"Ash, I can't—I'm gonna—"
"Not yet." His grip tightens at the base, staving off my orgasm. "I'm not done with you."
He takes me deep again, setting a brutal pace, and one hand slides down to cup my balls, rolling them gently before pressing behind them. The pressure on my prostate from the outside makes me see stars.
"Please," I'm babbling now, hands twisted in his hair. "Please, Ash, let me come, I need to come, please—"
He hums around me—approval, permission—and sucks hard, and I explode. Coming so hard I scream, pumping into his mouth while he swallows and swallows, working me through it until I'm shaking and overstimulated and still he doesn't stop.
"Too much," I gasp. "Ash, I can't—"
He finally pulls off, licking his lips like he just had the best meal of his life. "You taste amazing."
I'm a wreck. Boneless on his couch, cock softening against my thigh, still trembling from the aftershocks. He climbs up to lie beside me, and I can feel how hard he is against my hip.
"Let me," I say, reaching for him. "I want to—"
"No." He catches my wrist, brings it to his lips, kisses my palm. "That was for you. Just for you."
"But you're—"
"I'm fine." He's clearly not fine—his cock is straining against his jeans—but his voice is firm. "I wanted to give you something with no expectations. No keeping score."
"That's not how this works."
"It is with me." He pulls me against his chest, ignoring his obvious erection. "I've never done that before. Given without wanting something back. Let me have this."
I don't know what to say. In my experience, sex has always been transactional—I do something for you, you do something for me. The idea that Ash would suck me off just because he wanted to, just to watch me fall apart, with nothing expected in return...
"You're crying," he says, alarmed.
I am. I wipe my eyes but more tears come. "It's just... no one's ever done that before."
"Sucked your cock?"
I laugh, wet and shaky. "Made it about me. Just me. Without wanting something back."
His arms tighten around me. "Get used to it. I plan to do that a lot."
"Ash..."
"Shh." He kisses my forehead. "Just let me hold you."
So I do. I let him hold me on his couch, hard cock pressed against my hip that he refuses to let me touch, and I think about how wrong Robin was.
Ash isn't a hurricane.
He's becoming shelter.
---
We stay like that for a long time, and eventually the conversation picks back up. Movies we like, foods we hate, the worst dates we've ever been on. His involves a goat and an embassy; he can't tell me more than that due to classification levels. Mine involves a guy who brought his mother to the restaurant and made me sit in the back seat on the drive home.
It's easy. Natural. Like we've been doing this for years instead of hours.
"I should probably go eventually," I say when the afternoon light starts to fade through the windows. "Work tomorrow."
"Stay for dinner. I'll order something."
