He lifted my legs higher, one hand under each thigh, guiding my calves up and over his shoulders until the backs of my knees rested against the hard muscle there. He pushed my thighs apart, opening me completely. I watched him spit into his palm, the saliva pooling, his hand wrapping around his cock and spreading it along the length, the shaft glistening in the low light. Then he leaned forward, and the head of his cock pressed against me.
The pressure. The blunt, thick, insistent pressure of him at my hole. He held there. Let me feel it. Let my body register what was coming and decide whether to open or resist.
I relaxed. I opened.
He pushed in. Slow. Controlled. The head breaching me with a stretch that made my back arch off the mattress and my hands find the sheets and my mouth open on a sound that was halfgasp and half surrender. He kept going. Inch by inch, the shaft sliding into me with a relentless, measured patience, the fullness building, the sensation of being opened and filled and taken occupying every nerve in my body until there was nothing left in my mind except the physical fact of him inside me.
His hips pressed flush against me. All of him. The full length buried, the heat of him radiating outward from my core, and for a moment neither of us moved. The room was silent except for our breathing—his shallow and controlled, mine ragged and uncontrolled.
"Fuck me." My voice came out rough, raw, carrying years of wanting compressed into two words. "Diego. Fuck me."
He gave me long strokes, pulling out until just the head remained and then driving back in with a force that was restrained but building. The rhythm finding itself, the pace increasing as my body relaxed around him and the friction shifted from intensity to pleasure. His hand wrapped around my cock, stroking in counterpoint to his thrusts. The moans came freely. I was done being silent about this man.
"Fuck, Diego—" The words came out loud. Unfiltered. "Harder."
His hips snapped forward, the angle shifting, hitting the spot that made my vision blur and my grip on the sheets tighten until my knuckles went white. He pounded me with everything he had, the obscene wet sound of skin hitting skin filling the bare room. He leaned down and kissed me—his mouth on mine, his tongue finding mine, the taste of him mixed with the taste of myself, and the kiss was messy and perfect and carrying everything we'd missed.
"I want you to sit on my face," I breathed against his mouth.
His pounding stilled. He looked at me. The brown eyes, inches from mine, carrying a surprise that dissolved immediately into something darker and hotter.
He pulled out of me. The emptiness was immediate and aching. He moved up the bed, positioning himself above me, his knees on either side of my head, facing my body. I looked up and watched him lower himself—the lean, toned ass descending toward me, the muscles flexing, the skin smooth and brown and perfect.
He sat. Slowly. Settling onto my face with a care that lasted exactly two seconds before my tongue found him and the care became irrelevant.
He groaned. The sound pulled from somewhere deep, involuntary—a sound Diego had almost never made—and the rarity of it sent a surge of heat through me that was almost violent. I ate him with everything I had—tongue circling, pressing, pushing into him, my hands gripping his thighs as he rocked against my face. He leaned forward and took my cock into his mouth, and we were locked together—his mouth on me, my mouth on him, the circuit of sensation passing between us unbroken.
His hips moved against my face. My hips pushed into his mouth. The wet sounds filling the room, the taste of him on my tongue, the feel of him sucking me with devastating precision. The bed shifting beneath us. The bare walls of his room witnessing something they'd never contained before.
I pulled back. Let him slide off my face. "On all fours."
He obeyed without a word. Rolling off me and positioning himself on the bed—hands and knees, his back arched, his ass presented with a confidence that was pure Diego. The sight of him—the lean muscles, the tattoos across his shoulders, the brown skin sheened with sweat in the low light—stopped my breath for a second time.
I positioned myself behind him. Spit on my hand and slicked my cock. I pressed the head against him and pushed.
He was tight. The entry slow, his body resisting and then yielding, the muscles relaxing around my thickness as I pressed deeper, and the sound he made as I filled him—a long, low exhale that carried a vibration in it, somewhere between pain and pleasure and the acceptance of both—was the most honest sound I'd ever heard from Diego Rosas.
I bottomed out. Held. Let him feel it.
Then, before I could move, he pushed back. His hips rocking against mine, his body taking me in and pulling away in a rhythm he set, and the surprise of it—Diego, the man of control, fucking himself on my cock with a rhythmic, hungry urgency—made me grip the bedframe to keep from coming immediately.
"Fuck, Diego—" My voice came out strangled. "You feel incredible."
He was fucking himself on me. His back arching, his ass pressing back against my hips with each stroke, the sound of skin against skin filling the small room. I let him set the pace as long as I could stand it, watching the muscles of his back flex and contract, watching my cock disappear into him and reappear.
Then I couldn't wait anymore. I grabbed his waist. Both hands, the grip firm. Took over. Long strokes—all the way out, all the way in—the pace steady, building, deep, measured thrusting that hit every nerve and left no room for thought.
"Yes," Diego breathed. The word barely audible, pressed into the pillow. "Just like that. Don't stop."
His moans came louder now, the containment finally, completely gone, and the sound of Diego losing control underneath me was the most erotic thing I'd ever experienced.
I pulled out. Gripped his hip and spun him.
He went onto his back, the movement fluid, his body following my direction with a trust that was more intimate than anything his hands or mouth had done. He landed onthe mattress with his legs open and his cock hard against his stomach, and before he could draw a full breath, I was over him.
I reached back, found his cock, positioned it beneath me. And in one sweep, I sat down.
The full length of him entering me in a single drop, my body opening around him because he'd already been there tonight and the muscle memory held. The sensation of being filled again—his ten inches pressing deep, the fullness reaching places that made my vision spot—pulled a groan from me that was loud enough to carry through concrete.
