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The first push in. His breath catches and mine catches and my hand finds his wrist and holds on. The pressure is full and I can feel the care in every inch.
He stops halfway. His jaw tight. “Wait. Wait. Just give me a second.”
“Take your time.”
“If I move I’m going to come immediately and I don’t want this to end in thirty seconds.”
He breathes. His eyes closed. His arms trembling on either side of me. I keep my hand on his wrist. Grounding him. Letting him find the version of this that lasts.
He opens his eyes. He pushes the rest of the way in. His forehead drops to my shoulder and his whole body shakes with the effort of holding still.
The words in Czech in the morning light in my bed with the skyline through the window and his body shaking and his forehead on my shoulder. I’m going to remember this specific second for the rest of my life.
He moves. The first careful thrust. Then the next. The rhythm finds itself the way rhythms find themselves in athletic bodies, the timing that lives in muscle, and his hips settle into a pace that is slow and deep and thorough.
“God,” he says. English breaking through. “Fuck, Tobík. Does it…Tell me if it’s good.”
“It’s good. Deeper. You can go deeper.”
The angle shifts and the shift puts him against the right spot. I say his name and the saying of his name makes his hips stutter and then push harder and the harder is what I want.
I turn onto my side. He follows, behind me now, his chest against my back, his arm around my waist, his cock inside me, and from this angle every thrust pushes him deep enough that my vision goes bright at the edges. His mouth is at my neck. His hand slides from my waist to my cock and strokes in time with the way he’s moving inside me and the dual sensation is relentless.
He’s making sounds. Low ones. My name. Czech words that aren’t sentences, just sounds in his throat. English when the Czech isn’t enough. “Fuck” and “God” and “Tobík” and then backto Czech and the language-crashing is the thing that tells me he’s close to gone.
“I’m close,” I say.
“Me too. I can’t stop.”
“Don’t hold back.”
“I want you to come first.”
“Then make me come, Damián.”
His hand tightens on my cock. His hips drive forward. Three more strokes, four, his grip perfect and his cock hitting the right place and I come with his hand on me and his body inside me and his breath on the back of my neck, and the tightening of my body around him pushes him over.
He comes inside me. I feel it. His hips pressing hard, his arm locking around my waist, his mouth open against the back of my neck, the sound buried in my skin. A shudder through his whole body that I feel in mine.
He stays. His cock still inside me, softening. His breathing rough against my neck. His arm still around me, heavy, keeping me close.
“Christ,” he says.
He pulls out, slow, careful, watching my face. Kisses my shoulder before separating. Gets up.
I hear water in the bathroom. He comes back with a warm cloth. He cleans me first. Then himself. The gesture of a man who knows what care looks like. I didn’t teach him that. He brought it here.
He lies down behind me. His chest to my back. His arm across my waist. The fan turning. The city outside doing its Sunday thing. Both of us breathing.
I’m starting to think about whether he can stay for lunch when his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
He reaches for it. His body changes in a single second. The post-sex looseness gone. The composure returning like a jersey pulled over a person.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
“Tomáš.” He sits up. “Film moved up. He wants me there in thirty minutes.”
