He moved. Rolled over, got his hands and knees under him, the black lace stockings catching the dim light, the scrap of underwear still pulled aside from earlier. The arch of his back was instinctive, spine dipping, presenting, his body knowing exactly what this was before his brain could argue with it.
I stayed where I was and kept stroking.
Just looking at him. Taking my time. The full picture of Troy on all fours in my bed, wearing lace and silk and nothing else, back arched and waiting, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs still flushed and slick from my hand.
“Lower,” I said. “Arch your back more.”
His spine dropped further. A small sound escaped him that wasn't a word.
I poured more lube into my palm and stroked again, slower this time, squeezing from base to tip, watching the pre-come that welled at the head catch the light. The wet sounds of my own hand filled the bedroom and I heard Troy's breathing change in response. Heard it go shallow and quick.
“You have any idea what you look like right now.”
He turned his face back toward me over his shoulder. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. The specific expression of a man exercising genuine self-control. “Declan. Please.”
“Please what.” I moved off the bed. Stood behind him. Kept stroking, slow and deliberate, close enough that he could hear every slick sound. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His hands fisted in the sheet. “I want you inside me.”
“Want me to breed you.” The words came out rough. “Say it.”
A pause. One breath. Two.
“I want you to breed me.” His voice had nothing guarded left in it. “Please. Declan, please.”
I ran my free hand up the back of his thigh, palm dragging against the stocking, fingers curling over his hip. Poured more lube directly, felt him shiver violently at the cold before the warmth of my fingers replaced it, two of them pressing in easily now, working him open with slow thorough strokes while my other hand kept its own rhythm.
His head dropped between his shoulders.
I pressed my cock against him without pushing in. Just the pressure of it, slick and insistent against the soft give of him, and his whole body shuddered forward and back simultaneously, trying to take more than I was offering.
I held his hip and kept him exactly where he was.
I pushed in.
Not all at once. The first inch was slow and deliberate and destroyed every remaining coherent thought I had left. He was tight. Impossibly, overwhelmingly tight, hot like a furnace around the head of my cock, his body gripping and yielding simultaneously in a way that dragged a sound out of me that I didn't recognize as my own voice.
Troy's head dropped forward. A long shaking exhale pressed into the sheets.
I pushed deeper and I felt him stretch around every inch of the way. My hands gripped both his hips through the lace, fingers digging into muscle, and I watched my cock disappear inside him and my vision went briefly white at the edges.
“Declan—” Broken off. Not a sentence. Just my name, fragmented, pressed into the sheet.
“I've got you,” I said. The same words from earlier. A completely different weight behind them now.
I seated myself fully.
The sound that came out of me when I bottomed out was not something I'd made before in my life. Low and rough and pulled from somewhere structural. The heat of him surrounding me completely, the tight grip of him at the base, his whole body shaking slightly with the effort of accommodating all of it.
I stayed still. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel every single detail of where we were. His ass pressed flush to my hips. The lace band of his stockings under my palms. The city light catching the sheer fabric along the length of his legs. Mystepson. On all fours in my bed with me buried inside him and nowhere left to hide from what this was.
Then I pulled back and drove forward.
Troy's arms buckled. He caught himself, pressed his forearms flat to the mattress, and pushed back to meet the second thrust with a sound that was shameless and loud and entirely beyond caring who heard it.
