He was disarray and precision all at once. Scattered and sharp.
I saw it. All of it.
"Adrian—" His voice cracked. "I'm close, I need—"
I wrapped my hand around his cock, stroking in time with my thrusts, and Pickle shattered.
He came with a shout, body seizing, clenching around me so tight I lost my rhythm. I watched his face and followed him over the edge, burying myself deep.
For at least thirty seconds, neither of us moved.
Eventually, I found the strength to pull out. Dealt with the condom. Grabbed a shirt from the floor to clean us both up.
Pickle lay sprawled across the mattress like he'd been dropped there from a great height, one arm flung over his face, chest still heaving.
"Holy shit," he said.
"Yeah."
"That was—"
"Yeah."
"I can't feel my legs. I think you broke my legs." He moved his arm and looked at me. "Worth it. No regrets. You can have my legs."
I collapsed beside him. The sheets were tangled, half off the bed, damp in places. Neither of us moved to fix them.
Pickle rolled toward me immediately, pressing against my side, one arm across my stomach, one leg thrown over mine. Claiming my body.
"That was really good," he said.
"It was."
"Like, really good. Top five. Top three. Top—" He paused. "Actually, I don't have enough data points for a proper ranking, but I'm confident."
"Confidence is good."
"I'm very confident. I'm statistically certain." He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "We should do it again. For science. Expand the sample size."
"Later."
"Later is good. Later is acceptable." His fingers danced across my chest. "I talk too much after sex. You can tell me to shut up."
"I don't want you to shut up."
He lifted his head. "Really?"
"Really."
"Most people want me to shut up. Not in a mean way, just—" He shrugged. "I'm a lot. After. During. Before. All the times."
"I know."
"And that's... okay?"
I pulled him closer and kissed him. "Absolutely."
He nestled his face into my neck. His arm tightened around my stomach, holding on.
