He turns in my arms. Washes me with the same care. Hands on my chest, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they tighten, then down my stomach, fingers following the trail of dark hair. He takes his time with my cock, soaping it slowly, stroking once, twice, not trying to arouse but simply caring for me. The touch is tender, and it makes my chest ache with how much he sees me, how much he wants to take care of me.
We dry off. We don't get dressed. We walk to the bedroom and the sheets are clean because I changed them thisafternoon while he was doing inventory, which is the most romantic thing I've ever done. I will accept my award at a later date.
I lie down on the bed. On my back first, looking up at him standing beside the bed, backlit by the lamp on the nightstand. The light catches the edges of him, the line of his jaw, the sharp collarbones, the flat stomach. His chest rises and falls with breaths that are controlled, the breathing of a man managing his own nervous system.
"Lube is in the nightstand," I say. "Whenever you're ready."
He opens the drawer and takes out the lube. Holds it in his hand and starts reading the directions. I'm trying not to laugh, butdamn Stormy. Yeah, he's freaking out again.
"Hey," I say. He glances at me. "We go slow. As slow as you want. And if at any point you want to stop, we stop. No questions. No disappointment. No whining. Just stop. Got it?"
"Yeah."
"Now here's the logistics discussion I mentioned earlier. Are you ready for the logistics discussion? It's brief."
A look of panic crosses his face. "Oh God."
"As we have well established, I am a large man. My legs are the size of oak trees. I'm not a gymnast or an acrobat. I cannot lie on my back and put my ankles behind my ears. It's not going to happen. I tried once in college for unrelated reasons and pulled a hamstring that didn't heal for three weeks."
He's laughing. Good. That was the point.
"Here's my suggestion. I'll be on my stomach. You can move me where you want me. Arrange me like furniture. I'm very movable furniture."
"You're two hundred and forty pounds."
"I'm movable for my size. I'm like a sectional sofa on wheels. Heavy but cooperative."
He rubs a hand down his face. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe this is happening."
"Believe it. It's happening. One more thing." I reach out and take his hand. I pull him toward the bed. He comes, climbing onto the mattress, kneeling beside me. "I need you to hear this. I'm not doing this as a favor. I'm not sacrificing myself on the altar of your healing or whatever dramatic language you're running through your head right now."
He quickly glances at me. Ha! Caught him red-handed. Knew I was right about that.
"I want this," I say. "I want to feel you inside me. I want to know what that's like. I want you on top of me and I want to hear what you sound like when you're in control. I want to lie facedown in this bed and trust you the way you've been trusting me. This isn't charity. This is desire. Mine. For you. Are we clear about that?"
"Yes," he whispers.
"Fantastic. Now roll me over because I'm a cooperative sectional sofa and I'm ready for my new adventure."
He puts his hand on my shoulder and pushes. I roll onto my stomach, settle my arms under the pillow, turn my face to the side. The sheets are cool against my skin. My back is exposed, broad and bare, and I can feel his eyes on it.
He straddles me. The same position as this morning. Thighs on either side of my waist, his weight settling onto me. His hands land on my shoulders and he starts the way he started this morning. A massage. Working the tension out of muscles that have been carrying anticipation all day.
But this time the massage is different. There's intention behind it. His hands move down my back with pressure and purpose but his hips roll against me in small, unconscious movements that tell me his body is already ahead of his brain.
His thumbs trace my spine all the way down. Past my waist. Over the curve. He doesn't stop this time. He doesn't hesitate. His hands move over my ass and he kneads the muscle. I groan into the pillow because the combination of his hands there and his weight on me and the knowledge of what's about to happen has me harder than I've ever been in my life. I'm facedown so there's nowhere for it to go except into the mattress.
"You're beautiful," he says again. The same word from this morning. It lands the same way. Like a gift.
His hands explore. He takes his time. Running his palms over the curve, the backs of my thighs, back up. His fingers trail along the crease of my ass and I inhale sharply. He pauses.
"Keep going," I say. "I'm good. That's good."
I hear the cap of the lube pop open. The sound is loud in the quiet room and it makes my pulse jump. His hand returns, fingers coated generously so there's no drag, no catch. He's tentative at first. His index finger traces the tight pucker of my hole where no one's finger has ever traced before, slow circles around the rim that make my breath hitch. The sensation is new and strange and deeply intimate, a soft, slippery pressure that feels both vulnerable and electric. My body clenches instinctively, then relaxes under the gentle insistence of his touch.
"Talk to me," he says, low and careful. "Tell me what feels good."
"That," I manage, voice rough. "What you're doing right now. Just... yeah. Like that. Circles feel good. Slow. Keep it slow."
