Page 71 of Hard Check
“Look at me,” Dawson said.
Leo opened his eyes. Dawson held them. He worked his finger deeper, reading Leo’s face like he read seized bolts and stripped threads. By feel, by pressure, by what gave and what held.
“More,” Leo said.
Two fingers. Leo’s body tensed, then released, his breath leaving him in a rush. Dawson curled, and Leo’s hips came off the bed, his cock leaking against his stomach.
“Right there. God, right there.”
Dawson kept going. He could have done this for an hour, watching Leo come apart under his hands, the mask gone, the polish gone, just sweat-slick skin and the broken sound Leo made every time Dawson pushed deeper telling him where and how and don’t stop. But Leo’s hand found his wrist and stilled him.
“Now,” Leo said. “I’m ready.”
Dawson sat back on his heels. He rolled the condom on, slicked himself, and the mundane mechanics of it, the foil packet, the lube on his fingers, the adjustment of angle, grounded him in a way he needed. His hands were shaking. He set them flat on Leo’s thighs and felt the tremor transfer.
Leo noticed. He reached down and covered Dawson’s hands with his own, steadying them against his thighs. Didn’t say anything. Just held them there until the tremor slowed, his thumbs moving across Dawson’s knuckles. When Dawson looked up, Leo’s face was open and waiting, and just as wrecked as his.
He lined up. Pushed forward. Leo’s body resisted, then gave, and the heat and pressure of him was overwhelming: tight, slick, alive. Dawson pushed in steady, inch by inch, watching Leo’s face for pain or hesitation and finding neither. Leo’s jaw was set, his breathing controlled, his eyes locked on Dawson’s. When Dawson was all the way in, he stopped. Stayed still. His arms were braced on either side of Leo’s head and his forehead came to rest against Leo’s. They breathed together.
“Fuck,” Dawson whispered.
“Yeah.” Leo’s voice was wrecked. He shifted his hips, taking Dawson deeper, and the sound Dawson made was involuntary, rough and wrecked.
He started to move. Long, deep strokes, pulling almost out and pressing back in. Leo’s legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The angle changed, and Leo’s eyes went wide.
“There. Right there. Don’t stop.”
Dawson didn’t stop. He found the rhythm and held it, steady, controlled, everything he was, and with each thrust, Leo’s composure eroded further. The sounds he made were small, broken things, punctuated by Dawson’s name and words that weren’t words anymore. Dawson kissed him mid-stroke. Leo bit his lower lip, and the sharp, bright sting of it split him open.
Leo’s eyes were open. Dawson kept his open too. Every time before this, with every man whose name he’d already forgotten, he’d kept his eyes shut. Turned his head. Made sure nobody saw his face when he broke apart.
He couldn’t look away from Leo. Didn’t want to. And Leo was watching him with an expression that said he knew exactly what this was costing and wasn’t going to let Dawson hide from it.
He picked up the pace. Leo’s hand found his own cock between them, stroking in time, and the sight of it, Leo touching himself while Dawson was inside him, trusting him with this, open and wanting, pushed Dawson toward the edge faster than he was ready for.
“Close,” Dawson said. “Leo, I’m close.”
“Don’t hold back.” Leo’s voice dropped lower. “Let me see you.”
Dawson came with his face pressed against Leo’s neck, a groan tearing out of him that was louder than anything he’d ever let himself make. His hips stuttered and Leo held him, legs and arms and hands pulling him in deeper. Leo followed seconds later with a sharp exhale and a sound that might have been Dawson’s name but was past speaking.
Dawson’s weight settled onto Leo, and Leo took it. Held him there, both of them breathing hard, sweat cooling between them. Dawson could hear his own pulse and Leo’s, the two rhythms out of sync and then not.
He pulled out, careful. Dealt with the condom. Grabbed the T-shirt from the floor because neither of them was getting up, and cleaned them both off. Leo watched him do it with an expression that was so tender Dawson had to look away.
“Don’t,” Leo said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look away.”
Dawson looked at him. Leo was on his back, one arm above his head, his hair a dark mess against the pillow, his mouth soft. There was a mark forming on his collarbone where Dawson’s mouth had been. He looked undone and happy, and like a life Dawson wanted and didn’t know how to keep.
Dawson lay beside him. Leo rolled into him, head on his chest, one leg slung across Dawson’s thighs. The weight of him was warm and right, and Dawson’s arm came around his shoulders without thinking about it.
“I could fall asleep right here,” Leo said. His voice was loose, lazy. “Don’t let me fall asleep.”
“Why not?”
