“I want—” he rasps, and I’m already agreeing, whatever he wants, anything. “I want you inside of me.”
My eyes pop halfway out of my head and I rear back, propping on my elbows.
His words hang in the air, and he looks up at me, all liquid shadows.
“We—wow, we don’t have to,” I say, and it comes out hoarse. “This isn’t a—it doesn’t have to be—”
He drags his hand out of my hair, down my cheek. “I know. I want to.” He pauses, bites his lip, brows twisting in something likeentreating as his chest rises and drops in jackrabbit breaths. “I assume you… have? Before.”
“Yeah. Both ways. So if you don’t want to be on the receiving end, I can—”
He smiles. He fuckingsmilesand my heart isn’t in my chest anymore, it’s taken flight and lapping around my head.
“I want it this way,” he murmurs. “I want you.”
I kiss him, I’m still in my jeans but I can feel the angles of his body pressing against mine. It hits me again, a palpitating gong—he’s naked in my bed.
And then another gong, can he taste himself in my mouth? I kiss him deeper, willing him to, that awareness, that reminder.
I rest my lips on his and my nervousness erupts back over me in a brazen storm. “I meant what I said before. About wanting to make you feel good. About wanting you to want this. That’s it. You don’t owe me anything. That’s all I—”
“Coal.” He digs his nails into the small of my back, light enough to shut me up. “This is what I want. I—” He stops, suddenly, and pushes his head back into the pillow. “Is this not what you want?”
I whine and drop my forehead to his shoulder. “It’s possible I’m overthinking your comfort.”
He hums. “It’s sweet.”
“Bit of a mood killer.”
“More than me telling you about my disastrous first time? No.” He says it with unarguable soft confidence.
His eyes are glossy, hazed still in the afterglow, and I nod at his look, his decision.
I scramble off the bed, shaking, and dive over to the dresser on the side, wrench open the top drawer. A moment of searching reveals a handful of stuff and I present it to him like a truly pitiful worshipper bringing erotic sacrifices. A condom, lube.
Hex reaches for me, an earnest ache in his eyes. “Come here.”
I step up to him, set the stuff on the bed next to him, lean in.
He grabs my neck in one hand, the other gripping the waistband of my pants and tugging intently. His forehead anchors to mine andhe sets to work, unbuttoning, unzipping, I kick my shoes off and shrug out of my remaining clothes and it’s warm in here, so very fucking warm in here, but goose bumps prickle up my legs, anticipation crashing headlong into reality.
I stay crouched beside the bed, bent over him, Hex sitting up, his hands blazing their own trails over my chest, stomach, hips, then—
He touches me, feather-soft fingers.
I groan, a slow-detonating bomb.
“Lie down,” he tells me.
I climb over him and obey, but I can’t not touch him now, and so I keep my hand on his arm as he twists, grabs the condom, the lube, and then positions himself across my hips.
My nails bear down on his thighs, fuck, this is all pain, pain on the borderland of pleasure.
His certainty wanes, chest glinting in the low lights, sweat-glossed. “I know the basics. But how should I—”
“Let me.”
I take the lube and force my mind to be miles away. Eons away. To not think about the task I’m doing to him as I sit up, him propped over my lap, and snake my hand around him. He braces on my shoulders, one arm wrapping around my neck, and my mouth rests open on his stomach and I press sloppy kisses to his skin. His breathing catches, warps, cracks and reknits over and over until he’s hard again between us; we’re both shuddering and shaking and my skin hurts.
