We kiss like that for a couple of minutes, slow and almost lazy, and when we finally part, Moon’s face is flushed, chest too, his breath coming fast.
“Are you okay?” I ask, and he nods.
He holds my gaze, shifts his hands to my shoulders—and starts to move.
It’s slow at first. He drags his hips up just enough for me to slip out an inch, then sinks back down with a low moan in his throat. The drag of it—tight and slick—makes my whole body tense.
I want to touch him so fucking bad. Want my hands on his waist, his hips. Want to flip him onto all fours and fuck him until he’s begging to come.
But I can’t. I’m still tied to the damn headboard, wrists stretched tight above me, already going numb. Moon’s drawing it out—rolling his hips slow, savoring every moan, every gasp.
“Fuck,” I hiss, head falling back. “You’re—fuck, Moon.”
His eyes drop to where our bodies are joined, watching himself take me in.
I look too. Watch him rock into it again.
And again.
And again.
A little harder each time.
Finally, he starts building a rhythm—steady, deep thrusts that hit every nerve just right. His thighs flex as he rides me, head falling back, hair spilling over his shoulders, sticking to his damp neck.
I can’t look away. Pleasure coils low in my gut, and I start thrusting up to meet his movement.
The second I do, Moon lets out a loud moan, arching his back as I hit that spot over and over.
“Sawyer,” I say, voice hoarse.
He lifts his head, eyes meeting mine.
“Touch yourself,” I tell him, gaze dropping to his straining cock.
“Are you close?” he asks, voice wrecked. I nod.
He leans forward, grinding down faster, then squirts some lube onto his leaking cock and wraps a hand around it.
I watch as he jerks himself off, eyes locked on me—and it takes less than a minute before he’s flushed, panting, falling apart.
The sounds he makes are obscene. And I’m right there with him, moaning every time he sinks back down onto my cock.
His movements get faster, rougher, as he hits the point of no return—chasing his release.
And when he comes with a broken cry, it’s hot and messy against my stomach. His body trembles, back arching, his hole clenching tight around me as he rides it out with shaky thrusts.
My hips grind up once, twice—and then I’m coming too, everything flashing white-hot, blinding. He slumps forward, collapsing onto me, skin slick and burning, heartbeat pounding against my chest.
Neither of us says anything for a good couple of minutes, both breathing like we just ran a fucking marathon.
Then, still catching my breath, I mutter against his neck, “Next time, you’re the one getting tied up.”
That’s when he lifts his head, eyes flicking to my hands—and panic flashes across his face.
“Shit,” he says, scrambling to undo the belt. “Sorry.”
He tosses it aside and reaches for my wrists, rubbing them gently. His thumbs trace over the faint red marks where the leather bit into my skin.
