Page 4 of After His Eulogy
“Look at me.”
I look at him.
“There you are.”
“Here.”
“Stay there.”
“Yes.”
He kisses me with his fingers still in me, slow. I kiss him back and I make the kiss the kiss he will remember. I put everything into it I cannot say.
He pulls back. His eyes are dark.
“You sure you’re okay.”
“I’m sure. Griffin. Please. I want you. Now.”
“Okay.”
He gets the condom from the drawer. He rolls it on. I watch his hand on his cock, the way his hand knows his cock.
He moves over me. He gets my legs up, one over his shoulder, the other around his waist. He pushes in slow.
I make a sound.
He stops.
“More,” I say.
“Reece.”
“More. Don’t stop. I want to feel it tomorrow.”
“You want…“
“I want to feel it tomorrow, Griffin. I want. Please.”
Something in his face shifts. He doesn’t ask. He pushes the rest of the way in, hard, one stroke, and I cry out. He covers my mouth with his and swallows the sound. I bite his lower lip until I taste copper. He groans into my mouth.
We aren’t making love. We’re fucking. We are fucking on the couch in our apartment on a Wednesday night in May. He’s moving in me hard and exactly the way I asked. His forehead is against mine. His hand is on my throat, not squeezing, just there, the way only he knows I like. Tomorrow night somebody else’s bed will not have this hand or this throat or this Wednesday in it.
“Reece, fuck.”
“Don’t stop.”
“I’m not.”
“Harder.”
“Harder, Griffin. Please.”
He fucks me harder. The couch moves. The lamp on the side table is rocking. His hand on my throat tightens by a fraction. His other hand is on my hip. He is hitting the place inside me that nobody else has ever found, because nobody else has ever been allowed to look. I am going to come. I am going to come without him touching me.
“Griffin. I’m gonna.”
“Yeah. Come on. Come on, baby, come on.”
