This is not what Ron built with his disgusting hands.
This is what Stormy built.
On his own. For me.
I come hard with my hand in his hair and a sound ripping from my chest that would embarrass me if I had any capacity for embarrassment left, which I do not.
He takes all of it. Swallows and stays and doesn't pull away. When it's over, he rests his cheek against my thigh and breathes. I can feel him smiling against my skin.
"Good morning," he says cheerfully.
I'm staring at the ceiling. I'm a man who has been unmade and reassembled by his mouth. "That's one word for it."
He climbs up my body. He's hard. I can feel him against my hip through his shorts. He settles onto my chest with his chin on his hands and looks at me with an expression that is half satisfaction and half mischief. I've never seen mischief on Stormy's face before and it is the most perfect thing I've ever witnessed.
"Where did that come from?" I ask.
"I woke up and you were hard."
"I'm a man. It's early in the morning. That's physics, otherwise known as morning wood."
"And I wanted to." He says it simply. Three words. I wanted to. Not I felt like I should. Not I thought you expected it. I wanted to. His words. His mouth on my body because he woke up and looked at me and wanted.
I pull him up and kiss him. I need his mouth on mine. I need him close. He melts into the kiss the way he's learned to melt into me, boneless and warm and trusting.
My hand finds the waistband of his shorts. I push them down and take him in my hand and he makes a sound against my mouth—a sharp, catching breath, almost a gasp—and his hips roll into my grip. He's so hard it's almost urgent. The tip is wet and I use it, sliding my thumb over him, spreading the slick, and his whole body shivers.
I work him slow. Long, steady strokes from base to tip, learning him the way I've been learning him for weeks, memorizing every response. The way his breath hitches when I twist at the top. How his hips chase my hand when I slow down. His face burying in my neck when the pleasure gets too big to hold behind his eyes.
He's rocking into my fist now, his hips finding a rhythm, his breath coming fast. I tighten my grip. He gasps. I speed up. He makes a sound that's closer to a whimper than anything and it goes through me like an electric current.
"Tex—"
"I've got you, baby."
"I'm—"
"I know. Let go."
His body tightens against mine, every muscle drawn taut like a wire, and then the wave breaks and he comes across my stomach in warm, pulsing strokes, his face pressed into my neck, his mouth open against my skin.
The sound he makes is quiet. Not loud like me. But it's perfect and it's mine. That sound belongs to me. No one else has heard it because no one else has earned it. No one else has ever loved him the way I love him.
We lie there tangled together, barely breathing. His hand is on my chest, over my heart, and my hand is on his back, tracing the ridge of his spine with my fingertips.
"Tex? Can I ask you something?"
"Of course, you can. What's going on?"
He's quiet. His finger traces a circle on my chest. I wait. Waiting is the thing I've gotten best at in this relationship. Not pushing. Not filling silences. Just being still and letting him find the words in his own time.
"Do you want to fuck me?" he asks.
The words land in the room like a water balloon dropped from the Empire State Building. Direct. Stormy's way. He doesn't dress things up or circle around them. He walks straight at a thing, drops it on the table and waits to see what happens.
My brain, which was approximately four percent operational after what just happened, attempts to reboot. It fails. It tries again. Partial success.
"Whoa, hang on," I say. "Where did that come from all of a sudden? Give me a minute here to get some blood back to my brain." I blow out a breath. "Okay, I heard the question and I'm trying to give you an honest response. Of course, I want to fuck you. I want to do everything with you, Stormy. Anything and everything. That's a given."
