Page 88 of The Puck Contract

Taking advantage of his distraction, I press the pad of my finger against his entrance more firmly, breaching him just to the first knuckle. His whole body goes rigid, muscles clamping down around the intrusion.

"Breathe," I remind him, holding perfectly still. "Relax into it."

He nods jerkily, focusing on his breathing. I can pin point the exact moment his body begins to yield, muscles loosening around my finger. Slowly, giving him time to adjust, I press deeper, watching his face transform from discomfort to curiosity to something approaching pleasure.

"How does it feel?"

"Full," he says, brows furrowed. "Burns a little, but not bad. Just... strange."

I begin to move my finger, careful, shallow thrusts that have him biting his lip. The position is challenging—my wrist bent at an awkward angle, his body precariously balanced above me—but the look on his face makes any discomfort worth it.

"The burn will fade," I say, twisting my finger slightly on the next thrust. "And then it gets really good."

As if on cue, his expression changes, eyes widening as I find his prostate and press deliberately against it. His cock jerks, a fresh bead of pre-cum sliding down the shaft.

"Holy—what the—" His words dissolve into a moan as I repeat the motion. "Do that again."

I comply, rubbing my fingertip in circles against that sensitive bundle of nerves. His reaction is immediate and intense—back arching, thighs trembling, a strangled sound escaping his throat. The sight of him coming undone above me,because of me, has my own arousal ratcheting higher, my cock straining painfully against my zipper.

"God, you should see yourself," I mutter, eyes fixed on his face as I increase the pressure. "So fucking hot like this."

His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with an intensity that steals my breath. Without looking away, he reaches for my belt, fumbling with the buckle.

"Want to touch you too," he says, voice rough with need.

I help him, lifting my hips as much as the seat allows so he can tug my pants open. When his hand wraps around me, hot and tight, I nearly lose my mind. The dual sensations of his fingers on my cock and my finger inside him create a feedback loop of pleasure so intense I have to grit my teeth against the urge to come.

Somehow, against all odds, we find a common rhythm. My finger thrusting into him in time with his strokes along my length. Each time I press against his prostate, his hand tightens reflexively around me, adding another layer of pleasure.

"I'm close," he says, voice shaking. "So close already."

My perfect little thing.

I struggle to keep my own voice steady as I say, "Let go," increasing the pressure inside him, curling my finger to hit that spot more directly. "Let go for me."

His free hand grips my shoulder with punishing strength, his body drawing taut as a bowstring. When he comes, it's with a shout that probably carries further than is wise, his body clenching rhythmically around my finger, his cum spilling hot over my hand and shirt.

The sight of him—head thrown back, throat exposed, face slack with pleasure—combined with the relentless grip of his hand pushes me over the edge. I follow him seconds later, pleasure crashing through me in waves as I spill over his fist, my hips jerking upward with enough force to lift us both.

For several moments, the only sound is our ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic. Mateo collapses against me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us sticky and disheveled and utterly wrecked.

"Holy fuck," he says finally, voice raw. "Is it always like that?"

I laugh, careful as I withdraw my finger, earning one more full-body shudder from him. "It gets better, actually."

"If it gets better than that, I'll actually die."

"What a way to go," I tease, reaching for the pack of tissues I keep in the console.

As I clean us both up as best I can, Mateo watches me with an expression I can't quite read—something warm and wondering, tinged with vulnerability.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious under his steady gaze.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head slightly. "Just... thank you."

I laugh, leaning in to kiss his forehead. "For fingering you in my car? Pretty sure the pleasure was mutual."

"No," he says, catching my face between his hands. "For making me want to try new things. For being patient. For..." he trails off, searching for words. "For caring."

---