parted, muscles shifting as I pulled down the zipper.
I got his jeans undone and started to tug, but they barely made it past the shelf of his ass. He tried to help, but we ended up in a tangle of limbs, fabric, and laughter.
When we finally got Hog's jeans off, he had black boxer briefs, tented at the front. I ran my palm along the length of him, and he hissed, arching his back, pushing into my touch with a grunting sound in his throat I'd never heard before.
"Fuck, Rhett," he said. "You don't have to—"
"Shut up," I said, pressing my mouth to the bulge. I looked up. "You good?"
He nodded, jaw tight.
I peeled away the boxers, exposing Hog fully. He was thick, veiny, not absurdly big but substantial. I wrapped my hand around the base and watched his eyes flutter, then close.
I kissed the head—just a brush, testing. He gasped and his thighs tensed, thick cords standing out.
I took him into my mouth, not all at once—hell, not even close—but enough to make him shudder. I'd been with men who hid their reactions, bit back sounds, and tried to be polite about how good it felt. Hog wasn't polite.
He groaned, low in his chest, and the noise vibrated against my lips and tongue. His hands fumbled for something to grip; he touched my hair, careful at first, then less so as he got lost in the moment.
Hog tasted clean, sharp, and slightly salty, his skin hot and alive. I set a slow, steady pace. Breathed in through my nose. Relaxed my mouth. Tried to remember every half-remembered tip from the internet.
I listened to how his breathing changed, registered what made his hips jerk up, and remembered what made him growl. I was good at this. Not perfect or porn-worthy, but solid.
I needed to hear every noise he made, every crack in his voice—loud and honest, the way he was on the ice.
"Rhett," he gasped, "you don't have to—shit, I'm close—" I hummed in response, and he swore again, hips flexing, tension running the length of his body. I felt him try to hold back, but I didn't want him to.
He was so loud—more than I expected. He repeated my name, softer, then "Fuck, fuck, let me—" in a voice that rattled the walls as if he could will himself to resist and make it last. I was coming undone, and I was the one who caused that.
He bucked. I held him with both hands, bracing myself against the involuntary strength in his thighs. He was far too much for the bed, room, or me to contain. His tip hit the roof of my mouth, and my eyes watered, but I didn't let up.
He pulsed in my mouth, body tightening, and then he was coming, hips off the bed and teeth gritted, voice strangled around my name.
I swallowed. I coughed a little, and he noticed. "Sorry, shit," he said, "Sorry—" and started to sit up, but I pushed him back, my fingers spread against his lightly hairy chest.
"I wanted to," I said, lips still wet. "I wanted to make you lose control."
He blinked, and for a moment, I saw the real Hog, the two parts fused into one. He was the guy who let himself be vulnerable, sprawled in my bed with a little bit of awe written in the lines around his eyes.
He spread out, impossibly big. My lips tingled. My jaw ached. Worth it. Worth every second of him shaking and muttering my name.
Below me, Hog's chest heaved, sweat glistening in the hollows of his collarbones. That was my favorite part: the shock in his face, the stunned look of someone who'd never known somebody would desire him like this.
I crawled up next to him and kissed him. He grabbed my hair—not gentle, instinctual—and pulled me in tight, tasting himself on me.
"Fuck," he said.
I smiled into his mouth. "That's the general idea."
My own dick throbbed, neglected, and Hog noticed—eyes darting down, then up to my face, as if checking for permission. My jeans were still on, and he reached for my waistband.
