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I laugh, surprised out of me, because Damián being wry while standing in the doorway of my bedroom with no shirt on is a thing I could not have prepared for and the laugh is what closes the last distance between us.
He pushes me back onto the bed and follows me down. His weight settles over me and the weight is real. Not soft. Dense, trained, the weight of a body built for contact, settling without apology. Every place we touch is hard meeting hard. The lines of his hips against mine. The plane of his chest on mine. His thighs alongside my thighs. The mirror that nobody before me has put up against him.
“Oh fuck.” He drops his forehead to mine. His eyes are shut. “It’s different. The feel of you under me. Your mouth. Everything is.”
He rolls his hips. Experimental. His cock dragging against mine through the fabric, and the friction causes me to moan into his mouth.
“That,” he says. “That sound is what I want. Again.”
He rolls his hips again. Deliberate now, the rhythm finding itself the way rhythms find themselves in athletic bodies. The pressure between us building, his cock hard against mine through two layers of fabric, and I can feel the heat spreading.
His mouth finds my throat. His jaw against my jaw, stubble on stubble, the matched friction, and the sensation is new for him. I can feel it in the way he pauses. Registers. Continues. His teeth scrape my collarbone. His mouth moves lower.
“The cities,” he says against my ribs.
“All four. Atlanta’s the new one.”
He kisses the line. Hip to rib. The chimney. Brno. Kladno. Atlanta. His mouth on the skyline I added in March, the newest part of me and the part I chose.
The romance novel on the nightstand has a scene about this. I’m choosing not to think about the romance novel right now. The notes have officially become useful in my actual life. The research can close. Future Tobík will handle the paperwork.
His hand goes to my belt. The buckle comes apart under his fingers with the efficiency of a man who has decided something.
“Tell me if anything’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s been wrong since you knocked.”
He pushes my jeans down my hips and I kick them off and his hand finds me through my briefs, his palm flat against my cock, and the touch is so direct that my head drops back against the pillow.
“Tell me,” he says. Low. The back-line voice deployed in a context it was never built for. “Tell me what you feel.”
“Everything. I feel everything.”
“Be specific.” His hand presses harder. His fingers trace the shape of me through the cotton. “I want to know what this does to you.”
“Your hand on me is the best thing I’ve ever felt.” I say it plainly because there’s no other way I can say it. “You can feel how hard I am. That happened the second you walked through my door. It happens every time you’re in a room. I’m tired of hiding it.”
Something crosses his face. Hunger. He pulls my briefs down and his hand wraps around my cock, skin on skin, his grip unsteady at first. My hips go forward into his fist and his grip gets stronger.
“Fuck,” he says. “You’re so hard. From just…”
“From you. Just you.”
He strokes me. The grip is firm, almost too firm, and then he adjusts, reads my breathing the way he reads a striker’s run, calibrates. His thumb swipes across the head where the pre-come has gathered and the slickness makes the next stroke liquid and devastating and my hand grabs his forearm and holds on.
“I want to learn every inch of you,” he says. “Tell me if I should stop.”
He moves down my body. His mouth finds my chest. My stomach. My hip.
He takes my cock into his mouth. He adjusts while his mouth is on me, careful, reading what makes my breathing change and doing more of that.
My hand finds his hair. “Damián.” My voice has gone somewhere I don’t recognize. “You don’t have to…”
He looks up. His mouth is swollen. His eyes are steady. “I want to.”
“You...”
“Let me, Tobík. Let me.”
