I stopped being gentle about it.
Set a rhythm that had nothing measured in it, hips snapping forward, the slap of skin filling the bedroom, his sounds on every thrust turning into something continuous that went straight to my spine and made me harder than I'd been in my life. The lace underwear was still pulled aside, the elastic catching against my cock on each stroke, and the friction of it against the hot grip of him was something I had no category for.
“So tight,” I said, rough and low, barely words at all. “Every time I push into you, fuck, Troy, you're?—”
He moaned. Not a word. Just a long open sound that rose in pitch when my angle shifted.
I found that angle again deliberately. Kept it. Watched his back arch further, watched his hands fist and release in the sheets, watched the stockings tremble with the force of each thrust, and felt something deeply animal take over the last remaining rational part of my brain.
My hand came down on his ass. Hard. Felt the heat immediately, felt him clench around me in response, and the sensation of that tight rhythmic grip on my cock pulled a groan out of me that was embarrassingly honest.
“Mine,” I said. The word came out without asking permission. “You understand me. Mine.”
“Yes.” No hesitation at all. “Yours.”
I drove in harder. Felt him take every bit of it, felt his body open and grip and pull me deeper, and the sounds wewere making together in that dark bedroom were nothing like anything that had ever happened in this house before. Raw and wet and loud and real.
I kept going.
The rhythm had found its own logic by now, hips snapping forward with a force that drove Troy's forearms deeper into the mattress, his whole body rocking with each thrust, the headboard beginning its own percussion against the wall. His sounds had lost all shape. Just continuous broken noise, vowels and breath and the occasional fragment of my name that came out higher each time I hit the right angle.
I gripped the lace at his hips and pulled him back onto every stroke.
Felt the thin fabric bunch under my fists. Felt the stockings against my thighs when I pressed fully in. The obscene slap of skin on skin. The slick heat of him gripping my cock with every withdrawal like his body was trying to keep me there, like letting go was something it refused to consider.
“You feel that,” I said, rough, and thrust in deep and stayed there a half second. Felt him clench. Felt the full-body shudder that rolled through him. “Feel how deep I am.”
“Hhhnn—yes—yes, don't stop?—”
I pulled back and drove forward again and his response was immediate and loud and I did it again, harder, setting a pace now that was past measured and past controlled, just want, just six weeks of compressed wanting finally given somewhere to go.
My hand came down on his ass twice in quick succession, felt him clench both times, felt the resultant grip on my cock and almost lost the thread entirely.
“Turn over. I want to see you.”
He looked back at me over his shoulder. Sweat-damp and wrecked and flushed from chest to jaw. “What?—”
“Turn over. I want to watch your face.”
Something moved in his expression that wasn't quite readable. Then he moved, and I pulled back enough to let him, and he rolled beneath me and settled on his back with his legs falling open and his chest heaving and his eyes finding mine immediately in the dark.
I looked at him for one full second.
Then I grabbed his hips and pulled him forward and pressed back inside.
His head went back. The sound he made was long and open and completely undignified and the most honest thing I'd ever heard from him.
“Sit up,” he said. Breathless. “Sit back.”
I understood what he wanted. Shifted my weight back onto my heels, pulling him with me, and Troy moved with the adjustment and got his knees either side of my thighs and sat upright in my lap with my cock still buried inside him and the full city light catching every line of him.
The sight hit me like something physical.
Troy above me, lace stockings framing his thighs, the scraps of black underwear still crooked across his hips, his hands coming to rest on my chest as he found his balance. The bruising across his ribs. The tattoos I'd been looking at sideways for six weeks. The lean defined lines of his stomach, the cut of his shoulders, and his eyes on mine with an expression that had nothing hidden left in it.
He rolled his hips.
The sensation pulled a sound from me that came from the floor of my chest.
