He does it again, this time circling my clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it between his lips. He flicks, soft at first, then rougher, building a rhythm that makes me lose count of my breaths.
His fingers join in, sliding into me one at a time, curling to find that spot that always undoes me. He fucks me with his hand while he eats me, the pressure perfect, the friction just enough.
I grab the back of his head, holding him in place, grinding up against his face.
He hums, the vibration sending shockwaves through my core.
It doesn’t take long.
I come, sudden and brutal, my body snapping tight, toes curling. I feel the orgasm ripple up my spine, across my scalp, down to the tips of my fingers. I cry out, not caring if the world hears.
He doesn’t stop. He licks me through it, drawing out the aftershocks until I’m trembling and spent.
When he finally pulls away, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawls up to kiss me, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
He lines himself up at my entrance, waits for my eyes to meet his before he pushes in.
The stretch is familiar, but somehow still new. Like the first time, but better.
He goes slow, inch by inch, letting me feel every bit of him. He bottoms out, hips pressed to mine, and holds there.
We breathe together. In, out.
Then he starts to move, slow at first, then faster, setting a rhythm that is less about dominance and more about keeping time. Each thrust is a conversation, every roll of his hips a question that I answer with my body.
I wrap my legs around his waist, digging my heels into his back. I claw at his shoulders, drag my nails down the length of his spine. He groans, deep and raw, and I feel him twitch inside me.
He buries his face in my neck, teeth scraping the skin but never biting. His hands find my wrists, pinning them above my head, but it’s not a threat. It’s a shelter.
He fucks me like he’s building something, not breaking it.
I come again, harder than before, the pleasure white-hot and endless. I scream his name, the sound echoing in the small room.
He chases his release, hips stuttering as he slams into me. He groans, a broken sound, and I feel him spill inside me, hot and heavy.
He collapses on top of me, both of us panting, hearts beating in the same jagged rhythm.
He rolls to the side, pulling me with him, never letting go. We tangle together, arms and legs and sweat.
After a while, I reach up and trace the scars on his back with my fingertips.
“What happened here?” I ask, touching the thickest scar, a ropey line across his shoulder blade.
He’s quiet for a long time.
“My father,” he says, nonchalant. “He liked to make sure I remembered my place.”
I press my lips to the scar, soft.
He keeps talking, halting and slow.
“Never good enough. Not until Bam came along. Then I wasn’t just a disappointment—I was a reminder of what could go wrong. Bam was the golden boy. The one he wished he’d had. But I loved him anyway. Still do.”
He doesn’t look at me as he says it. He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched.
I rest my head on his chest, listen to the thump of his heart.
“You’re not broken,” I say.
