Page 47 of Proof By Contradiction
A noise, guttural, raw, and feral. He, who measures every word. His hands grab my shirt collar. He shoves me back against the wall, and the plaster is cold through my t-shirt, and his mouth is on mine.
Fuck.
None of the Haldrey I’d built in my head for six weeks. He’s pulling my hair, and I’m pulling back, and we’re?—
His tongue against my teeth. The groan he makes when I bite his lower lip. Deep, involuntary, all control shredding in that one sound.
He pins my hips to the wall. His cock fully hard, pressing against my hip. This buttoned-up man is shaking and making sounds like that because of me. Best thing I’ve ever felt.
I reach under his shirt. His skin is hot, muscles jumping under my fingers. His stomach is tight, trembling, and lower, thetrail of hair below his navel. He bites my neck. Hard. My hips jerk forward, and the plug presses deeper, and I swear out loud.
‘Fuck.’
He pulls my t-shirt over my head. The chain catches. Doesn’t stop. Mouth on my collarbone, belt next.
I reach down. Find the outline of him through his trousers. Thick. Curved slightly left. I knew it, I fucking knew it, I’ve been reading that silhouette for weeks.
I undo his belt one-handed. Zip. I reach inside. Close my fingers around him. Hot and heavy, and his whole body shudders.
He gasps against my neck when I grip him. The noise he makes is everything.
‘Ewan.’
My name is in his mouth. NotCarrick. NotMr.
Ewan.
In the dark hallway of his flat, with his trousers around his thighs and my hand on his cock.
I pull the condom from my back pocket. The lube. Muscle memory, same compartment as always, except I’m shaking and I don’t shake for anyone.
‘Put it on.’
He looks at me, eyes blown. Chest heaving. Takes both. Tears the condom packet with his teeth.
I turn. Hands against the wall. Undo my own jeans, shove them down. He’s behind me. His heat against my back, his ragged breath against my neck, his cock pressing against me through the latex.
‘There’s—’ He finds what he finds. Traces the base of the plug and stops. The pause while a thirty-one-year-old mathematician puts together what an eighteen-year-old boy did in a bathroom this morning, in case today was the day.
‘You—’
‘I’m ready.’ Palms flat on the wall. The plaster is cold, and I’m burning. ‘I’ve been ready since before you ordered that fucking coffee.’
He pulls the plug out. Slow. My body contracts around the absence, and then his fingers are there, slicked, two, finding the give where the plug left me open, pressing in. Methodical even now. Even with his hands shaking and his breathing ragged, and the hallway’s dark.
‘Now,’ I say. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
He reaches with his free hand to turn my face, searching my eyes for the real yes, not the performed one. The one that’s mine and not a script I’ve run before with strangers whose names I forgot on the tram home.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I want this.’
His breath sharpens against my temple. He nods, barely.
He enters me with a thrust that pushes me flat against the wall, and the stretch is—God—bigger than the plug, bigger than my fingers, bigger than any bloke who never bothered with this much warm-up. The fullness rolls up my spine, a second too much, then not enough, and I push back, and he bottoms out and makes a sound against my neck that I’ll remember when I’m dead.
The grip I imagined, fingers digging in, blunt nails against bone. He pulls back and drives in again, and the angle hits exactly where it needs to, and I gasp, ‘There. Fuck. Right there.’
He does it again, and again. Deep strokes that get rawer with every one. The lecturer, the precision, is gone. The man behind me is just a man, desperate, grunting, his face buried in my neck, his cock hitting that spot with every thrust, and the pressure building in my gut like a pressure resolving.
