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I laugh, then lose the laugh when his thumb drags over the head of my cock. My body bucks a little, and a clear bulb of pre-cum balls at the tip. He doesn’t hesitate when he smooths it over me. My grip tightens around him in response.
He watches my face. That’s worse than watching my body.
Or better.
Or both.
I lean in, letting my forehead rest near his temple. His skin smells like sleep and last night’s seaweed. I find a rhythm with my fist, coasting up and over, then back down his length until my fingertips brush the soft skin of his sack. Again, and then faster. Again, and then I linger along the head until his lips fold inward.
“Holy fuck,” he whispers. “Paul…”
His hand learns me slowly. I guide him with my eyes, my breath, and subtle bodily shifts that open me to him when the pressure is just right. He’s focused now, his eyes intense. He’s never done this before, but every move he makes is right.
I stroke him in return, feeling his size and heat, the small tremor that runs through his thigh when I pick up the pace.
“Keep going.”
I do. And for once, wanting doesn’t feel like a place to hide, but a living, breathing thing.
“I wanna come with you so bad,” he says, his breath catching.
Clint’s strokes grow surer.
His own cock thickens, pushing back into my grip.
I’m getting close.
“There?” he asks, his voice tight and urgent.
“Yes. Almost. Don’t stop.”
I place my free hand over his, hold him steady while I fuck his fist.
That does something to him. A sudden tightness in his body. His stomach pulls in as he pushes into my grip like he can’t stop himself.
I want my mouth on him. I want his mouth on me.
I want a dozen things I cannot organize fast enough to act on.
Clint leans closer until our shoulders press together. His forehead touches mine for one shaky second, then slides away.
“You’re looking at me,” he says.
“I am.” Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re scared. Because this is your first, and somehow also feels like mine. “Because you want this.”
Clint’s mouth parts.
His hand falters. I hold it around me.
“Paul.”
“I know.”
I know nothing except the heat building low and sharp, the bed shifting under us, Clint’s breath turning ragged, my own hand slick around him.
I stroke him faster, and his body answers with a rough, helpless thrust.
The pleasure hits too quickly.
