I add more stretch, working him open wider, and he takes it with a moan that breaks in the middle. I'm shaking. My arms are shaking and my thighs are shaking and I want inside him so badly I can barely think in words anymore.
"Ray." His voice is different now. Clearer. A break in the heat-haze, a moment where the real Miles surfaces through the desperation. "Ray, please."
"Tell me." I curl my fingers and press and his back arches off the bed. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
He turns his head on the pillow and looks back at me over his shoulder. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his cheeks are wet and his eyes are fever-bright and he looks ruined and perfect.
"Fuck me," he says. "Please, Ray. I need you to fuck me."
I pull my fingers out and he gasps at the loss. I sit up on my knees and I'm shaking — my thighs, my arms, everything. I'm so hard it hurts and every instinct I have is screaming at me to push in, to take, to claim. I position myself behind him and the head of my cock slides through the slick between his thighs and presses against his entrance, and the heat of him against me is so intense my vision blurs.
He pushes back. Just a fraction. Just enough that I can feel him start to open around me.
I grip his hips. I hold him still. I hold myself still.
And I wait, shaking, at the edge of everything.
Miles
He pushes in and the world narrows to a single point.
The stretch is — god. It's more than his fingers, more than anything I've ever taken, and I lock up, every muscle going rigid, and for a second it's just pressure, panic, the air won't come. He stops. He stops immediately, his grip on my hips, his forehead pressed against my spine.
"Breathe," he says. "Miles. Breathe."
I can't. I'm too full and he's not even all the way in. He's thick, hard, impossibly hot, and my brain is screaming that this is too much, I can't take this, I've made a mistake. My fingers are clawing at the sheets and I'm shaking and he's not moving, just holding still, waiting.
"You're okay," he murmurs against my back. "I've got you. Just breathe. We can stop."
I don't want to stop. Even with the panic, even with the stretch that's bordering on pain, I don't want him to pull out. Everything in me wants more, and the disconnect between my brain sayingtoo much and everything else saying deeper is making me lose my mind.
I force myself to breathe. In. Out. And as I exhale, the tension shifts. I relax around him, just barely, and the pressure goes from pain to fullness. Full, hot, right in a way that makes my eyes sting.
"Move," I say. "Please. Move."
He does. Slow. Pulling back and pushing forward in this careful, steady rhythm, giving me time to adjust, and every thrust goes a little deeper and I take more of him and my brain keeps revising its estimate of how big he is upward and the part of me that should be scared is losing to the part of me that wants all of it.
"Fuck," Ray says, his voice low and strained. "Fuck, Miles, you're so tight. I'm not going to last if you keep — shit."
The praise hits me like a fist. I clench around him and he groans and pushes deeper and I bury my face in the pillow because the sound I make is embarrassing. It's needy, desperate — the me I've been hiding for years.
He speeds up. His grip on my hips tightens and his thrusts get longer and I'm meeting him, rocking back to take him deeper on every push, and I'm not deciding to do that, I'm just doing it, and the heat is a roar in my blood and my cock is hard and leaking against my stomach and nobody is touching it and I don't care because what he's doing is enough, more than enough.
He shifts his angle. It's subtle — a tilt of his hips, a slight change in leverage — and on the next thrust he hits a spot that makes me seize and my vision go white around the edges.
"There?" he asks, and does it again before I can answer.
"Oh fuck — yes, right there, don't stop—"
He doesn't stop. He hits that spot on every thrust now, deliberate, precise, and I realize through the haze that he's doing it on purpose. He noticed me react and he adjusted and nowhe's hitting it every single time and the fact that he's paying that much attention, that he's buried in me and still focused on what I need — I can't think about it without my chest going tight, so I stop thinking and just let go.
"Harder," I say, and I don't recognize my own voice. "Ray, harder, please—"
He gives me harder. His fist closes in my hair and pulls my head back and I gasp at the sting of it, and he's slamming into me now, hard and deep, and I'm meeting every thrust. The sounds coming out of my mouth are sounds I've never made in my life. I'm begging. Actually begging, and the part of me that shows up to work in a tailored suit would be horrified. I don't care.