“Patience, Marchetti.” He presses a kiss to my hip. Casual. Like he didn’t just edge me on purpose. “I thought you liked attention to detail.”
“I am going to remember this.”
“I hope so.” His smile is devastating and genuine and I pull him up by his shoulders and kiss him, tasting myself on hismouth, and his joggers are still on which is a problem I fix with both hands. I shove them down and get my hand around his cock and he exhales hard against my mouth. He’s thick in my palm and I stroke him and feel his whole body react, the composed control of him cracking at the edges.
“Wait,” I say because I know what I want from Zay and lube is required.
I grab the bottle from the nightstand and hand it to him as he settles between my thighs. His hands are warm on my knees, pushing them apart, and he looks at me, steady and wanting and a little wrecked. He reaches between us and circles me, slow, and I let my head drop back and breathe.
“Easy.” His voice is quiet as he kisses me. “We’re not in a rush.”
He curls his finger and I jolt when he finds my prostate. He adds a second and I feel the stretch, the slow burn of it, and he watches my face while he works me open with the same careful attention he uses on everything. My body opens for him in increments and his breathing changes while he does it, gets shorter, less controlled, and I realize his composure is costing him.
“You want this.” I’m not asking.
“Obviously.” He twists his fingers and my back arches and whatever I was going to say next is gone. He finds the spot and presses into it and the sound I make is loud enough that he pauses.
“Your neighbors could hear you.”
“Fuck my neighbors.”
“I’d rather fuck you.” He says it deadpan, clinical, like he’s reporting a treatment plan, and the laugh that explodes out of me is sudden.
“Don’t make me laugh right now.”
He withdraws and I watch his hand on his own cock, slicking himself, and the sight of him over me, controlled and wrecked simultaneously, jaw tight and eyes dark, is the hottest thing I’ve seen in this apartment.
He pushes into me slow. My breath goes short and fractured and his hands grip my thighs, holding me open. The stretch is full and good and when he’s all the way in he holds still.
“Good?” His voice rough, against my ear.
“Good.”
He starts to move and I grab his hips and pull him deeper. His rhythm is slow and deliberate, the way he does everything, and each thrust is full and precise and I feel him everywhere. His mouth finds mine and I turn my head to give him more. We find the pace together, push and pull, the creak of the bed underneath us.
I open my mouth to say his name and from the doorway there is a very distinct, very judgmental chirp. Parker is sitting on the threshold. Tail wrapped around her paws. Watching us with the unblinking stare of a creature who has zero concept of privacy.
Zay stops moving. His face is buried in my neck. I feel his shoulders start shaking.
“Don’t look at her,” I say, and I’m already losing it, the laugh building in my chest while he’s still inside me and the absurdity of this moment is so specific, so ridiculous, so ours, that I can’t hold it. “Parker. Go.”
She blinks. Stretches one paw forward. Begins what promises to be an extremely slow approach toward the bed.
“No. No no no no no.” I grab a pillow and toss it toward the door. It lands two feet short. Parker pounces on it.
Zay is gone. Full laughter, his forehead on my chest, his arms trembling with it, still inside me, and I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. This might be the best sex I’ve ever had and we haven’t even finished. Parker wrestles the pillow, kicks it twicewith her back legs, and then drags it triumphantly out of the room.
“She took the pillow,” Zay says, wiping his eyes.
“She can have it.”
He lifts his head. His face is open, stripped bare by the laughing, tears in his eyes, his hand still braced by my head. He looks at me. Just looks. And the laughter fades into something quieter, warmer, and he cups my jaw and runs his thumb across my cheekbone and the tenderness in it cuts through everything.
He starts moving again. Slower this time, and the laughter is still there. He angles his hips and I feel it deeper and my hand grips his shoulder and my eyes close. His pace builds, each thrust more deliberate, and I’m meeting him on every stroke. His hand finds my cock between us and strokes me in rhythm and the two sensations together, him inside me and his hand on me, pull a moan out of me that surprises us both.
“There,” he says, and there’s satisfaction in his voice and warmth and I want to say something but his hand twists on an upstroke and my brain goes white.
He keeps the rhythm, steady, building, and my body is climbing toward a wave I can feel approaching and he reads it, reads me, and he speeds up just enough, his grip tightening, his hips driving deeper. My hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him down and I kiss him messy and desperate and grinning.
