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You love it when he does this.
It’s not just the wrist cuffs, it’s that he’s clipped them to the rungs of his headboard. It leaves you acutely aware of where the limits of your body are, where you end and space begins, and you’re not sure whether the leather is you or not-you, it’s so intrinsic to who you are in this moment. The leather is so warm against your skin that you can nearly smell it.
You can tap out when you need to, but it’s more fun to struggle, test the bondage and feel the muscles in your arms and back work in frustration to free yourself. From the feel of Bro’s hands on you, you know he appreciates the view. When he’s feeling particularly sentimental, in the moments between completion and separation, he’ll call you his human sculpture as he traces the bite marks and bruises he leaves on your skin.
Now, the searing heat of his palms sinks under your skin as you flex and twist, tracing biceps, triceps, forearms, before he double-checks the carabiners holding you immobile. While he leans over you to perfect your bondage, his breath heats your ear. “You been working out.”
A surge of pride swells in your chest. He noticed. You play it off, though. “Years of swinging a hammer,” you tell him.
“Doesn’t explain that ass,” he says through a smirk. From where he is, between your legs and sitting back on his heels so that his weight dips the mattress, he can run his hands, those hot, pressured hands, from your ass to your calves, feeling out the structure of your musculature. It’s not even remotely ticklish, but you squirm anyhow.
Frankly, this makes you more than a little uncomfortable. Every time he’s bound you before, you’ve worn a blindfold and earplugs. Now, though, you can trace his movements with your eyes, though you’re powerless to direct them; you can feel every filthy word out of his mouth wash over your skin. To be so present in so many ways as he worships your body like this is too intense for words.
Then, too, you’re nearly always face-down for him. Your excuse is that it feels better that way, but you both know that’s not entirely true. You’re acutely aware of your body, especially the parts that you’re trying to correct. You don’t want him to see what’s wrong about you, only what’s right, and it’s easier to act like nothing’s off when you’re only showing back and ass.
But right now, he has you facing him, eye to eye—and when his beautiful golden eyes glance up to catch your gaze, you have to look away, it’s so lustful. Looking away, though, means looking down at yourself, at the bare, pale expanse of skin you’re showing him. You know he can see the long, thin, white scars under your pecs, the trail of hair that leads down to nothing more than a nest of curls. With your legs open like this, it’s obvious what’s missing. It’s embarrassing. Really, you just want to curl into yourself and die at the thought that someone else is seeing you like this.
But then Bro hovers over you, covering your naked body with his body heat, and kisses you with unprecedented dominance. His tongue swipes across your lips, your teeth, then pushes past to taste the inside of your mouth. You open for him willingly, giving him an involuntary moan, and he chuckles at that, his laughter dark but not mean. “You’re such a little slut, John.”
“Only for you.” In response, your voice is perfect, husky and deep. The best, or maybe worst, part of what you said is that it’s true. Though you whore around with Bro willingly, he’s the only guy you’ve really been with. (The others don’t count. You pretended, and they never questioned you, only assumed that things were how they seemed.)
And as much as you shamelessly slut it up for Bro, it’s only really in a few ways. Jerk him off. Worship his dick with your mouth. Let him bind you like this and slap your ass ‘til you call him daddy. Let him fuck your throat open or choke your throat shut until you’re begging wordlessly to breathe, for air. Everyone has a mouth and hands, and anyone can give.
When it comes to Bro touching you, though, there’s a lot of unsaid rules. Not there. Like this. That he’s focusing on you now, rubbing circles into your sides with his thumbs and cradling your ribcage with those large fingers, is not the way things are supposed to be. “Why?”
He draws back for a moment, catches your eye again, and this time you can’t look away. When his hand comes up to cup your jaw and rub against the stubble starting to show, though, you close your eyes and press against the heat of his palm. “You’re fucking gorgeous, look at you,” he breathes, dropping his hips so you can feel how hard he is through the rough denim of his jeans against the sensitive skin on the insides of your thighs.
“I don’t deserve—ohGod,” you choke out at the tail end, distracted by the smooth roll of his hips and the savage bite to the side of your neck. If you had your hands free, you’d hold his head there, make sure he sucked hard enough to leave a bruise.
Bro’s voice this time is a little grittier, a lot more dominant. “What did I tell you to do when you’re wearing your gear?”
“Stop thinking,” you say automatically.
“Good,” he practically purrs into your shoulder. He fists a rough hand in your hair, tips your head back so you have to display your throat in a show of submission for him. “Whose are you?”
“Yours.” Not just in this moment—he has you completely enthralled, now and forever.
“Good boy,” he tells you, and your entire body lights up at those words. Two simple little words and your skin is electrified, leaving a tingle that lingers in your curled toes and fisted hands. “Good boy,” he says again.
This time you visibly tremble, begging for his body over you to press against you and calm you and hold you down. “Derick,” you moan, desperate and low. He has to know how much this is getting to you.
“John,” he whispers back. His breath is heavy with things unsaid, and as he continues to massage up and down your bound arms, move his chest against yours every time you breathe, he lets more and more of those words drop. Just for you. Only you get to hear this. You feel ridiculously privileged to have his attention, and more than a little unworthy. “You deserve—just, so much more than the shitty hand you were dealt, I wanna—show you, let you know how it feels, just to be with you—how much you do for me…”
“Don’t.” Your blush is rising, coloring everything from the tips of your ears to the tops of your shoulders. You really wish your face wouldn’t do that; it’s embarrassingly feminine. So Bro doesn’t see, you raise your head, bury it in the crook between neck and shoulder.
Still, that’s not your safeword. You’re not halting this play, no matter what kind of game Bro’s playing. “Let me,” he hisses savagely into your ear.
You don’t know what to say, so you let your body speak for you. Your spine rises from the mattress, and you try to fit your form to contour to Bro’s body; your insteps slide up the backs of his calves, smoothing over them as sensually as you can. It also makes your legs fall even more open around Bro’s body, his hips holding your thighs apart.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Stay.” That’s his cue that he’s leaving you, but only for a little bit; he’ll be back, and soon. In the beginning, when you were still getting used to the bondage, you would flip a shit if he tried to retreat, needing the connection to something outside yourself to keep yourself from floating out and away. Things are a little more controlled now, but not by much.
You keep yourself calm by counting your breaths, keeping them slow and steady. Suck in, and whistle out through your teeth, turning your head so your elbow rests across your eyes, blocking your view. Another breath, and you can hear Bro undoing his belt, the soft thump as his clothes hit the floor. A third, and you’re starting to feel exposed. “Bro,” you whimper pitifully.
“John, you needy bitch, gimme a minute.” You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of panic, trying to calm your heartbeat, keep your breathing even. Part of it is that you’re still embarrassingly exposed, but the second your knees start to tip together, Bro puts his hand on one of them and holds them apart. “Don’t.” Once you hear a snap and then a wet schlicking noise, you know. You know why. And you know why he’s trying so hard to keep you calm. He wants to try—that. Again.
The two of you have only tried that once before. Once again, you were bound, face-down and on your knees, blindfolded but with your hearing so you could listen to Bro’s whispered encouragements. At the time, it had felt like a slick, cold intrusion and nothing more. Your trembling was more from fear than pleasure, and your whimpers never stopped being pained. Without you having to say a word, Bro knew better than to push it, instead holding your chin down with the pad of his thumb so he could force the head of his cock into your mouth.
Later, once you processed it, you realized that, absurdly, he was indirectly threatening your masculinity. To still be… penetrated, even like that, made you think too much of your body, how it fit, how it didn’t, how it was supposed to be and how it wasn’t, how so much could change and yet nothing at all. You tried explaining it to him, but it was too difficult to articulate. He seemed to understand, though perhaps not as much as you’d like, if he’s about to try it again now.
“John,” he says softly, and once you feel his weight shifting the mattress you feel confident enough to look up at him. He’s peering down at you seriously, and though he’s not wearing his shades, you still feel like there’s something he’s hiding from you in his eyes. “I need you to trust me.” There’s no nice way to say that you don’t. You let the shiver in your limbs speak for itself. “I want to do this with you—you do so much for me and I do all of jack shit in return, please, I—I’m a jackass, okay, I just take, for once I just want to fucking give, trust me, this is weird for me too, I’m not used to feeling like this.”
Oh. Oh, holy shit. Your chest swells and nearly overflows with weird feelings you don’t know how to deal with. When he puts it like that, you’re willing to let him try just about anything with you. How do you explain to him, though, that this isn’t how you want this to work? That you’re okay with just giving, and him just taking, and that he doesn’t have to give anything back? Bro leans over you and starts to kiss you again, soft at first, then more insistently, and as his lips linger on yours you start to moan and arch up again. “If you’re going to do it,” you mumble into his mouth, “then just do it.”
“It’s gonna feel good, just trust me, John.” He seems to sense your reticence, though, if the way he runs his palm down the middle of your chest is any indication; he’s trying to sap out your tension with the weight of his hand. “What do you do?”
“Stop thinking.”
“And trust me. Please.” Bro, who never begs for anything, is begging now. Begging to—to fingerfuck you. This could go wrong in so many ways, you don’t even bother starting to count.
He knows what he’s doing and where he’s going, though. Bro’s cold, slick fingertip traces from your tailbone to your entrance—not trying to get past things he shouldn’t be touching, but to consciously avoid them, keep from triggering you. Because it’s cold and just plain weird, you instinctively clench against him when he traces over your hole. “Sorry, it’s fucking cold,” you tell him.
“Just… relax, okay?” If you couldn’t tell any better, you’d say Bro was getting impatient. But as much as he might feel it himself, you don’t feel any from him. He’s not rushing you. God, you’d love him just for that. He rubs a little, slicking everything, pressing but not too much, and the lube warms up with the more body heat it takes from you, until it’s almost too hot to stand.
You can’t feel any nail, just the tip of his finger as he traces, prods a little, then starts to nudge a little more insistently. When you remind yourself to breathe, he starts gaining nearly-imperceptible amounts of ground, until with gentle pressure and a little physical persuasion you start to open for him—really open, allow him not just to touch outside but to enter inside.
“Yeah, good, just like that, John,” Bro whispers over you. His voice catches you slightly off-guard, so at first you flinch at it—he hisses when you clamp down around his knuckle—but as he keeps talking to you, his tone is soothing and seductive. He follows it with his lips on your ear, sucking your earlobe into his mouth, then moving down your neck as you unconsciously bare your throat to him.
When your spine works like that, it shifts your hips against him and his—his finger, he’s getting his fucking finger in you, and you just voluntarily moved down on him, asked for more, took his next knuckle. It’s strange, a sensation you definitely need to get used to, because this—this is different. Way different. And unlike anyone else you’ve ever been with, Bro gets it. He understands that he needs to be patient, to take his time with you, to let you open instead of forcing a breach.
Still, his finger isn’t fully seated. He rocks it in you a little, pressing around inside you, and it makes you bite the inside of your cheek at the feeling. “I want to hear it,” Bro demands in your ear, and as he wriggles his finger in a circle you let a moan swell up in your chest and burst out through your throat as he kisses your adam’s apple to urge it out of you.
And then—then there’s no more to take. It’s strange, the feeling of being filled and the feeling of being—sort of held open, stretched around that girth. You can feel every articulation of his knuckle as he teasingly feels you out, everything’s ridiculously sensitive, and you feel like you might have to tell him to stop before Bro reminds you to “breathe, John, just breathe.”
Breathe. You can do that. Heir of Breath, breathing is kind of your thing. But when you try to take in air, Bro’s fingertip nudges against something inside you, and it—somehow the closest word you can find is unhinging, loosening, something inside you is touched in a way that you never thought it would be touched and it turns your even breath into a gasp and you still can’t get enough air because you have to sigh it out right away “holy shit Bro what was that!”
His only response is a low chuckle, and to do it again. And again. And again. Every single time, your thighs twitch and you let out a little plaintive cry; your toes curl in more and more, and you could swear that clenching your fists this hard is going to leave you drawing blood from your palms with your fingernails. It’s not a sharp jab with an electric shock along your veins, but something more indirect, persuading it out, and when he nudges up against it the feeling radiates through you, as he’s touching through you. “Better than before?”
“So much, so fucking much, oh my god!” Maybe it’s the fact that you can see him, though every time he presses against that spot your vision greys out a little and your eyes blur from more than just nearsightedness. Maybe it’s the angle, or the fact that this way, he can kiss you, your throat, your ears, your collarbones, as he tugs none-too-gently on your hair and starts to thrust his finger in you. Maybe it’s because whenever you try to get closer to his mouth, the undulation that starts in your shoulders ends at your hips and forces him to delve deeper, press harder, in an endless feedback loop that’s threatening to leave you as nothing but embodied TV static.
“Calm down, you little whore,” but you can hear his smile as much as see his dazzling pearly-whites. “This is just an appetizer.”
Then it must be dessert for dinner, then, because the sensations are already threatening to overwhelm you. “Can’t—move, dammit,” you tell him, gasping it out as best you can when he’s leaving you unable to catch your breath.
He does the opposite, stilling his movements inside of you and taking away the other fingertip that was starting to nudge against your entrance. “What do good boys say?”
“Please!” crosses your lips, frantic and desperate.
“Since you asked so nicely.” You love Bro’s laughter when he’s like this, that throaty chuckle that means he’s thoroughly enjoying dominating you. Not humiliating. Never humiliating. This is affirmance, a recognition of how things are and a teaser of how things could be. “Never thought you’d be begging for me to fingerfuck you.”
“Sh-hhhhhhut up, shit!” It’s hard to string more than one word together, harder still to say any that aren’t expletives or blind words of pleasure. But he nudges another, even slicker, finger alongside the first. His fingers are—solid. Large. Something hot and pressurized inside you, that stretches you further and strokes against whatever that is even more insistently. You want so badly to scratch your way down Bro’s arms, to show him how good this feels, but your hands are still infuriatingly shackled to the headboard; your arms go through their futile flexing, and still you can’t touch him like you want to.
You settle for holding your head up and capturing his mouth in a sloppy kiss. He bites at your lower lip, massages at it with his teeth, as he starts to thrust with these two fingers, and you could swear that your tremble each time he hits home could shake apart this shitty bedframe. Still, Bro’s body is above yours, something solid to cling to, a new gravity to conform to.
He never lets you go, one solid arm around you and holding you to him while he works his fingers in you. Fuck, if you had known it would feel this different, and this amazing, you would have asked for this yourself. Of course this is the same. Of course you can do this. This is natural. This is right.
It feels like this is what your body was meant to do, and Bro’s just helping you realize your potential. Thoroughly enjoying it, too, if that possessive, controlling smile on his face is any indication—and it keeps getting wider as he keeps fucking you on his fingers. “Hey, Mikey, I think he likes it,” he teases you, scraping his teeth along your jaw. “Lessee if you can take three. Come on, ease, easy, open, you can do it, just like that, c’mon, John…”
It’s the way he says your name, holds it on his tongue like he’s afraid it’s going to fall, gifts it to you gently as if he’s afraid to break it, that gets you to relax enough. Then that third fingertip is pushing, a little more insistently than the first two but you need it, you need it now, your skin is on fire and you’re molten lava from the core to the tips of your fingers and toes.
When that third fingertip adds pressure to the first two and gets up against that—whatever it is—it makes you feel like you’re about to die. Bro’s hand lays heavy at the base of your throat, but not high enough to choke—you’re choking on your own breath, you can’t get enough air, you can’t moan loud enough, you can’t tell him how it feels, you can feel yourself slipping out of your body and into something else entirely, something more mindless, more comfortable, with each bit of digital manipulation Bro throws your way.
He works up to a leisurely pace with those three fingers, eventually not cramping them quite so tightly so you can feel the full width of them as they thrust up into you. He’s driving you crazy with need, not seeming to care that your throat’s working in a constant moan and drool’s dripping from the corner of your mouth. Every now and then, you can feel his free hand roaming around your body, pinching here, slapping there, but eventually coming to rest in your hair and tugging it hard enough so that you stay in the moment instead of letting yourself go somewhere else. “Fuck,” you whine, helpless under his ministrations.
“That what you want?” he breathes down at you, sinister and alluring.
“Fuck.” It’s the only word left in your head. It’s the only thing left for you to anticipate. It’s the only thing in the world that you want with the entirety of your being. “Fuck.” And when you cant your hips up to roll down against his hand, you feel—it’s perfect—his fingers inside you, and one weeping dick against the trail of hair on your stomach, dribbling precum in your pubes. If you close your eyes and let everything overwhelm you, push up just far enough to nudge the head of his cock against your skin, you can pretend. You can pretend, and it’s not so bad. You can pretend, and it’s not so frightening. You can pretend, and you settle into your body for what might be the first time in your life.
But of course, he has to take it away. Bro twists his body over yours, reaching over to the nightstand for something more. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m doing this right,” he tells you vehemently. You don’t even get the words, just the tone, and your eyes follow the twitch in his shoulders, the tension in his forearms, to watch him slick a condom on.
Oh. Oh my God. This is actually happening. It’s happening, right now, because you asked for it. You want Bro to fuck you. It takes a minute to sink into your skin, but once it does, it leaves you trembling with uncertainty, vacillating between a powerful fear and an equally intimidating need. “Derick,” you say again softly, hoping you can put everything into one word, how close you are to panicking.
He knows, though. He knows he has to reassure you or you’ll fall apart. It starts with him wrapping an arm around your back to press your chests together, and then comes the gentle tone threatening to undo you. “I got you, boy.” And it’s stupid little phrases like that leaving you weak at the knees and trembling and falling apart for him, because he sees—you. You, as you are. As you should be.
Thought falls out of your head when he eases his fingers out of you, then nudges the head of his cock up against your entrance. That is a lot thicker than his fingers, Jesus wept. He hasn’t hurt you. Ever. You need to remember this. He’s never hurt you. Never touched you in a way you didn’t want. Always stopped the minute you let him know he crossed a line. “Fuck,” you whisper again, trying to get this to work, bearing down just as much as Bro’s pressing up.
For a few agonizing seconds, you’re sure it’s not going to happen—and then it does, his dick slipping in to the corona while he hisses and you mewl at the feeling. “You’re tighter than the devil’s fucking cock ring, jesus christ,” Bro grits out as he tries to roll his hips forward.
How do you tell him? “First,” you say, and it’s the only word you can get out between trying to remember how to breathe and not choke at the same time. Your legs wrap around his, trying to get friction, trying to help, and your hips lock together, making things a little easier. It’s your first time doing it this way, of course you’re tighter than the Pentagon on lockdown.
“Your first time?” You nod, your forehead bumping against his shoulder; you keep his face cradled there as he continues to press in. “Fuck, and look at you, takin’ it like a champ, you are so good,” and the tone of wonder in his voice is unprecedented and leaves you feeling like you truly are a god, “you are such a good boy, yeah, just like that, John.”
It takes a few more moments of struggle, one of which is getting more lube, before Bro’s satisfied. You feel… stretched. Filled. Like he’s splitting you open. Like he’s up in your throat. It’s intense, that much pressure, so much to take, and you feel overwhelmed by sensations you don’t understand, emotions you don’t deserve. You try to move so you can hide your face a little better in Bro’s chest, but even as he holds you closer, it moves him almost imperceptibly in you, making you cry out at the change in pressure and angle.
“John.” You almost can’t hear him over the sound of your own frantic breathing. “John, relax, I absofuckinglutely cannot do this if you’re clenching up on me.” Then his hands come into play again, one of them grasping at the curve of your ass to ease a little more, hold you a little apart. The other skims down your spine, over and over and over again, sapping all the tension you didn’t know you were holding.
Something slips, and he glides, out-in, pressure changing inside but always holding you open and oh the feel of him moving against your stretched hole is fucking incredible. “Ahhhhhhfuck,” you’re probably drooling right now but Bro doesn’t seem to care, not if the way he’s pushing his tongue into your open and sloppy mouth is any indication.
“God, you should fucking—see yourself, John, fuck,” and your eyes roll back a little bit more with each successive filthy word out of his mouth. “I swear to god I can actually see my dick inside you, holy shit, watch this.” He leans back a little, plants his hand before your pubes really start, and starts to thrust into you again.
It’s even tighter this time, and you can feel the pressure, through—everything, things you don’t want to think about but you can feel it and so can he and he can see it, your stomach swelling as he thrusts into you. “More,” you sigh out, not sure what exactly you want—talking or fucking—but you want it now.
“Little slut,” Bro grits out appreciatively. His movements even out, every roll of his hips taking him nearly-out-but-not-quite, then seating him back inside you. Nothing rough, but something constant. “God, your nipples are so fucking hard right now, look at this shit.”
He knows he’s not allowed to touch, at least. That’s one area that will be off-limits for a long, long time. But you know what he’s seeing, because you can feel it, the residual thrum in your body from every thrust that bubbles up to your skin and leaves it prickling for more. “Good.”
“Damn right it’s good,” he affirms savagely. “Yeah, move your hips like that, you try’na fuck yourself on me?”
You didn’t even realize you were doing it until he pointed it out, but you’re holding yourself up from the bed with your legs, leaning back against your shoulders still on the mattress and your hands at the headboard to push down against him. It’s not changing depth so much as pressure, but with how he keeps pumping and how you keep rocking, it’s different every time—and then, yes, you find it, you find whatever it was that made you fall apart before, and you let out a wordless shriek at the white-hot nerve-deadening sensation that travels up your spine to short-circuit your brain.
His hand comes down to wrap around your hip, guiding you in your movements as he continues tipping into you, over and over and over, driving you out of your mind. “God, the way your body moves—I can watch every fucking muscle, it’s mesmerizing, your arms, I swear to fuck, I just wanna bite your tendons whenever you try to get your hands free, you are just so—your abs, look at this shit, and your hips,” when he says that you can feel your groin muscles working against his thumb, like he’s playing your body like a stringed instrument.
All you want to do is make noise for him. Moan like crazy at the mere feeling of being so full, so stretched. Scream at him to move and pick up the speed when all you want is to be fucked senseless. Shriek every time he hits up against that spot inside you that makes you feel like dying. He kisses each little quaver out of you, drawing more from your throat and your lips than you thought possible, and you’re only getting louder the longer this goes on.
“Just—god fuck, John,” and is he still going, because you’re definitely not listening to the words, just the husky need dripping from his tone to electrify your body, “this is mine, this body is mine to fuck and play with and touch and it’s so fucking amazing, you’re fascinating, fuck, fuck…”
Bro’s voice dies out to rough panting as his thrusts start coming faster. At this point, you can’t do anything other than go insane and go along for the ride—and fuck does it feel good, his thick cock pounding into your hot spot like that and blinding you with need, his hips slapping against yours with every thrust, his hot breath hovering over your ear as he tries to catch his breath, his hands gripping at you possessively as he gives you what you want and takes from you what he needs.
Something hot and insidious is coiling in your gut, something you recognize but want to put off, and then—then you can’t do a damn thing about it, everything culminates and you undulate under him and let it possess you and take over you and wash over you and wash away. It only constricts you tighter around Bro, and he hisses in unbridled pleasure at the feeling, showing his teeth in a fanged smile. “Yeah, just like that, John, good boy, try’na milk it outta me…”
For a moment, you’re convinced that he’s going to pull out, pull off the condom, and cum on you. Force you to look at the aftermath on your disgusting, abnormal body. Maybe better if he forced your mouth open and made you swallow it or painted your face with it while he called you his cumdumpster. But no, when he stills he buries himself in you and holds you close and hides his face in your neck and goes oddly silent when he pulses, pulses again, and an extra spark of heat hits up deep in you. Fuck, that felt amazing, you could feel fucking everything, inside, wow, fucking wow.
He takes it easy when he eases out of you, but that doesn’t make it any easier—he’s fucking huge and your body’s reacting weirdly on you after your first time trying something like that. Eventually, though, as he starts to flag a little, it gets easier, and he makes sure to slip the condom off and knot it and toss it in the vague direction of a trash can before he collapses onto you. “Fuck,” he says eloquently.
You’re still trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you pant and gasp. “Fuck,” you agree as you sigh out.
Only then does he seem to realize that he might be crushing the life out of you. “Here, lemme—“ He reaches up, easily unhooks the carabiner, and when your arms come back down to your sides he never stops massaging feeling back into them, even though you can feel them still tingling with afterglow.
It’s wrong. This is wrong. Usually, after something this intense, you’d be willingly curling up into him while he pets your hair and mutters nonsense words to you, but right now… right now, you don’t want him touching you. Once you have your hands back, you roll over, onto your side, and curl into yourself, loosely hugging your knees.
Bro still tries to be there, running a slow, reassuring hand up and down your back. “Talk to me,” he says quietly. All the lust is gone from his voice, but that warm undertone still remains.
How do you explain the unexplainable? How do you put instinct into words? “Shouldn’t have,” is all you can think to mutter. You shouldn’t have pushed yourself to do something so close to—to acknowledging—
“John,” he says, and his characteristic drawl makes you uncurl a little as the heat from his hand seeps into your bones. “It’s okay.”
No, it’s not. He has no fucking idea how not-okay you feel right now, out of alignment with yourself, slightly off-kilter and off-balance. “Too close.” Too close to how it used to be.
The words sink into the silence permeating the room. Then, Bro lets out a sigh as he leans down to kiss your bare shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” he tells you. “Not that many guys are that gung-ho about it.”
Implying that other guys might also like—what just happened. You shrug, and instantly most of the tension comes out of your back; Bro’s instantly there, wrapping around you possessively, pressing his chest against your shoulderblades and slinging an arm around your stomach. “Asshole.” It’s both an endearing insult and an indicator of your thought process. Kind of a unisex body part, really. Plenty of people like it in the ass. Guys too.
Still, throughout, there was one thing that was missing: the other throbbing boner that was supposed to be there, rutting up against Bro’s abs and leaking onto your stomach as he wrapped his hand around it and—too much. Too much to process right now. Too much absence to feel, now that you already feel empty without Bro’s dick in you. “You’re fuckin’ fantastic,” Bro mutters, sounding dozy. “Body’s amazing. Took that dick like a champ.”
Bro, God bless him. He’s focusing on the things that are right. In his eyes, there’s so much right with you. You’re not what you could be, not yet, but he’s helping. Helping you get there. When his hand lazily gropes up your side to land around your chest, you don’t move his hand; it feels good to have him wrapped around you like this. Protective. Possessive. “Yours,” you whisper through a smile.