He pulled out. Slow. The drag of him against my walls making my toes curl and my fingers twist in the sheets. When just the head was still inside me he paused, held it, let me feel the absence—and then drove back in, one long, controlled stroke that bottomed out with a slap of skin against skin.
"You like this dick in your ass?" His voice was wrecked. The Navy composure, the tactical precision, the measured control—cracking. Every stroke cracked it further.
"You know I fucking love it." I was rocking back to meet him, matching his rhythm, taking him deeper with each thrust. "Harder."
He gave me harder. Still long strokes, still controlled, but the force behind them had changed—each one driving me forward on the bed, my arms bracing against the mattress, the headboard beginning to tap the wall in a rhythm that neither of us had the presence of mind to worry about.
The mirror was on the wall to our left. I caught the image—both of us reflected in the glass, his body curved over mine, themuscles of his back flexing with each thrust, his ass clenching as he drove forward. It looked like porn. It looked like something someone would pay money to watch—the two of us, his bronze skin against my pale, the raw mechanics of his body working mine open with a precision that was somehow both mechanical and desperate.
Dec saw me looking. His eyes found mine in the mirror and held them, and the last wall between us came down. Naked, unguarded, nothing left to hide behind. His jaw was slack, his eyes dark, and with every stroke his expression said what his mouth wouldn't:I need this. I need you. I've been starving for two weeks and I'm not stopping until we're both destroyed.
His pace picked up. The long, teasing strokes shortened into a steady, relentless pounding that drove the air out of my lungs and filled it with sounds I wasn't even trying to control anymore—moans, gasps, his name repeated like a prayer I didn't remember learning. The bed rocked beneath us. His hands gripped my hips and pulled me back into every thrust, the impact of his body against mine filling the room with a rhythm that was absolutely, definitively not quiet.
I was touching myself—had been since he'd entered me, my right hand wrapped around my cock, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts, the dual sensation of him inside me and my hand on myself building into something massive and inevitable. The pressure climbed, wave after wave, and somewhere in the middle of it—somewhere between one thrust and the next, with Dec’s cock hitting the spot that made my vision white out and his hands bruising my hips and the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room—my mind produced an image.
Nolan. On the bed. Up on his knees in front of me, those analytical eyes gone dark with want, his cock at my lips, one hand in my hair, the glasses slightly askew. Nolan in front of me. Dec behind me. Both of them. Nolan's hips rocking forward,sliding himself in and out of my mouth with that maddening precision he brought to everything, slow and controlled and completely wrecked, while Dec pounded me from behind. The fantasy was so vivid and so sudden that my whole body seized.
I let go of myself. Both hands on the bed. The orgasm was already there, already rolling through me like a wave I couldn't stop, and I wasn't touching myself anymore—didn't need to, couldn't even, my body was doing this on its own, the combination of Dec inside me and the image of Nolan in my head converging into a climax that ripped through my gut and up my spine and out of me in a hot, pulsing rush that hit the sheets in long, shaking spurts.
"Dec—I'm cumming, fuck, I'm?—"
Dec looked down. Saw my hands on the bed. Both of them. Felt me clenching around him, my whole body shaking, and understood what was happening—that I was coming untouched, that nothing but his dick inside me had brought me there—and the sound he made, raw, guttural, the Navy facade shattering into rubble, was the most honest sound I'd heard from him in years.
He buried himself to the base. His hips locked against my ass and his whole body shuddered, and I felt him come inside me—the heat of it, the pulse, the way his grip on my hips went from bruising to crushing as he emptied himself in long, deep strokes that pushed me forward on the bed with each one. Three more thrusts, hard and slow and devastating, wringing out every last second of it, and then his weight collapsed onto my back.
I went flat. Chest on the mattress, his body covering mine, the full weight of him pressing me into the wet spot I'd just created, and I didn't care. His dick was still hard inside me, still buried to the hilt, and I could feel his heartbeat against my back—racing, uncontrolled, nothing like the steady sixty-beats-per-minute metronome that Nolan had measured on the ride from the truck stop.
His mouth found my shoulder. Pressed a kiss into the muscle. His breath was ragged, hot against my skin.
"Fucking hell, Sean."
I laughed. Breathless, wrecked, the laugh of a man who'd just had his brains rearranged and was still trying to locate the pieces. "Worth the wait?"
"You came without—" He stopped. His voice was rough, disbelieving. "You weren't touching yourself."
"I know." The grin was back. Pressed into the pillow, invisible, but audible in my voice. "Guess you're just that good."
His forehead dropped against the back of my neck. I felt his almost-smile against my skin.
We lay there. His weight on my back. His breath slowing. His cock softening inside me by degrees, the two of us tangled together on a wrecked bed in a desert cabin, and for thirty seconds the world was exactly the right size and shape and contained exactly the right number of people and everything was?—
A sound. Outside the bedroom.
Movement. Footsteps. Not coming toward us—movingaway. Fast, but trying not to be, the cadence of someone retreating in a hurry and attempting to do it quietly and failing because a hardwood floor in a cabin this old didn't care about your dignity.
Dec went rigid against my back. His head came up.
I turned my head toward the door.
The door. Which was open. Not wide—two inches, maybe three—but enough. The latch hadn't caught when Dec had swung it shut, and the door had settled against the frame without clicking home, and the gap between door and frame wasa narrow rectangle of hallway light that might as well have been a movie screen.
The footsteps reached the far end of the hall. Nolan's bedroom door opened and closed. Not quite a slam. Careful. Deliberate. The controlled sound of a man trying very hard to pretend he hadn't just been standing in a hallway looking at something he couldn't unsee.
Dec’s eyes met mine.
"The door," I said. Redundant. Obvious. But the word needed to exist in the air between us.
"I know."
