His hands slide to my hips, guiding the movement, helping me find a rhythm that makes sensation build and spiral and climb through me in waves.
He’s hard against me. His cock pulses through layers of fabric. The knowledge that I’m causing that reaction, that this is mutual, sends another sharp pulse through me.
I bury my face against his neck, breathing him in, letting the pleasure crest.
“Flavius,” I whisper, not entirely sure what I’m asking for.
He understands anyway.
One of his hands slides between us, knuckles brushing the waistband of my jeans, pausing.
“May I touch you?” he asks, voice rough. “More than this?”
My brain short-circuits for a second.
I want that. God, I want that. The thought of his hand between my legs has been living in a quiet corner of my fantasies for weeks.
But underneath the wanting, another part of me whispers: not like this. Not when everything is burning.
I freeze.
He feels it immediately.
The movement of his hand stops. The rhythm of our hips slows, then stills.
He doesn’t pull away. He just… waits. Breathing hard. Giving me space.
My heart is still racing, my nipples sensitive, my body very loudly voting yes.
My mind, however, is doing what it always does—spinning patterns, fast and relentless.
If we keep going, if we cross that next line tonight, sex will forever be tied to this day. To theft and rage and my parents’ disappointment and the looming threat of decisions I need to make tomorrow.
We’ll remember it as the night we tried to outrun everything by climbing into each other.
I don’t want that.
I want to remember choosing him because I wanted him, not because I needed an escape.
My hands tighten in his hair, not to pull him closer, but to ground myself.
“I want you to,” I whisper. “Really. I do.”
“I know,” he says. There’s a tremor beneath it.
“But I also…” I swallow. “I don’t want tonight to be about running away. I don’t want us to do this because I’m afraid. Iwant to remember that when I finally have you, it was a choice, not a… not a coping mechanism.”
His eyes close for a long second, jaw clenching.
When he opens them again, they’re darker, but clear.
“I am not going anywhere,” he says. “We have time. We can stop now and still… stay close.”
The relief that hits me is so intense my eyes sting.
“You’re okay with stopping?” I ask, needing to hear it.
He releases a laugh that’s more exhale than humor. “My body is very not okay. But I am okay. Because you just said, ‘whenI finally have you,’ not ‘if.’”
