I took my time with the blowjob, too. Learned what made him shake, babble faster, and made his grip on the sheets tighten. He was responsive to everything—every touch or scrape of teeth.
"I'm gonna—if you keep doing that, I'm gonna—" He tugged at my hair. "Not yet. I don't want to yet. I want—"
I pulled off. Looked up at him.
He was wrecked—chest heaving, hair a mess, eyes dark and desperate. Still, he was grinning, that irrepressible Pickle grin.
"Hi," he said breathlessly. "You're really good at that. Top marks. A-plus. Would recommend."
I laughed. Couldn't help it. I crawled up his body and kissed him, and he wrapped himself around me like he was trying to climb inside my skin.
"I want you," he said against my mouth. "Please. I've been thinking about it for days. I'll die if you don't—"
"You won't die."
"I might. You don't know. It could be fatal. Sexual frustration is a legitimate medical—"
I kissed him to shut him up, reaching for the bottle.
I worked him open with my fingers, slow and slick, and Pickle squirmed against the sheets—talking, always talking, a running commentary on every sensation.
"That's—oh—more, I can take more—" He pushed back against my hand, impatient. "I'm not gonna break, I promise, I've done this before, just—oh fuck, right there—"
I added another finger. Watched his face. His eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth fell open.
"Good?"
"So good. So—I need—Adrian, please—"
"Please what?"
"You. Now. I'm ready, I'm so ready, I've been ready since—just please—"
I rolled on the condom. Positioned myself. Pressed forward slowly, watching his face for any sign of pain.
There wasn't any. His eyes flew open, mouth forming a perfect O, while his hands reached for my shoulders.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, that's—you're—"
I held still, letting him adjust. Every muscle in my body trembled with the effort.
"Okay," he said after a moment. "Okay, you can—please move, I need you to move—"
I moved.
He was loud, like I'd known he would be. A constant stream of sounds—my name, curses, things that might have been words in another context but were only noise here. Pure want and desire,yes,andmore,andthereanddon't stop.
The chaos wasn't a front. Wasn't armor. It was pure Pickle.
But.
Underneath the noise and the motion, threaded through all of it like a bass note—there was focus.
I'd seen it before. On the ice, in the footage, and the way he could read a play before it happened.
Here, now, that same focus was trained on me.
Pickle watched my face even while he babbled. He adjusted his angle when I made a sound he liked. His hands were restless and everywhere but always, somehow, finding exactly where I needed them.
