Page 105 of Puck the Coach's Son
“Yes.”
He leans his forehead against mine.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
He breathes out against my hair.
“I don't…” he begins, “I don't do that a lot. I have. I'm not… It's not off the table. It's just… not my preferred thing. I want you to know that. I want you to know that's not the default.”
“Okay.”
His hand tightens at the base of my skull. A small squeeze.
“If I tell you to stop?”
“I stop.”
“Good.”
I rest my hand on the flat of his chest.
“Maddox.”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
He shakes his head. Huffs. Drags me into another kiss.
We lie down on his hoodie spread over the pine needles because he thought of that, of course he thought of that. We get our shoes off and our pants off, and the cold air finds us, and he laughs through his teeth about it and pulls me on top of him. He's got lube in his jacket pocket. Of course he does.
I've never done this. He knows.
He walks me through it. My hand. His hand on mine. His voice low.Slow. There. Yeah. Another. Watch my face. I'll tell you.He tells me. He tells me when it's enough and when he's ready and when to slick up and when to push and he tells mebreathewhen I forget.
I push in.
Slow. An inch. Another inch. His head goes back in the needles. His mouth goes open. His hand finds my hip and he doesn't grip, he just holds on. He makes a sound I have never heard out of him. Low. Broken. Fond.
“Fuck, kid.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.”
His fingers dig into my hip.
“I'm... I'm not going to last.”
“Don't care.”
His hand wraps my hip. Anchors.
“I'm…”
“Move.”
