"I have never been more sure of anything in my—yes. Yes. Please."
I kiss him again, walking him backward toward the door. He fumbles with his keys — drops them once, swears, I pick them up and unlock the door myself while he presses against my back, hands under my jacket, mouth on the nape of my neck.
We barely make it inside. The door closes and Robin is pulling at my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders, yanking at the henley underneath. His hands are everywhere — my chest, my arms, my stomach, my belt — and his mouth is on my throat, my jaw, the hollow behind my ear.
"Stairs," he manages between kisses. "My room. Up."
We stumble up the stairs. Robin trips on the top step and I catch him by the waist and pin him against the hallway wall, and the sound he makes — this high, sharp, wrecked thing — goes straight through me.
"Been thinking about this," he says, pulling at my shirt, getting it over my head. His hands land on my bare chest and he goes still, palms flat against my pectorals, feeling me breathe. "Since Saturday. Since you kept me warm. Since you told me you see me."
"I see you," I confirm, and his eyes go liquid.
His bedroom door. I don't register much about the room — it's dark, it smells like him, there's a bed. That's all I need.
I push him down onto it and he goes willingly, pulling me on top of him, wrapping his legs around my waist. He's hard against my thigh and I'm hard against his hip and the friction when he rolls up against me makes us both groan.
"Off," he demands, tugging at my jeans. "Everything off. Now."
I pull back to strip and he does the same, hands shaking, kicking off his shoes and yanking his sweater over his head. His skin is pale in the dim light, lean and smooth, a faded burn scar on his left forearm. He's beautiful. Not the way he is at the bar, all performance and polish — beautiful the way he is right now, flushed and frantic and real.
"Stop staring and get back here," he says, reaching for me.
I crawl over him. Settle my weight between his legs, and he gasps at the full skin-on-skin contact — my chest against his, my hips against his hips, nothing between us. His cock is hot and hard against mine and he rolls up instinctively, chasing friction, his nails digging into my shoulders.
"Vaughn, please—"
"What do you need?"
"You. In me." His voice cracks on it, raw with want. "I need you inside me. Please."
"Where—"
"Nightstand." He's already reaching for it, fumbling the drawer open, pressing a bottle of lube into my hand. "Please."
I take my time. Robin doesn't want me to take my time — he's arching against me, trying to pull me closer, making sounds of pure frustrated want every time I slow down — but I need this. I need to do this right.
I slick my fingers and press one into him, slow, watching his face. His eyes flutter shut. His mouth falls open. His body opens for me like it's been waiting.
"That's it," I tell him, working my finger deeper, curling it. "So good, Robin."
"More. I can take more."
I add a second finger and he moans — long and low and completely unselfconscious, his head thrown back against the pillow, his hips moving against my hand. He's tight and hot and responsive to every movement, and the sounds he's making are going to kill me.
"Look at you." I scissor my fingers, stretch him, find the spot that makes him cry out. "Taking it so well."
"Fuck — Vaughn — right there, right there—"
I press that spot again and his whole body bows off the bed, cock leaking against his stomach, a string of profanity spilling out of him that would be impressive if I could focus on anything other than how he looks right now. Wrecked. Desperate. Mine.
A third finger. He takes it with a groan, pushing back against my hand, fucking himself on my fingers like he can't get enough.
"Ready," he pants. "Vaughn, I'm ready, please — I need your cock, please—"
I pull my fingers out and he whines at the loss. I slick myself up, hands not entirely steady — the first time they've been unsteady since I started — and line up against him.
"Look at me," I say.
