Page 71 of Second Story

I’m laughed with, like during every evening phone call, only Joe’s chest pressed to my back while he laughs is even better. He’s on top, hot and heavy and happy in a way I can’t imagine ever getting sick of. His breath across my ear slays me all over again. I tingle with each teasing whisper.

“Someone’s in a hurry.” His teeth graze my earlobe, his cock thick against the crease of my arse. “Just resist the urge to?—”

“Do the robot. Yes, yes, keep going.”

He plants his hands on the pillows, only inches from my face, and I don’t think. I kiss a scar on one wrist, then dig under my pillow for lube. I shift, hunting for it, and his cock slides exactly where I want him.

He’s right there, head of his dick hard and wide and a lot. I’ve never been afraid of hard things. Faced plenty in the last year. Now I’m faced with Joe bracing on one hand, and I guess he found the lube before I could.

A much slicker finger takes over pressing.

He gets one inside me. Two. Finds the right spot to circle, and stars join the moonlight. So, so many of them. It’s almost game over before we’ve even started. My toes curl, my hands too, sheets fisted, and a purr rumbles through me.

From Joe.

I feel it. Feel the head of his dick again too, and I almost take it.

He pulls back.

“N-no.” I’m up on my hands and knees in a scrambling instant. “Don’t stop. Do me.” I look over my shoulder, and see why he’s added distance. The trousers he shoved off are in his lap, his hands deep in their pockets for a much better reason than usual. He finds a condom, slicks it, and his next press against me turns the moon into a surprise supernova.

His forehead is against my shoulder, his breaths staggering, and all I can do is take until there’s no divide between us, no telling where he stops and I start.

We’re one, and it’s exactly what I needed.

There’s no thinking. No past. Only this present that shines when he starts moving.

I can’t keep this in. “F-fuck, Joe.”

“Yeah?”

I nod, my head hanging, and like before, he checks in. This time, he does that by pulling me up, an arm around my chest in an action replay of our first time. Tonight, there’s no hurry, and he goes slow, holding back instead of going all out.

I’m in his lap, sinking onto steel. Pierced all the way through, but I need to see him. Need to kiss him.

My mouth is too dry to say so. I gasp.Rasp.Can hardly string words together when it feels like he already reaches all the way to my voice box. “Kiss me,” I finally manage, and twist, reaching around while full and burning, and like always, he helps me.

Joe pulls out, and I shout.

He fills me again, only I’m on my back now, bent almost double, and held down while he’s a study of flushed concentration.

I don’t even try to hold in my groan.

It comes from my heart. My soul. From who the fuck knows where.

He echoes it, then gives me what I asked for—our mouths meet, and it’s messy when he picks up speed, even though hefights it. His pace stutters, slows, then ratchets to a whole new level.

Joe makes the bed slam. Makes my heart slam even harder. The world shrinks to his hold on me and mine on sheets that twist between my fingers. There’s nothing else but him for me.

Nothing and no one.

“Yeah?”

Joe slows. Stops. Doesn’t move a muscle until I nod in confirmation. He kisses me again then, and rocks into me with a deep grind, and if I ever knew how to breathe, I forget now. I shake instead, and clutch him.

He doesn’t wince. Doesn’t stop or stutter. That grind only deepens after he lifts my leg over his shoulder.

Each slow screw in gets me close, then closer. I pant. Sweat. Curse and clutch him even tighter. If I dig nails into his shoulders, his sole reaction is a look I’ve only seen twice.

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