Long pulls and rough slaps, every time his cock slammed over my prostate, my balls churned toward their own release. I knew his body well enough to know he was close, and right as his body seized from pleasure, he pulled me back off the couch. Blood flooded between my legs, my cock in immediate agony as I splattered my own release against the cushions.
I tried to cry out, but his hand in my mouth caused me to choke, and I tumbled forward, still coming as my muscles convulsed while I gagged.
“That’s it,” he praised, drawing his hand out of mouth.
I sucked in a sharp breath and he hauled me back up, kissing the sweat from the side of my neck and my jaw as he came inside of me. Heat flooded my channel, the thick girth of his erection pushing my rim wide enough to accommodate the swell of his pleasure.
“That’s it,” he murmured again, dropping his sweaty forehead into the crook of my neck.
I reached up and curled my fingers around his wrist, his arm still secure around my chest. He took both of our bodies to the floor, cock still firmly lodged inside of me. Behind me, his body still shook from his orgasm, and against the cool, wood floor of his living room, I realized mine was doing much the same.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I tightened my hand around his wrist, pulling it up to kiss the top of his hand. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“You were so upset when you left.”
“Hurt, maybe,” I corrected, grinding down on him. He reached down and twisted one of my nipples.
“I could hurt you.”
“I know.” Resting my head against his chest, I closed my eyes and focused on all the places our bodies were connected, the careful way in which we were joined.
“I meant if you forgive me.” With his other hand, he traced a swirl over my hip bone, working his way down toward the sticky mess I’d left on my stomach. “I could…”
I would have given almost anything to see his face in that moment, free of the bravado he normally wore. But his heart hammered against his chest, pounding hard so close to my spine, and I knew I didn’t have to see him. I could feel the nerves, the pressure, the worry that he carried when it came to being with me.
“I’m not scared of that. Not now,” I assured him.
“What changed?” he asked. “How did you go from I don’t date men your age to falling in love with me?”
“It was all you,” I answered quickly. It was the truth, and I needed him to know it. “I said those things because I’d never met someone like you before.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m saying you don’t owe me another apology.” I angled my head back, and he grazed a kiss as close to my mouth as he could reach. “I’m saying that when it comes to you, to this, I’m all in. If you want that. If you’ll still have me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Miles pulled his cock out of my ass, still half hard. He moved quick, shoving me onto my back and mounting me. With his hands pressed flat against my chest, he pinned me to the floor, his face relaxed. He gave me that smile, that soft one I only ever saw when he was like this, taken apart from sex and put back together again. “Is there really a question of ifIwantyou?”
“Always.”
For as much as he worried he was too much or not enough for me, I had all of those concerns tenfold. I was older. I was nowhere near as attractive as he was. If anyone fell short, it would be me, even if he had yet to see that.
Fighting my own insecurities, I slid my hands up his arms, walking them to his shoulders. I wanted to pull him down and kiss him. I wanted to show him just how ridiculous his worries were, but I knew that wasn’t right. This position, this scenario…it wasn’t the moment for that. And it wasn’t like I had to pretend to be someone I wasn’t to fit the mood, much the opposite. All I had to do was lean into the truth of who I was and who we were together.
So, instead of grabbing him and pulling him down, instead of taking another kiss and another and another, I let my arms fall to the floor, wrists crossed above my head. I tipped my chin and offered him my throat, my soul, my heart.
“I want you, Miles,” I rasped, letting my eyes fall closed. “And I’m yours.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Miles
The following morning,I made Hendrix coffee.
It had become a bit of a routine for me on the nights I stayed with him, like my own kind of aftercare. Or more like a reminder that I’d done something right and the man of my dreams was still sound asleep in a bed he’d shared with me the night before. In an extremely childish way, it made me happy he’d stayed over at my house because that meantmysheets would smell like him.
My pillows.
