I lifted my head, meeting his eyes, and the look there—soft, stunned, still shaking—made something steady settle in my chest. I reached for the lube on the nightstand, the small, practical sound of the cap twisting open grounding us both. I squeezed a generous amount into my palm and rubbed my hands together, warming it.
“Stay,” I murmured, gentle but firm, easing him back against the pillows when he tried to sit up. “Let me.”
I reached back, slicking myself slowly, taking my time. I breathed through it, relaxed, careful—one finger, then another—coating myself until the stretch eased and the ache turned warm and ready. Michael watched, eyes dark, swallowing hard, his hands fisting in the sheets like he was holding himself back.
I leaned forward and stroked him, spreading lube along his length, slow and deliberate, making sure he was coated, ready. He hissed at the first touch, hips twitching up, and I caught his wrist, holding him still with a look that saidtrust me.
“Easy,” I said softly. “I’ve got this.”
I straddled him then, knees braced on either side of his hips, feeling the heat of him beneath me. I guided him with one hand, the other steadying myself as I lined us up. The first press was slow, controlled, just the head, and we both breathed together while my body adjusted.
“Okay?” I asked quietly.
“Yes,” he breathed, eyes locked on mine. “Please.”
I sank down inch by inch, letting the stretch build and then soften, letting my body take him properly. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with speed or hunger—just closeness, the careful trust of it. I paused when I was fully seated, both of us trembling, the room filled with the quiet sound of our breathing.
I leaned forward and kissed him—slow, reassuring—then rocked my hips gently, testing the rhythm. Michael groaned, hands sliding up my back, stopping short of gripping like he didn’t want to take more than I was offering.
“Like that,” I murmured, setting a pace that was unhurried and deep, each roll of my hips deliberate. “Just feel it. Feel me.”
I rode him slowly, using the headboard for balance, letting the movement build without rushing it. The lube made everything slick and easy, the glide smooth, and the closeness—skin to skin, breath to breath—felt like something fragile I wanted to keep intact.
Michael’s hands found my hips at last, tentative, then sure. He didn’t thrust; he followed my lead, meeting me halfway, letting me control the depth and speed. Every time I sank down, he gasped softly, like the feeling surprised him anew.
“You feel good,” he said, voice rough but steady. “So good.”
I smiled, brushing my thumb along his jaw, grounding him. “You’re doing great,” I told him, honest and warm. “Just stay with me.”
I leaned back, giving him the view, letting him watch the way my body moved over his, the way we fit together. I rode him in slow circles, then deeper, then slow again, keeping it gentle, keeping it safe. His hands followed my movement, supportive, reverent, like he was afraid to break the moment.
We found a rhythm that felt like breathing—easy, shared, unforced. I bent down and kissed him again, longer this time, letting the heat build naturally while the world outside stayed quiet.
His hands tightened on my hips—not rough, not yet—but there was a shift there, a spark of intent that made my breath hitch. I felt it before I saw it, the way his body coiled beneath me, strength gathering, need sharpening.
“Daniel,” he said, low and steady, and the sound of my name in his mouth did something to me. “Come here.”
He rolled us smoothly, decisively, until my back hit the mattress and he was above me, braced on his forearms, eyes dark and focused. I sucked in a breath, the sudden change stealing the air from my lungs, and he kissed me—slow at first, then deeper, mouth warm and claiming.
“Let me,” he murmured against my lips, not asking, just grounding me there with his weight. “I want you like this.”
I nodded, fingers digging into his shoulders as he lined himself up again and pressed in deep in one long, controlled thrust. The stretch made me gasp, my head tipping back as he filled me completely, hips settling between my thighs like he belonged there.
“Fuck,” I breathed, legs wrapping around him instinctively.
He rocked into me, slow but powerful, every thrust deep and deliberate, the kind that made my toes curl and my vision blur. He stayed close, chest brushing mine, forehead pressed to my temple as he set a rhythm that was anything but gentle—but still careful, still tuned to me.
“You take me so well,” he said quietly, voice rough with it. “Every time I move, you open up for me. Like your body knows exactly what to do.”
I moaned, clutching at him, feeling every word land low and hot. He slid one hand down to hook under my thigh, lifting it higher, angling himself just right before thrusting again—harder this time, deeper.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Right there. You feel that?”
I did. I felt everything—the stretch, the heat, the way he filled me so completely it felt like there was nothing else in the world but this. I rocked up to meet him, breath stuttering, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through his chest.
“You look incredible like this,” he went on, each word punctuated by a slow, deep thrust. “Spread open for me. Taking every inch. Letting me fuck you like I’ve been wanting to.”
My hands slid down his back, nails scraping lightly, and he shuddered, thrusts turning a little faster, a little rougher. He leaned down, kissed along my jaw, my throat, biting just enough to make me gasp.
