"Can I?" His voice was low.
"Yeah," I breathed, with an edge of desperation in my voice.
He made short work of my jeans, less dexterous than I was but twice as determined. My cock was already hard, aching. Hog's palm, bigger than my entire face, closed around it, and I nearly came then and there.
His hand was hot and rough, and I needed to come so badly my back arched off the bed. He jerked me slow, then fast, watching my face for every stuttering breath. His fingers traced the head, ran along the shaft, found the vein, and stroked it experimentally.
"Damn, Hog—" I said, and he grinned, the same shit-eating expression he wore after laying someone out on the ice.
I'd thought about this for weeks, but nowhere in my fantasy had it felt like I was being unraveled and reconfigured. I came faster than I wanted to—barely time to process the way his hand fit around me, and how he didn't ease up as I jerked and gasped.
Hog didn't let go. He stroked me through the aftershocks, his thumb making lazy circles that bordered on cruel, and then just held me for a second, my dick softening against his palm. He looked at me with a new kind of hunger, something bigger than sex.
He pulled me in, gathering me into his side, like he'd been carrying a weight in his chest and now that he'd let it out, he could finally breathe. We lay there for a while, catching our breath, sweat cooling on our skin.
My bedroom smelled like sex and candle wax and the last of Hog's mint tea. He didn't say anything for a long time; he just traced circles on my back with his fingers.
Eventually, I broke the silence. "That was. Wow."
"Yeah," he said, voice raw and raspy. "You okay?"
"I'm the definition of okay right now."
He grunted, satisfied.
The candles had burned lower while we were in bed, and Clapton'sSlowhandhad given way to Boz Scaggs'Silk Degrees—smoky, unhurried, every track sliding into the next like it had all the time in the world. I didn't pay close attention. I wasn't paying attention to anything but Hog.
He was quiet. Not just post-sex quiet—actually quiet. There was no fidgeting or nervous energy, no commentary about the ceiling or the temperature or whether my neighbors had heard us.
It was the first time I'd seen him completely at rest.
His hair was a disaster, his beard mussed from my hands, and his mouth had a satisfied curve. He'd sprawled across three-quarters of my bed without apology, one leg tangled with mine, claiming space like he belonged there.
"Thank you," he said at last. "For all of it. For choosing—" He stopped for a moment. "For everything."
I reached out and squeezed his hand. "Thank you for letting me."
He smiled. "Couldn't stop you if I tried. You're persistent as hell."
"I prefer determined."
"Stubborn."
"Focused."
"Pain in the ass."
"Now you're just being mean."
He laughed. Then he shifted closer, pressing his face against my neck. His breath was warm against my skin.
"I could get used to this," he murmured.
"Being mean to me?"
"Being here. With you. Not waiting for you to realize I'm too much work." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Taking up your bed and probably cutting off circulation to your arm."
Outside, Thunder Bay settled deeper into winter quiet. No traffic or voices, just the occasional creak of the building and the soft whistle of wind through the window frame.
