He reached down and ran his thumb along my jaw, through the mess there, then pressed it to my lips. I opened and sucked it clean without looking away and his cock twitched against his stomach, another bead of pre-come sliding down the shaft.
“Get up here,” he said.
I reached for the lube on the nightstand. Got my fingers slick, reached back, worked myself open with two fingers while Luka watched with his hands behind his head again, jaw tight, watching me prep myself above him with the focused attention of a man exercising serious restraint.
“You gonna watch or you gonna help,” I said.
“Watching,” he said. “Keep going.”
I added a third finger and felt the stretch of it, the burn that was sharp at first before softening into pressure, and the sound I made was not quiet. I worked myself until I was loose enough, until the burn had softened into the edge of good, then slicked his cock with what was left on my hand.
He hissed at the contact, hips jerking up involuntarily.
I positioned myself. Got my knees either side of his hips, one hand braced on his chest, the other reaching back to guide him, and sank down.
Slowly. Even slower than I'd intended because the stretch of him was a different thing entirely from my own fingers, fuller and harder and real, and my thighs shook with the effort of keeping the descent controlled. He was thick enough that I felt every centimeter of it, felt myself giving way around him by increments, my body accepting him one degree at a time.
“Breathe,” Luka said from below me.
“I am breathing.”
“You're not.” His hands came to my hips, not pushing, just holding, thumbs pressing into the hollows there. “Breathe through it.”
I breathed. Let the next inch happen on the exhale, felt my body accept it, and the sound that came out of me was long and low and scraped up from somewhere deep.
“God, you're so fucking?—”
“Keep going,” he said. Hands on my hips now, steady, grounding. “Almost there.”
I sank the rest of the way down.
His cock buried so deep I felt it in my stomach, and for a second neither of us moved. Just the full-body tremor of it, both of us recalibrating to the pressure and the stretch and the heat. His grip on my hips had gone white-knuckled. The composure on his face was held together by nothing more than sheer will and it was cracking at the edges.
“Move,” he said. It came out rough. Not a command this time. More like a request, or maybe a plea.
I moved.
Rolled my hips first, getting the feel of it, finding the angle, then lifted and came back down and the sensation punched all the air out of me. I did it again. Built a rhythm that was slower than I wanted, grinding down on each drop, working out exactly where he hit to make my thighs clench and my vision blur at the edges.
I found it fast.
I braced both hands on his chest and rode him properly. Working up and down with intent, each drop coming with enough force that the sound of it filled the room, skin slapping against skin, his cock dragging through me in a way that was going to make walking interesting tomorrow and I didn't care. His hands on my hips started guiding, pulling me down harder to meet the upward roll of his pelvis, and the combined force of it was making stars burst behind my eyelids.
“You feel insane,” he said. His voice was ruined, all gravel and rough edges. “Every fucking time, you feel like this and it drives me out of my mind.”
I rode him harder. The headboard had started knocking again, a rhythm that matched ours, and the spit was still drying on my face and his cock was hitting everything right and his hands were on my chest and the whole of it together was toomuch, was exactly enough, was building in the base of my spine like a live wire.
He sat up fast, changing the angle completely, wrapping both arms around my back and pulling me against his chest, and suddenly he was fucking up into me with short hard thrusts while I held on and took it. His mouth found my throat, teeth closing on the pulse point there, and that was it.
I came apart.
The orgasm hit without any more warning than that, his teeth on my throat and his cock buried deep and his hands gripping my back hard enough to leave marks, and I spilled between us with a sound that was low and open and pulled from somewhere I didn't usually let things come from. I felt it in my thighs, my spine, the backs of my knees, rolling through me in waves that made my rhythm stutter and grind and lose all pretense of control, my ass clenching around him in pulses I couldn't stop.
Luka felt it. The clench of me around him, the way my whole body locked up and then released, and his grip went brutal.
“Fuck, Troy, I can't?—”
He drove up into me three times, short and hard, seated as deep as he could get on the last one, and came with his face pressed into my neck and a sound that was rough and genuine and nothing like the composed version of himself he presented to the rest of the world. I felt him pulse inside me, felt the heat of it filling me in waves, felt his hands shaking where they gripped my back like he needed to hold on to stay grounded.
