His eyes meet mine. Holding. Anchoring.
“I want to see you,” he says. “When you come apart.”
My breath shudders out, my voice a gravelly scrape. “You will.”
He kisses the inside of my thigh as he lifts my leg, pushing it up to gain access. Darts his tongue along the crease of my ass. Then again, wetter now, closer to my entrance. My heart stutters.
Wyatt shifts lower, settling between my legs as he lifts them both carefully, hooking one knee over his shoulder, holding the other in a gentle grip. Exposing my hole. I expect him to go for the lube, but he doesn’t. Not yet.
His breath hits my rear opening, warm and damp.
And then he licks.
A single, wet swipe over the tight ring of muscle that makes my spine bow and my cock jump against my stomach.
“Jesus—fuck?—”
His hands keep me still. He goes in again, slower this time, tongue circling, then prodding gently as he opens me with careful pressure. He tongues me like he’s learning me. Worshipping. His spit makes everything slick and hot, and when he pulls back, I’m panting, shaking even more.
He grabs the lube from Nina’s nightstand drawer. The snap of the cap is loud in the silence. Hers. Even here, she’s between us.
Wyatt doesn’t hesitate.
He dribbles lube over his fingers and slides one inside me.
I flinch, then groan as the stretch starts to ease. He adds more lube, then a second finger, working me open slow. His free hand strokes my thigh while he murmurs quiet things I barely register—just the rhythm of his voice, the grounding of it.
“Breathe. That’s it…”
I moan when he crooks his fingers and finds the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes.
“Wyatt—”
“I’ve got you.”
When he pulls his fingers free, I feel the absence like a wound.
Then I hear the rustle of foil.
I glance down. His cock is thick and flushed, long and veined, glistening with lube. He rolls the condom down and pumps once, slicking himself.
Then he looks at me.
“Ready?”
I nod. “Yes. Please?—”
He lifts my legs to rest over his shoulders, then leans forward, lining himself up. The head of his cock nudges against my entrance, and I go still. Breath caught. Body wound tight.
Wyatt watches me. I want to look away, but there’s no hiding.
When he finally enters me, it’s not fast.
It’s deliberate. The absolute precision of his first stroke makes me feel like I’m being rewritten from the inside out.
And still—he watches me.
Vicente never did that.
