“I learned from the best.” His mouth closes around the head and my back arches. Hot and wet and sure, his tongue working the spot underneath that he knows, that he has known since Charlotte, and I let my head drop back and stop trying to hold any of it.
He takes me deeper. His hand wrapping the base, his mouth working a rhythm that fractures my breathing into pieces. My fingers find his hair. My grip tightens and he takes me deeper and the sound I make is open and undefended and the openness is not a decision. It’s what’s left.
“Teo.” My voice doesn’t sound like me. “Come back up.”
He pulls off slow, deliberate, his lips dragging the way he knows I feel all the way down my spine. He crawls back up and I pull him down and kiss him with my own taste on his mouth and reach for the nightstand.
“I want you,” I say.
“You have me.”
“No.” I press the bottle into his hand. “I want to feel you inside me.”
His breath catches. He looks at me. “You sure?”
“I just said I want you. How many times do I need to say it?”
“Once is enough.” He kisses me. His slick fingers find me and circle slow and my breath goes tight. He presses one finger inside and my body opens and the sound I make is quiet and honest and I don’t catch it or kill it or file it away.
“Talk to me,” he says. His finger moving slow.
“It’s good.”
“Good is vague. I need specifics. My ego requires data.”
I almost laugh. Almost. “More.”
He adds a second finger and the stretch pulls a sound from my chest. He curls and finds the spot and my hips jolt and my hand grips his shoulder.
“There?”
“You know where.” My voice is wrecked and he hasn’t even started. He works me open with the same patience he gave me on the couch, unhurried, deliberate, and I feel my body letting him in by degrees. Not guarding. Not bracing. Just opening, because the man inside me asked first and waited and was quiet for a week.
He slicks himself and I watch his hand on his cock and the sight of him over me, patient and wrecked simultaneously, does what it always does. He settles between my thighs.
“Look at me,” he says.
I look at him. He pushes in slow and my breath fractures. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open, and the stretch is full and good. When he’s all the way in he holds still, his forehead against mine, breathing.
“Good?”
“Good.” And my voice doesn’t shake.
He starts to move. Slow. Each thrust full and deliberate. My leg hooks around his back and I pull him deeper and his rhythm builds. His mouth finds my neck and my hand finds the back of his head and I hold him there and feel his breath against my pulse.
He shifts the angle and I make a sound that fills the room. His mouth curves against my neck.
“Don’t be smug.”
“I’m not smug. I’m attentive.” He does it again and my spine arches and the sound is louder and I don’t try to swallow it. I am lying under this man with nothing between us, no register, no mask, no clinical distance, and every sound I make is a sound I’m choosing to let him hear.
His hand finds my cock between us. Strokes me in rhythm with the way he’s moving inside me and the two sensations together pull a moan out of me that I feel in my chest.
“Zay.” My name. Not Brooks. The name my people use. He’s saying it with his eyes open, his hand on me, his hips driving deep, and the honesty in his face is the most undone I’ve ever seen him.
“I’m close,” I tell him.
“Me too.” His forehead pressed to mine. His grip tightening on my cock, his pace building, and I feel the wave approaching, feel my body climbing toward it without resistance, without calculation, without the part of me that usually files the feeling away for later analysis. There is no later. There is his hand and his body inside me and his eyes and I come with his name pressed between my teeth, the orgasm rolling through me slow and devastating, my hand gripping his shoulder, pulling him deep.
