Page 85 of Puck the Coach's Son
His thumb strokes the inside of my thigh. Once.
“Again, when I do this.”
He adds a second finger and I gasp, “Mad Dog,” and he makes a low rough sound against my knee and works me open on his hand slow and patient and methodical until I'm loose around two fingers and then three and I'm begging without knowing I've started begging.
“Please.”
My hips chase his hand.
“Please what?”
His fingers curl and I see stars.
“Please, please, I need...”
“You need what?”
“You.”
His hand stills inside me. He waits me out.
“Say it right.”
“I need you to fuck me. Please.”
He pulls his fingers out. The sound of the foil. The sound of him rolling it on. The click of the bottle again. His hand on himself, slicking.
Then his hand on my hip. Then the head of his cock nudging me.
“Breathe out.”
I breathe out.
He pushes in.
It's big. It's bigger than his fingers. For one second, I think,I can't, and then I breathe the way he told me to breathe and my body opens around him and I can. He's sliding into me an inch at a time and watching my face the entire time, and he stops when my eyes go wide.
“Stay.”
“Okay.”
“Breathe through it.”
I do.
He slides the rest of the way home and he stills. He is inside me. He is all the way inside me. His forehead drops to mine. He is breathing through his teeth.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
His chest is wet where it meets mine. His hips are shaking, held.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me when.”
