Page 39 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Small hands,” you manage.

Sterling fuckingscoffsat you. It’s both incredibly surprising and devastatingly hot, especially when he pairs it with leaning down and biting the meat of your ass.

“Okay,” he says simply, sounding amused. And then, with no further warning, he gives you what you asked for, three manicured fingers stacked like a pyramid and thrust inside you. You have no idea what you were thinking. Sterling may not be the giant you are, but his hands arenotsmall. He has the long, elegant fingers of someone who plays both piano and guitar, and they are wider than they feel when held in your own gigantic paw. Theburn of your stretching asshole is not unpleasant, but a burn nonetheless. Skin catches skin, even with the lube easing the way.

Instantly, the cockiness disappears from Sterling’s movements.

“Shit,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You want to tell him that a little bit of pain is more than okay. Not a lot—you aren’t wired that way—but that there’s something grounding about sharp sensation. Something to keep you from floating away. You want to tell him that, after the initial stretch subsided, all you felt was a gloriousfullness, just knowing he was inside you.

But you find yourself a bit incoherent for all that.

“Good,” you slur.

“Ahh,” Sterling says. He understands, you can tell. The understanding restores his confidence. He gives his hand even more lube and starts to move. His middle finger brushes your prostate. A shiver runs through you, and he does it again, deliberately this time. Against the mattress, your cock is hard enough to throb. He works you over knowingly, curving his fingers. Rubbing your lower back, ass, and thighs. When he leans over to kiss your fevered shoulder, you feel his own erection press against you. If it’s possible, you sweat even more despite the air being dry and cool.

When you’re unable to stop yourself from humping his soft, woefully-small bed, Sterling withdraws his fingers. You whine, but he shushes you. Sheathes up his dick with a condom from the console and applies even more lube. You want to push up and watch him slick on the condom, watch him touch his cock, but you are boneless and burning against the bed. Lightheaded with wanting.

“Turn over,” Sterling whispers, his voice scratchy with arousal. “I want to see your face.”

It takes an effort, more than before, since you seem to have partially lost control of your limbs. There’s a wide wet spot under your lower back from the vast quantity of pre-cum you’ve expended under his efforts, and your cock is heavy. Aching.

You hold your breath when Sterling slides inside you. Not because there’s even the least bit of friction—he’s opened you up so well—but because it feels momentous. His skin on your skin is a drug that engorges your veins, making you swell from within with a narcotic, dopesick lust. When he’s fully seated within you, he sits back on his heels, and puts his hands on your spread knees.

“You feel so good, Kai,” he breathes. Slides his hands down your thighs with reverence, and wraps his fingers around your cock.

“Don’t,” you grit out. “Don’t want it over tooquick.”

He nods, which makes more hair fall loose from where it’s tied back. The tendrils are curling and sticking to his forehead and cheeks. His lips are parted. You want to lick his mouth, to taste his teeth.

Sterling starts to move, fucking you with easy, even strokes. He’s got a Goldilocks cock—guys that are longer sometimes hit too deep, and guys that are shorter sometimes don’t get there. But Sterling’s dick feels like it was made for you, width and length alike, every thrust rubbing over you just right. It’s trippy knowing that he is inside you, that you are being fucked by him. It’s a feeling that keeps threatening to spill over in your brain, a hot, sloshing thing.

“Is it good?” he asks. “You feel amazing, Kai. Look so hot like this. Christ.”

You’re not sure how he’s coherent. You’re almost afraid of what’s going to come out of your mouth if you open it; thoughts and feelings that might be toomuch.Too intimate, even with him plugged inside your body all the way to the balls.

“Good,” you repeat, finally. It comes out plosive, like it was punched out of your gut. “Really good.”

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes. “How you want me.”

That breaks your brain a little bit—does he want you to beg? (You would do that.) Does he want you to elaborate how turned on you are, and how you’ve been wondering what this would be like since the day you met? (Ain’t no way your brain-to-mouth filter is up for that challenge.) But then you realize that it’s a much simpler request: he wants you to choreograph. To direct him.

“Want to feel you,” you slur. “Want you to come inside me.”

He huffs a little bit through his nose, like maybe that answer caught him off guard. He changes the position, covering your body with his. It drives him somehow deeper. It also allows all of his skin to press against all of yours. He soul-kisses you deeply, the movement of his tongue mirroring his cock. You are glad you are lying down, because you feel a little dizzy. You close your eyes, and you aren’t sure if it’s the hum of the recycled air or the rush of your own blood in your ears. Sterling’s hand cradles your head, fuzzing your scalp. Holding you like a lover.

He comes like that, hanging on tight. It’s not demonstrative or loud—maybe because he knows you have an audience just outside the room, maybe he’s just quiet—but he turns his head sharply, and his breath comes hot against your neck. He’s mouthing your skin when it happens. Against his flat belly, your cock is leaking, hot and trapped.You’re beyond turned on, but it’s like you’re stranded in the plateau phase. Your muscles are all drawn up and tense. It’s like everything is too much: too hot, too new, too exciting. Your breath is shallow.

Sterling is considerate. He’s dead weight against you for only a minute or two. He considerately peels himself from you and withdraws, considering your body as he deals with the condom.

“Do you want to come?” he asks, in a voice that sounds wrecked.

“Very much,” you pant. And then, for good measure, “please.”

He takes that as an invitation to finish you off with his mouth. Your body, already tense, somehow tightens further at the wet, hot suction of his lips.

“Yourvoice,” you protest. “I can’t—”

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