Page 53 of Puck Me Like You Own Me

“Breathe out.”

He does.

“Again.”

He does, and I get all three in to the knuckle. The noise he makes is very close to the one he made on his own kitchen floor in February when I was trying to pull him up off it.

I hold them there and feel him work around them. Tight, then less tight, then pushing back for more. I spread them. I twist on the way out and on the way in, and on the fourth stroke I find the place and press, and his whole body jerks like I’ve put a current through it.

“There,” I say. “That’s where you live.”

He says something into the pillow. It might be my name. It might be fuck. I do it again to find out, and it’s both.

I take my time there, and it’s the only part I take my time over. I want him open and I want him ready. I want him not to be hurt in any way he hasn’t asked for. There’s a very short distance between those two things. I’ve been on the wrong side of that distance in my life, and I’m not going anywhere near it tonight.

He’s fully hard, his cock trapped against the sheet and leaking into it. He fucks himself back onto my hand.

I let him. I hold my hand still and let him ride it, watch him push back onto my fingers and pull off and push back, his hole slick and swollen around my knuckles, the long muscles of his back working. This is a man who’s never once in his life taken anything for himself, and he’s taking this. I watch it the way I would watch a number I didn’t expect come up on a statement.

“Hip,” I say.

“Fine.” He doesn’t stop moving. “It’s fine. Please.”

I pull my fingers out. He makes a sound at the loss. I slick my cock, one long stroke, and lay it along him so he can feel exactly how hard he’s made me.

I get up over him. I get one hand into his hair, close to the scalp, and fist it. I take both his wrists in the other and put them together at the small of his back, holding them there in one hand. I can do that because his hands are bigger than mine, but his wrists are not.

Then I put my weight on him, all of it, and push in. The head catches on his rim, then it gives, and I sink into him inch by inch until my hips are flush against his ass.

He shouts.

It goes into the pillow and comes out as almost nothing. He arches once against my hand. He’s scalding inside and clamped around me so tight I can feel his pulse. I hold him and don’t move for a count of ten while he gets his breath back.

I can feel every breath he takes around me. I can feel his heartbeat through his back. I wait until the shaking in his thighs changes from the kind that means too much to the kind that means more.

“Nashville?”

“No.” It comes out wrecked. “No. Don’t stop.”

I don’t stop. I fuck him into the mattress with my full weight on his back.

The first strokes are slow because they have to be. He’s so tight it’s close to pain, a hot grip that drags at me all the way out and all the way in. I watch my cock disappear into him and come out slick, and I have to shut my eyes for a second or this is going to be over before it’s started.

I haven’t done this in four years. The last time was a woman in a hotel in a city I was working in for three weeks, arranged through a number a colleague gave me. It was clean and adequate. I couldn’t tell you now what her face looked like. That’s the whole of my history: transactions I could describe in a paragraph, none of which ever cost me anything, all of which I understood as maintenance.

There’s a man under me shaking, with my hand in his hair and his wrists in my fist. I could describe every inch of him from memory in a year.

There’s no finesse in any of it. His wrists are crossed in my fist at the base of his spine, his hair is in my other hand, his face is turned to the side on the pillow with his eyes shut and his mouth open. I pull out until only the head is in him and drive back to the root, the slap of my hips on his ass loud in the room. Every stroke moves him four inches up the bed. I drag him back down by the hair and do it again.

He’s making a sound on every one. It builds. By the second minute, it’s loud enough that the man in the next apartment could put a glass to the wall and know exactly what’s happening in here.

I change the angle. I get a knee up under me and drive down into him instead of forward, and the first time I hit it he goes rigid from his heels to his scalp and his fingers spasm open in my grip.

I stay there. Short, hard strokes, right on it, over and over, my weight pinning his hips so there’s nowhere for him to go and nothing for him to do but take it. The headboard is knocking the wall. I don’t care who hears it.

I take my hand out of his hair and put it over his mouth.

Flat, palm across, fingers along his jaw. I take the weight off it slightly so his nose is clear. The noise goes into my hand instead of into the room, hot and continuous. His whole body goes rigid underneath me for one second, then gives, entirely, all at once, in a way he’s never done in front of anyone.