His mouth crashes into mine like he’s been starving for it, one hand cupping the back of my neck to hold me exactly where he wants me, the other sliding under my shirt to press flat against my lower back. I make a small, needy sound into his mouth—can’t help it—and he groans in response, deepening the kiss until it’s all teeth and tongue and desperate little gasps.
We shift, trying to get closer. There’s still too much space between us even though we’re pressed together. My hands fist in his shirt, yanking it up; his fingers dig into my hips, urging me to straddle his lap. I do—without breaking the kiss—settling over him, knees bracketing his thighs. Our cocks brush through denim, and I whimper at the friction; he bucks up once, involuntary, chasing more.
Clothes start coming off in frantic little tugs. My hoodie gets rucked up and over my head; his shirt follows a second later. His belt clinks as I fumble with it; he helps, impatient,then shoves his jeans down just enough. My jeans are next—half-unbuttoned, shoved to mid-thigh along with my boxers. Skin meets skin, and we both moan at the contact.
I rock down against him, grinding slow and filthy, feeling him hard and leaking against my stomach. His hands roam—my back, my ass, my thighs—like he’s trying to map every inch he’s missed. I’m doing the same, fingers tracing the familiar lines of his chest, the scar on his pec, the dip of his collarbone.
We’re both breathing hard, mouths barely separating long enough to drag in air.
Then I pull back just enough—barely an inch—forehead pressed to his. “Wait,” I pant. “We… we need to go slow.”
He freezes, eyes searching mine. “Too much?”
“No.” I swallow, cheeks heating. “I just… I haven’t, uh… done anything. Since you. Since us.”
The admission hangs there, vulnerable and bare between us.
Silas stares at me for a long beat, something raw flickering across his face—surprise, awe, guilt, tenderness all at once.
Then he exhales, shaky. “Me either.”
My heart stutters. “Really?”
He nods once, thumb brushing my cheek. “Not since that last night. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”
The words land heavy and sweet, and I soak them in. I lean in, kiss him softer this time—slow, lingering, like we’re sealing something with a kiss.
“Okay,” I whisper against his lips. “Slow, then.”
He nods, hands gentling on my hips. “Slow.”
But slow doesn’t mean we stop.
We kiss again—deeper, hungrier, but with intention now.His fingers slide up my spine, mapping every vertebra; mine card through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. We rock together lazily, cocks sliding slick against each other, building heat without rushing.
Clothes finish coming off in pieces—jeans kicked away, boxers tugged down and discarded somewhere on the floor. Naked now, skin-to-skin, we move to the bedroom like we’re magnetized—stumbling, laughing breathlessly when we bump the doorframe, never quite breaking contact.
He lays me out on the bed as though I’m something precious, eyes dark and reverent. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Always have been.”
I pull him down, legs wrapping around his waist. “Show me.”
He does—slow kisses down my throat, my chest, my stomach. Hands everywhere, worshipping. When he finally slicks his fingers and presses inside me—careful, patient, whispering praise the whole time—I arch up, moaning his name.
“So good for me,” he breathes against my skin, lips brushing the shell of my ear as his fingers curl inside me one last time. “Taking me so well. My perfect boy.”
I’m shaking already—legs spread wide, back arched off the bed, every nerve lit up from the slow stretch of his fingers. He’s been patient, reverent, working me open like he has all the time in the world to make up for the year we lost. When he finally pulls his hand away, I whine at the emptiness, hips lifting instinctively.
“Shh,mi amor,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. “I’ve got you.”
He slicks himself again—slow strokes of his hand, eyes never leaving mine—then lines up. The blunt pressure at myentrance makes me gasp. He doesn’t push in right away; he rocks there, teasing, letting me feel every inch he’s about to give me.
“Respira, hermoso,” he whispers, thumb stroking my cheek. “Breathe for me. Let me in.”
I nod, exhale shakily, and he starts—slow, agonizingly slow, pushing in inch by inch. The stretch burns sweet, perfect, and I can’t stop the broken sound that spills out of me. His forehead drops to mine, breath mingling, eyes locked so tight it feels like he’s seeing straight into my soul.
“Dios mío,” he groans when he’s halfway in, hips stuttering for the first time. “Estás tan apretado… tan perfecto… mi hermoso niño…”
The Spanish hits me like a spark—soft, reverent, filthy all at once. I’ve always loved when he loses it enough to slip into it; it means he’s not thinking, just feeling. Just wanting. And now I know enough to understand what he’s saying, which makes it even better.My God. You’re so tight. So perfect. My beautiful boy.Who knew knowing the praise that comes out of his mouth in a different language would hit harder than when he praises me in English?
