When I push inside him, I have to pause for a moment and calm down.
I’m going to be so thorough with him that by the time I give him permission, he’ll erupt.
I just need to not erupt before him.
It doesn’t take him long to reach the point where he’s begging.
“Please,” he whimpers. “I need to come.”
“Not yet.”
I slam into him harder.
“But I’m so close,” he protests.
“I know you are. That’s how I want you to stay.”
I don’t give him any mercy. No chance to overthink.
I wait until I can feel his absolute surrender. The moment he stops fighting for the release and starts existing in the heat.
“Antonio.”
His eyes are dazed. Lips parted, curls tousled, cheeks flushed—he’s a goddamn phenomenon.
He lets out a soft moan.
“You have my permission.”
His body arches and he comes with a high-pitched cry.
I hold him through every burst of pleasure, every shudder and every sob, telling him what a good boy he is.
Then my own orgasm crashes through me. My balls draw tight as I come deep inside him, my legs shaking from the intensity.
Afterward, we stare at each other for a moment—and then, without really knowing why, we both start laughing, breathless and happy and ridiculous.
When the laughter fades, I kiss him.
“I’ll get your bath ready, sweetheart.”
Fifteen minutes later, he’s relaxing in the tub, eyes closed. His face is the picture of peaceful contemplation.
Suddenly he stands up as if divine revelation just hit him in the head.
“To be like the rock that the waves keep crashing over!”
He looks at me, eyes shining.
“He wrote that!”
I have to grab his arm to stop him from toppling over.
“Who wrote what?”
“You’re the rock,” he says, eyes wide. “I’m your wave.”
He gestures wildly.
