Page 48 of Coyote

"Let me."

He considered it. Then he put the bottle in my hand and shifted forward on his knees.

"Slow," he said. "I'll tell you what I need."

I slicked my fingers and let Coyote guide my hand between his legs.

The first touch made him inhale sharply. He kept one hand braced on my chest and used the other to position my fingers exactly where he wanted them.

"Here."

I circled him gently, and his head dropped.

"More?"

"Yes."

I pressed one finger inside, and Coyote tightened around me.

I stopped.

"Don't stop," he said.

"You're tight."

"You're enormous. This is how we fix that."

He pushed back onto my hand.

I worked him open by his breathing, stopping every time it caught.

He told me when to add more lube, when to move deeper, and when to curl my fingers.

His orders came short and exact. Deeper. Curl them. Again. He never once asked whether I would do it.

By the time he told me to add more, sweat ran down his spine and his hole had quit fighting me. His cock hung hard between his legs, dripping onto my stomach every time I found his prostate.

"Like that?" I asked.

"Again."

I did it again, and he whined through his teeth and rocked against my hand.

Christ.

I wanted inside him badly enough to feel sick with it. Wanted to spread him open and bury myself where my fingers were. Wanted his weight on me and his orders in my ear while I gave him everything he asked for.

But I kept my hips still, waiting for permission.

"Good, big man," he said.

My cock jumped against his thigh.

His lips curved. "You like that."

"Apparently."

"All those years and nobody taught you how good you are when you follow directions?"