Page 71 of Puck Me Like You Own Me

“There,” he says.

“I know.”

“No, don’t.” His forehead goes down on his forearm. “Don’t go slower. You always go slower. Why do you always⁠—”

“Because you’ll take it if I’m rough.” I put my mouth by his ear. “So we’re doing it the other way.”

He makes a sound and pushes back again.

I keep him there until his legs start to go, and then I shut the water off.

I take him to bed wet.

We don’t dry off. A towel hangs over his shoulders without being used. The sheets go dark under him in about four seconds. I put him on his back in the middle of his own bed with the lamp on.

He reaches for the lamp.

“No,” I say. “Leave it.”

“Marek.”

“Leave it on.”

He puts his hand back down.

I get his knees up and push them open with my hands on the backs of his thighs. His hole is soft and pink from the shower, his cock lying hard and flushed on his stomach. The bottle is in the drawer. I slick myself and then him, two fingers in again, and I take my time with that, too. He’s warm from the shower, shaking a little. A red mark crosses the front of the bad hip from the three hours of frozen peas.

I put my palm flat over it and hold it there until it warms.

“Tell me if the leg’s wrong.”

“The leg’s fine.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Marek.” He gets a hand into my hair, which he’s never done, and pulls, not hard. “I’ll tell you. Come here.”

Then I line my cock up and go in slowly, watching his face the entire time. He opens around me in one long give.

He doesn’t look away.

This one is different, and I know it while it’s happening. Every other time, he’s had his face in a pillow, against a door, turned to the floor, or hidden behind my hand. Now he’s looking straight up at me from ten inches away with the lamp on. He keeps his eyes open. About a third of the way in, his mouth parts and his breath catches. I’ve never seen him look that open.

“All right?”

“Yeah.”

He shifts his hips slightly.

“All the way?”

“Yeah. Yes.” His hands come up and take hold of my forearms, one each, and grip hard. “Don’t stop looking at me.”

I don’t stop looking at him.

I take a long time. Long and slow, out almost to the head and all the way back in until I’m buried and he gasps. The whole weight of me down on him, his knees against my ribs, his hands on my forearms. Both of us watching each other in the light. The bed is old, and it makes a noise on every stroke. Neither of us cares.

He talks.