I set a rhythm that builds steadily, watching his face transform with pleasure. The way his eyes are half-closed, the way his lips part on broken moans… I want to memorize every detail, burn it into my memory so I never forget how beautiful he looks when he’s falling apart beneath me.
“Don’t come,” I tell him, my voice rough with the effort of holding back my own release. “Not yet.”
“What?” His eyes fly open, desperation written across his features. “Pierce, I can’t— It’s been a month?—”
“I know, baby. But I need to feel you inside me after. Can you do that for me?”
He shudders. “Fuck. You’re going to kill me.”
“You can do it.” I lean down to capture his mouth, swallowing his whimpers as I increase my pace. “Be good for me.”
Thatcher’s hands fist in the sheets, his jaw clenched with the effort of holding back. I can feel him trembling beneath me, his cock hard and leaking between our bodies, the metalof his piercing pressing against my stomach with every thrust.
“Pierce, please,” he begs. “I’m so close?—”
“Hold on.” I chase my own pleasure now, driving into him with increasing urgency. “Just a little longer.”
When I finally come, it’s with his name on my lips and stars exploding behind my eyes. My release pulses through me in waves, and I barely have time to catch my breath before Thatcher is flipping us over.
“My turn,” he growls, and the sound goes straight to my still-sensitive cock.
He prepares me quickly but thoroughly, his fingers knowing exactly how to work me open after our time together. When he finally pushes inside, the feeling of his piercing hitting all those perfect spots makes me cry out.
“Okay?” he asks, pausing to let me adjust.
“More than okay.”
He doesn’t hold back. After a month of deprivation and the torture of not coming while I fucked him, Thatcher takes me with desperate intensity. Each thrust drives his piercing against my prostate, the metal adding sensation that has me hardening again despite having just come.
“Thatcher,” I gasp, my hands gripping his hips. “I’m going to—again?—”
“Yes,” he pants, his rhythm growing erratic. “Come with me. Want to feel you.”
His hand wraps around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and I’m gone. My second orgasm crashes through me just as Thatcher buries himself deep and comes with a broken shout. The feeling of him pulsing inside me, filling me up, is everything I’ve been craving for a month. Hell, I’ve needed this my entire life.
We collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs and racing hearts,both of us too spent to move. Thatcher’s head rests on my chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin.
“That was…phenomenal,” he says.
“And yet I think we’re only scratching the surface of us.”
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, just breathing together. My hand finds his hair, stroking through the curls I’ve missed touching.
“Can I ask you something?” I say eventually.
“Anything.”
“Why do people call you Meatball?”
Thatcher laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest. “You really want to know?”
“I’ve been wondering since the day your résumé fell into my hands.”
“It started with a dare,” he admits, shifting to look up at me. “I was maybe fourteen, and my cousins bet me I couldn’t eat an entire plate of Aunt Carla’s meatballs in one sitting. We’re talking like twenty meatballs, Pierce. Huge ones.”
“Let me guess—you did it.”
“I did it. And then I threw up in Noah’s shoes.” He grins at the memory. “But the nickname stuck. My cousins started calling me Meatball, and it spread to everyone else. Even my mom used it sometimes, toward the end.”
