Oakley’s hand soothes down my side, almost like he’s petting the flank of a horse, his finger easing out and back in again. “All right?”
“Oak. Stop treating me like a damn virgin and rub my prostate already.”
“Fucking Christ,” he mutters, a mix of humor and…something else in his voice. He slides his finger in again with intent, and my toes curl against air.
“Fuck.”
“You’re swearing,” he says, sounding awed.
“Yeah, well, feels good. Again.”
Oakley’s breath puffs from him, his hand gripping my hip as he sets a pace with his finger that has electricity lickingover every inch of my skin. The intentional rub of that digit inside of me, the way Oakley knows how to glide along those sensitive nerves I’ve only been able to coax to life with my own fingers prior to now. It’s so much better having someone else do it. He was right about the merits of that.
Oakley’s finger slips out, a beat passing before there’s more pressure and then two. The stretch is blissful, an ache that’s like a damn tension release for every muscle in my body.
“Jesus,” Oakley murmurs, a sort of wonder in his voice as he slips those fingers in deep. “You really do like this, huh.”
“Told you,” I manage, gripping the comforter to hold back my groan, every other piece of me languid and relaxed, even as it feels like sparks are setting off across my skin. Like the hop, skip, and jump of a pixie’s feet.
The scraping of stubble over my shoulder blade nearly has me jumping, the sensation far more vivid and real than my imagination. Oakley does it again, a kiss almost but not, his short beard hairs bristling a path along the top of my back. He leans over me, his fingers still working inside my ass, something else entirely settling against my ass cheek.
“Feel that?” he rumbles.
My breath leaves me on a pant.
“You still want that inside of you?”
“I do,” I tell him. More than anything.
Oakley’s fingers leave me again, what must be three entering me this time. He fucks me with them rougher than before, my gut tightening as he does it again and again, his hand at the base of those fingers a pressure against the outside of my hole every time he sinks deep. I get caught up in the feel of it, more arousing than it has any right to be.
Oakley’s hand is wandering again, the one not finger-fucking me slipping around to my stomach, the span of his gripwide. My cock is rock-hard now, rubbing against the comforter at the side of the bed.
“Oak,” I say hoarsely, my throat dry. “Respectfully… Get your dick inside of me already. I’m dying here.”
He huffs a short breath. “Bossy and to the point. Don’t know why I expected anything less.”
His fingers slip out of me, the man himself retreating. There’s the unmistakable crinkle of a condom wrapper, and part of me is desperately curious to sneak a peek. Apart from that single instance when we were teens, I haven’t seen Oakley’s cock hard. Only soft. But I don’t crane my head around to look, wanting to respect Oakley’s wishes to keep this as uncomplicated as possible. Surely it’ll be easier for him with me facing away.
His hand settles on my hip again, touch roaming over the side of my ass as his knees press against the insides of my calves. I resituate myself an inch, getting more comfortable, that heady anticipation back in full force as Oakley gets ready to fill my ass.
Just the thought of it has my body in flames.
The blunt head of his dick presses against me, his hand holding steady to my hip now. “Bear down.”
At the gentle suggestion, I do, canting my hips back to meet him. The first inch of his cock has me hiccupping a breath. My lungs don’t seem to want to cooperate, the glide smooth as he inches inside of me in increments but the newness of it absolutely astounding in its impact.
When Oakley pauses, as if gauging my reaction, I don’t let him slow. I reach back, finding first his arm and then a hipbone, and I tug with all my might. Muscles flex beneath my fingertips as Oakley follows my draw, sinking forward until his hips meet my ass, the fullness sudden and profound. Heleans over me again, his hands planting on the comforter, his chest lining my back and his cock kicking inside of me as if excited.
So real. So, so different.
“Okay?” he asks.
I nod, and Oakley’s stubble presses to my shoulder again, a panting breath leaving him before he draws his hips back and fucks me just like I asked him to.
A tear slips out of my eye, hidden away by the comforter. My muscles feel like jelly as Oakley rolls his hips time and again, the drag of his cock inside of me too fucking good to even put words to. He doesn’t say a single word himself, tension radiating from him in a way that doesn’t feel negative but rather like a spring coiled tight, ready to unload. His own breath catches as his hips slap my ass, that outside pressure there again, like a reminder he’s as deep as he can go, but he’s still going to damn well try to get deeper.
Every single thing about this moment is crystal clear. The bristling of his chest hair and that rough stubble against my skin. His hand fisted against the mattress just in my line of sight, the muscles in his forearm straining. The breath I can feel along the back of my neck and the oh-so-real cock tunneling inside of me, warm and hard and feeling as if it were made just for me. To bring me pleasure. A key for a lock, the click of it like clarity after a lifelong storm.
