Page 53 of Puck the Coach's Son
“Christ,” he says. “Jesus Christ, Theo.”
He's rough. Rough in his hand and his voice and the grip of my hair and the drive of his hips. No part of this is careful. Thefact of his not being careful is a thing happening to me that I didn't know could happen to me.
He comes with no warning.
His hand tightens. His hips drive in. His jaw clenches. His throat works. He saysfuckin a voice I'll hear inside my head every time I close my eyes for the next eleven years, and then he's coming down my throat. The taste is strange. Heat and salt and a thing I don't have a category for. I swallow because I have to swallow. He's sayingfuck, fuck, take it, take it,in a voice that's gone hoarse.
He slows.
He stills.
He pulls out of my mouth slowly.
His thumb is at the corner of my lip. He wipes a line at the edge of my mouth with his thumb. Then he puts the thumb in his own mouth. I watch him taste his own come off his thumb. Something in me that was already falling falls further.
He looks down at me.
He's pulled his shorts back up sometime I didn't notice.
“Stand up, sweetheart.”
I stand.
My legs do a thing I don't like.
He catches my elbow. He holds me steady. He doesn't step back. He's looking at my mouth. He brushes his thumb along my lower lip one more time.
Then he kisses me.
He kisses me like he did at the start, but harder now. His tongue is in my mouth. I know he's tasting himself in my mouth. I know because I'm tasting it too. It should be a thing I don't like. It isn't.
He pulls back.
“Bed,” he says.
He puts me on my back on the queen.
The duvet is under me. The lamp on the table is still on. He kneels on the bed over me. He undoes my jeans. He undoes them like a man who's undone many pairs of jeans, which he has. My head is too busy to be jealous about it. His hand is at the waistband of my underwear. He's looking at my face. He's asking me a question without words.
“Yes,” I say.
“Yes.”
His hand is on me.
I make a sound that isn't a small sound this time. A sound I've never heard come out of my own body. The sound of a person who's been touched for the first time.
“Shh,” he says, not unkind. “Shh. I know.”
I grab his wrist.
I didn't mean to. My hand goes to his wrist. I'm not stopping him. I'm holding onto him. He understands. He keeps going.
His hand is slow and then not slow.
His mouth is against my ear.
“Look at this pretty cock,” he says at my ear. “Look at this pretty fucking cock leaking for me, Theo. Nobody's ever touched this. Nobody. Just me.”
