I kept my movements slow and deliberate, watching his face for any sign that the shoulder pulled or the bruised ribs protested. When his jaw tightened once, I stopped.
“Shoulder or ribs?” I asked.
“Ribs. It’s fine.”
“Tell me if it isn’t.”
He gripped my hair and then released it . I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of the cotton pants.
Thiago exhaled through his nose. I wrapped my fingers around his cock and his head dropped back against the pillow.
He was already hard.
I worked him slowly. A long, deliberate stroke from base to tip with the pad of my thumb tracing the head. His hips shifted upward toward my hand. I kept the pace slow.
He rubbed one of my nipples with his thumb, and I bit my lip. I watched his face.
The discipline was still visible in him, but it was losing ground. His breath was shallower. The line of his jaw softened.
I tightened my grip slightly on the upstroke, and his breath caught audibly.
“Luca.” Thiago’s voice was rough.
“I have you,” I said.
He pulled his hand out of my shirt and rested it on my wrist. Not directing my movement, merely being present.
I kept my steady, measured pace. With his right hand, Thiago reached for the bed rail, gripping it tightly. He pushed his head back against the pillow, with the long line of his throat exposed.
Seconds later, he came quietly, small gasps breaking through his control.
Thiago’s body arched once and then settled. He released his grip on the rail. When his breathing evened out, I walked to the restroom to prep a warm, wet hand towel to clean him up.
I returned and settled on the edge of the bed beside him.
For a long time, we didn’t speak. He reached for my hand and held it.
“My apartment in Washington Heights has a second room,” he said at last.
I turned my head to look at him.
“It has a window that looks out over the Hudson.”
“Is that an observation or an invitation?”
He rubbed his thumb across my knuckles. “I’m still deciding,” he said.
“Take your time.”
“I don’t know how New Orleans and Washington Heights coexist,” he said. “Logistically.”
Chapter twenty-four
Thiago
Ipacked the go-bag in ten minutes. It took longer than usual.
I packed most of the contents the way I always did. The compact trauma kit lived in the right-side pocket: tourniquet, compressed gauze, and a pair of gloves folded into a tight square. The passport and emergency cash were in the outer sleeve, and the Glock was in the main compartment, with a soft holster and magazine removed.
