I’m so proud of myself.
“Harder,” I demand because I apparently have a death wish.
Leo obliges. The new pace is punishing, exactly what I wanted, and I have to sink my teeth into his shoulder to keep from screaming.
He hisses at the bite, then retaliates by wrapping a hand around my cock.
“Oh fuck—” My hips buck involuntarily. “Leo, I can’t— If you do that, I’m going to?—”
“That’s the idea.” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “Come for me, Archie.”
Well. When he asks so nicely.
His hand twists on the upstroke at the same moment he drives into me.
“Come, Archie. I’ve got you.”
And somehow, stupidly, that’s what tips me over the edge.
I come harder than I have in years. Maybe ever. It tears through me like wildfire, blanking out everything except the feeling of Leo’s hand on me, Leo inside me, Leo everywhere.
He follows seconds later with a groan that sounds like it’s been ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. I feel him pulse inside me, his hips stuttering, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
We stay like that for a while. Tangled together. Breathing hard. Slowly coming back to earth.
“Well,” I say eventually because someone has to break the silence. “That happened.”
Leo huffs a laugh against my skin. “That happened.”
He pulls out carefully, and I make a small sound of protest at the emptiness. He disappears briefly to deal with the condom, and I use the time to attempt to remember how to be a functioning human being.
Results: inconclusive.
When he returns, he has a damp cloth. He cleans me with a tenderness that makes something twist in my chest.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I want to.”
Then he settles back down beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I agree.
Eventually, Leo turns to look at me. His hair is a disaster. There’s a bite mark on his shoulder that’s already turning red. He looks thoroughly debauched.
By me.
I feel unreasonably smug about this.
I think this version of Leo is now my favorite.
His hand twitches on the mattress between us like he’s not sure what the protocol is here. Like there’s no spreadsheet for post-sex etiquette and he’s lost without one.
Then he seems to make a decision. His arm slides around my waist and he tugs me toward him a bit stiffly, like he’s handling something fragile.
“Is this okay?” he asks, not quite meeting my eyes.
