Slow And Deep

Slow And Deep
“Soon.”

He added a third. The stretch broadened into something that walked the line between pleasure and ache, and I breathed through it, focusing on the weight of his body beside mine, the steady patience in his hands, the way he murmured little things under his breath that I couldn’t quite catch.

Then his fingers withdrew. The emptiness was a shock.

I opened my eyes. He was settling between my legs, slicking himself with a fresh squeeze of lubricant, his jaw tight with restraint. His cock was flushed and heavy in his hand, and the sight of it sent a fresh pulse of want through my gut.

“Ready?” he asked.

I nodded.

He smiled. Positioned himself. And pushed in.

Slow.

That was the word for it. The only word. He entered me like a tide coming in—inevitable but unhurried, inch by careful inch, giving my body time to yield around him. I felt every ridge, every vein, the blunt pressure of him filling me so completely that for a moment I forgot how to breathe.

“Breathe,” he reminded me, because he knew.

I sucked in air. Let it out. My legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back, and when he was fully seated—when there was nothing left between us, no space, no distance—he stopped.

He stayed there. Letting me feel it.

“Elias.” My name on his lips was reverent. “Look at me.”

I did. His face was open and raw, dark hair falling into his eyes, cheeks flushed that splotchy red that I loved. He was trembling slightly, the effort of holding still written in every line of his body.

“Move,” I whispered. “Please.”

He moved.

The first thrust was a slow withdrawal—dragging against every nerve ending—followed by an even slower return. He buried himself deep and held there, a low groan escaping his throat. Then again. And again. A rhythm that wasn’t a rhythm so much as a meditation, each stroke deliberate, each pause a small eternity.

My hands found his back. My nails dragged down his spine.

“God, Crane.”

“I know.” His forehead dropped to mine. “I know.”

He was everywhere. Inside me and above me and wrapped around me, his breath hot on my cheek, his hips rocking in that languorous cadence. There was no urgency to it. No race toward an ending. Just the slide of him inside me and the small, desperate sounds I couldn’t stop making—grunts and whimpers and half-formed syllables that might have been his name.

Time softened. The room blurred at the edges. All I knew was the stretch and the fullness and the look on his face, like I was something precious, something he’d been afraid he’d lost.

Then his rhythm shifted.

Still slow, but deeper now. A grind at the end of each stroke that pressed against something inside me that made my vision spark white. My cock, trapped between our stomachs, leaked onto his skin.

He must have felt it. Must have known how close I was. Because his voice dropped into that register that always undid me, low and roughened, and he said, “stroke that cock for me, baby.”

My hand moved without thought. Closed around myself. Squeezed at the base, then slid upward in a motion that matched his pace perfectly—slow when he was slow, gentle when he was gentle. The dual sensations layered over each other: his thickness inside me, my own tight grip, the slick sound of my hand and the wet sound of our bodies joining.

His eyes dropped to watch. His jaw went slack.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Just like that.”

I stroked in time with his thrusts, a synchronized dance, my hips rising to meet him, my heels digging into his back. The pleasure built in layers—not a wave but a stacking, something being constructed inside me brick by brick.

And then Crane broke the pattern.

His hips snapped forward. Faster. Harder. The gentle tide became a storm, and I cried out, my hand faltering.

“Fast,” he rasped. “Elias—stroke that cock faster!”

I obeyed.

My grip tightened. My pace doubled, tripled, matching the frantic rhythm of his hips slamming into me. The bed frame knocked against the wall. The headboard creaked. I didn’t care. Couldn’t care. There was nothing in the world except his body in mine and my hand on myself and the sound of his voice telling me yes yes yes.

“Crane—I’m going to—”

“Me too. Together. Come on—”

The word shattered against my throat.

Everything seized. My body clenched around him and then I was spilling over my own fist, hot and thick and endless. My spine arched off the mattress so hard I heard something pop. And through it all I felt him pulsing inside me, felt the wet heat of his release flooding deep, and heard the broken sob of my name torn from his chest.

We fell together.