"Pratt."
"Yes."
"Come here."
He didn't move. He waited for me.
I crossed the kitchen, and when I reached him, he placed his hands on my hips and drew me the last six inches forward. His mouth on mine was warm and wet. When he eased back, his hands stayed where they were.
"Your room, or mine?"
"Mine."
"Yours."
He didn't narrate the walk. Didn't make a joke about the lamp in the corner, or the bed, or anything else. He held my hand, and when we got to the bedroom, he closed the door behind us with his heel.
My bed was made, with the duvet smoothed flat. An alarm clock sat on the nightstand, and the cord fell flat against the leg. The lamp on the dresser was off, and the walls were bare. The blanket lay folded against the baseboard.
Sully took my shirt off two-handed. It was an Ironhawks t-shirt, and he pulled it straight over my head. I did his the same way. His chest was warm under my heart, and his heart pounded.
He kissed me again, longer, lazily slipping his tongue into my mouth before he walked me backward to the edge of the bed.
I sat. He stayed standing for a moment, looking down at me. I'd taken the lead before in his place. The reversal of captains seemed to fit the change of venue.
"This is the part where I'm so excited I forget how to do this."
"You're doing it," I said.
He climbed into my lap, one knee on either side of my hips, and settled his weight there. He held my face in both hands, thumbs at my cheekbones, and he tilted my head to one side and kissed the side of my neck.
Usually, he talked through our first few minutes. There was always a joke somewhere, a rating assigned to the kiss or the lighting, or the approach.
Tonight he was quieter.
His hands moved over my skin, tracing the old scar from taking a stick to the ribs in high school. He made one small sound when I slipped my hand inside his jeans.
He stood to remove them and tugged mine off, refusing my help. I lay back against the pillow, and he climbed back aboard. He didn't pin my wrists the way I did him. His palm stayed flat over my heart for a few seconds until he moved forward enough that the head of his cock brushed my chin.
"You're quiet," I said.
"Yeah."
"Okay?"
"Yeah." A pause. "Is that okay with you?"
"Yes."
He held my gaze a beat longer, and then he pressed the head against my lips. I opened. He tasted like Sully, indescribable but something I wanted to keep.
We didn't rush. He rocked his hips into my face, and my eyes watered. I raised my head to meet him, and then he pulled out. He kissed me as he inched back and then stroked us together in his fist.
He didn't close his eyes. He kept them on mine. At least, I think he did. I had a hard time keeping mine open.
"I'm close, Sully."
"Good. You're supposed to be."
