I add a second finger and he cries out, the sound echoing off the library walls, off the shelves of books that have witnessed a thousand quieter moments. His body resists, then opens, then pulls me deeper.
"More." His voice is wrecked, shattered, nothing like the controlled tones I'm used to. "Please, Jonah. More."
"There it is." I add a third finger, stretching him wider, and he groans. The sound is animal, desperate, nothing like anything I've heard from him before. "There's my begging. Such a good boy for me, baby."
I work him open patiently, thoroughly. Three fingers become four, and by the time I'm satisfied, he's loose and slick and pushing back onto my hand with shameless desperation. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, dripping a steady stream of precum onto the polished wood below. His breath comes in ragged sobs.
"Ready?" I ask.
"Yes. God, yes. Just do it."
I slick my cock with my free hand, hissing at the sensitivity. Pull my fingers out of him, watching his hole clench around nothing. Line up, pressing the head against his entrance.
"Deep breath," I tell him.
He inhales. I push in.
The tight heat of him steals my breath. He's so fucking tight, even after all my preparation, his body clamping down on my cock like it's trying to keep me out and pull me deeper all at once. I sink in inch by inch, watching his spine arch, listening to the sounds spilling from his throat.
When I'm fully seated, my hips pressed against the curve of his ass, I have to hold completely still. My balls are drawn up tight, my cock throbbing inside him, and if I move right now, this will be over before it starts.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, Jonah."
"So good, you look so fucking good." I lean over him, pressing my chest against his back, feeling his heart pound against my ribs.
We stay like that for a long moment. Breathing together. Adjusting. I can feel him relaxing around me, his body learning to accept my cock. When he rocks back against me, pushing me impossibly deeper, I take that as permission to move.
I start slow. Long, deep strokes that drag against his inner walls, pulling out until just the tip remains before sinking back in. He moans with each thrust, his fingers leaving scratches in the wood of the table. I angle my hips, searching for that spot again, and when I find it—
He screams.
"There." I hammer that spot, watching him come apart beneath me. "Right there. That's what you do to me. Every time. You make me feel like I'm going to shatter."
"Don't stop." He's sobbing now, actually sobbing, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto the table. I've never seen him cry. Never imagined he could. "Please don't stop."
I fuck him harder. Faster. The table creaks beneath us, sliding inch by inch across the floor with every thrust. He's pushing back to meet every thrust, taking me as deep as I can go, and the sight of him—this cold, controlled, untouchable man—so completely wrecked and desperate pushes me right to the edge.
"Touch yourself," I order. "I want to feel you come around my cock."
His hand flies to his dick. Three strokes, maybe four, and he's coming with a groan that rattles the windows. His ass clenches around me in rhythmic waves, milking my cock, and I followhim over the edge with a groan, burying myself to the hilt and spilling deep inside him.
We collapse together onto the table. I'm still inside him, both of us shaking, covered in sweat. His face is pressed against the wood, and I can see the tear tracks on his cheeks.
"Hey." I brush the hair back from his forehead. "You okay?"
He laughs. It's watery, broken, but genuine.
"I don't know," he admits. "I've never felt anything like that."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Just... different." He turns his head to look at me, and his eyes are softer than I've ever seen them. "You ruined me."
"That was the plan. Take a second, you’ve just gone on a rollercoaster." I kiss his shoulder, his neck, the corner of his jaw, slowly bringing him back to me. When he’s calmer and the flush has left his cheeks, I take his hand. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up."
We untangle ourselves, grab our clothes, make our way to the bathroom on shaky legs. I clean him up carefully, gently, the way he's done for me so many times. He lets me. Doesn't try to take control. Just watches me with those now-soft gray eyes.
Afterward, we curl up on the couch in the living room, too tired to make it to the bedroom. His head is on my chest, my fingers in his hair, and for a while, neither of us speaks.
