“Farrow.”
“Mm.”
“Stop being polite.”
A laugh rolled out of him, and he picked up his pace. His hands tightened on my hips. He reached between us and took my cock in his hand, and within three strokes he had the rhythm of his palm syncing with his hips.
“Come on,” he rasped against my ear. “Come on. I want to watch.”
Everything that had been holding me together let go at once. The orgasm crashed through me in waves, and he stayed with it, mouth at my throat, hand still working. He came a few strokes after I did, forehead pressed hard against my shoulder.
When the vibrations wracking his body calmed, he flicked his tongue against my chest, tasting my cum, unselfconscious about it. Finally, he rose, leaning his weight against the couch so he could look down at me. His chest heaved, and his eyes shone.
I swallowed. My heart was still racing.
“Well,” he offered a slow, lazy smile, “that was worth the rain.”
I let him brush a thumb along my swollen lower lip. “You did well yourself.”
“I know.”
He padded across the floor in nothing but skin, picked up his henley and draped it across the chair by the door.
He opened the duffel he’d brought with him to the bar and pulled out a pair of sweats. Then he came back to the couch barefoot and looked at me with his hands on his hips, as if he were deciding what to do with me next.
I tugged my t-shirt on and nodded at the bedroom door. I stood, and he followed me there.
I lay back on the bed. Farrow settled in beside me, shoulder to mine, our legs weaving together under the blanket. His hand rested against my hip, fingers splayed.
The rain softened to a whisper. A siren rose somewhere south, swelled, and then faded. Down the hall, a neighbor’s TV bled through the wall, the muted rhythm of a Bruins game, with occasional faint roars from the crowd.
He rested his cheek on my chest and closed his eyes. “This works,” he said.
“It’s more than I expected.”
He laughed. “Babe, I exceed expectations every time. It’s a known trait.”
I pulled him tighter.
“Dane,” he whispered, voice thick, almost succumbing to sleep.
I hummed.
“Try not to overthink it. I can hear your brain working from here.”
“I’ll try.”
He sighed, a soft exhale of contentment. His jaw relaxed and his breathing evened.
I closed my eyes. For once, I didn’t run the room—didn’t trace the door, the window, and the angle from the bed to them—I exhaled into his touch and his warmth.
Sleep approached, collapsing the night around us.
Lying there in the dark, with my eyes closed, I thought about the bathroom. He’d found everything there instantly. He didn’t need to open a second drawer.
We’d matched three hours ago.
I’d moved into this apartment three weeks ago.