The morning light has shifted. It’s warmer now, stretched longer across the wall, tracing soft gold against the bedding we’ve ruined. I can feel the dried edge of a stain against my thigh. Bryn’s cum. My body’s response to him still echoing in the ache of my muscles, the dull throb of being opened. But it’s a good ache. A good throb. The kind that lets you know you were wanted.
He’s dozing on his side, his breath soft against my neck, one arm flung over my stomach like it belongs there. Maybe it does.. for now.
I don’t want to wake him. I don’t want to talk. I just want to lie still and let this moment stretch for as long as it can. There’s nothing about this that feels performative. No apologies. No declarations. Just quiet. Just heat.
His thumb brushes over my ribs in his sleep and I realize we’re both awake, pretending not to be.
Eventually, I kiss his hair. He shifts closer. Our noses brush, eyes barely open.
“You okay?” I whisper.
His mouth finds mine. Not an answer. Not a question. Just a kiss. And it says enough.
We’re not ready for words. Not the big ones. Not yet.
I let my palm rest against the small of his back. He presses into it. More silence.
Then my eyes drift again to the bedspread. The smear of cum on it. The way the sheets cling to our skin.
“I should wash the bedding,” I murmur.
Bryn hums without opening his eyes. “Why? Embarrassed by the evidence?”
“No. Just practical. Don’t want Marianne coming home to… all this.”
That wakes him fully. He blinks, then props himself on one elbow. “She’s not coming here.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“This isn’t the home we share,” he explains, his voice carrying something I can’t quite name - not guilt, not relief. Maybe both.
“This apartment is where I work. I use it during the week. To try and keep the line between personal and professional cleaner. Kind of.”
“And this bedroom?”
His eyes flick to mine, something slightly defiant curling in his voice.
“This bedroom doesn’t see much action,” he says. “Not the sleeping kind.. or the fucking kind.”
He grins, boyish and unrepentant. “Until just now, anyway.”
That earns him a quiet laugh from me.
“There’s a second room,” he continues. “Set up as a nursery away from a nursery. It’s where my daughter takes her naps when I’ve got her with me during the day.”
I nod, taking in the quiet, masculine elegance of the space. It fits him. Not showy. But thoughtful. Layered.
“You’re balancing two worlds,” I say, not with judgment - just recognition.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Doesn’t everyone?”
There’s no bitterness in it. Just a tired kind of knowing.
Besides, he sighs, “Marianne rarely comes here,” voice softer now. “This apartment’s more mine than hers. Partly because she respects that I need space to work. Mostly because she hates this place.”
He gives a crooked smile. “Says it feels like it belongs to someone else. Which is fair. I’ve built it around my.. your, painting...”
My breath catches faintly, but I say nothing.
“She doesn’t like it. The painting, I mean. Never has. She says it watches her.”
And also, “Marianne took the baby to visit her mom out of town. That’s why I was alone at the gym last night. Why I didn’t have my daughter with me at the coffee shop this morning. And also - Marianne would never have allowed me to leave the house in that scandalous outfit. I should have known when the neighbour’s teenage son gawked at me with lust in his eyes.”
I chuckle again, trying not to look like I’ve been holding my breath.
He notices anyway.
“Bruno,” he says gently. “This isn’t a trap.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I roll onto my side to face him. Our legs tangle. His hand finds my waist again. We’re still naked. Still warm.
“No one’s ever given me their time like this,” I say. “Without asking for anything more than my body.”
He hesitates. Then says, softer, “Maybe I am asking. Just not all at once.”
We fall quiet again. Let the breath return between us. Let the quiet say what we can’t yet.
I run a hand down his back, slow and unhurried. He closes his eyes.
We’re not rushing toward answers. Not forcing the future. Not unpacking the weight of our pasts. Not yet.
There’s just this: bodies wrapped in sunlit sheets. Sex dried between our thighs. A morning without shame. Without masks. And I know this matters to both of us.
The sheets are still warm when we finally shift. Bryn stretches like a cat, arms reaching overhead, his back arching, skin golden in the filtered morning light. I watch the lines of his body move with the slow confidence of someone unhurried for once. No baby monitor. No timeline.
Just this morning. Just me. And him. Being.
He slips out of bed without ceremony, rakes his fingers through his curls, and pulls on the same sheer pants he wore to the coffee shop earlier. Still no underwear. The fabric clings and sways with him as he walks - more suggestion than coverage. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m watching. He doesn’t need to.
I find my shirt from earlier lying discarded on the floor and tug it over my head. It’s oversized enough to cover most of me, but only just so. My cock hangs heavy between my thighs, not fully hard but aware of its surroundings. Aware of him. Bryn.
He heads into the kitchen. I follow.
The apartment is quieter here. More polished. Marble counters. Soft-close drawers. Warm wood and brushed steel. But the centrepiece - just like the lounge and Bryn’s workspace set up in what would normally be a sun lounge - is still the painting. “Adam and Steve.” Framed on the far wall of the open-plan space, lit just right. Like it’s the sun everything else orbits.
Bryn moves with ease in the kitchen. Barefoot. Confident. He’s already scooping ground beans into a steel press when I round the corner and lean against the frame of the doorway.
“You take milk?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder.
“Not anymore.”
That earns a smirk. “You’re disgusting.”
“Touché.”
He snorts, turns back to the coffee.
I step in and lean on the counter across from him. He’s focused on his task, but there’s something unguarded about him now. No flinch. No hesitation. Like the tension we both carried is somewhere in the used bedsheets, forgotten for the moment.
This feels… natural.
He finishes the pour and passes me a mug. Our fingers brush. Neither of us pulls away.
We sip in silence. Steam rises between us. I let my eyes travel down his chest, across his abdomen, to the outline beneath those pants - thicker now. Definitely growing.
“You always make coffee like this?” I ask, nodding at his half-naked state.
His lips curl. “Only when I know the view’s watching.”
I take another sip to hide my smile.
He sets his mug down, but he doesn’t step away. Instead, he comes around the counter, close enough that our thighs brush. My breath stills as he slips a hand under my shirt, resting it on my hip.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he murmurs.
“About what?”
“You. Under me. Around me.” His voice dips lower. “The sounds you made.”
My stomach tightens. “You were good,” I manage.
He presses closer. Our cocks are brushing now, swelling with lazy friction through fabric and cotton. My oversized shirt rides up between us. His hands slide to my lower back, pulling me into him.
“I’m still good,” he whispers.
And then we’re kissing. Slow at first. Deep. His tongue tastes of coffee and lust. He grinds into me just once - enough to draw a sharp gasp from both of us - and then again, harder. The counter presses into my back. I lift myself slightly onto my toes, the friction catching perfectly.
His cock thickens against mine. We’re not rushing. We’re rocking. Rubbing. Dry, dirty, desperate.
My hands grip his waist, then his ass. The fabric of his pants is already damp. I shove my shirt higher, exposing myself to the heat between us. Our skin catches. Slips. Finds rhythm.
Bryn’s mouth breaks from mine to drag over my jaw, my throat. “God,” he pants. “I want to fuck you again.”
“Insatiable much?” I gasp, as our cocks slide between us again.
His hands slide lower, tugging at the waistband of his pants and pushing them down just far enough to free himself. I gasp when his bare cock presses against mine - hot, heavy, needy. The shift is seamless. Intimate. Skin to skin now.
Our shafts nudge and settle against one another, slick from the heat still clinging to our skin. His cock lies thick and warm beside mine, the heads bumping, dragging slightly as we shift against each other. His pelvis presses forward until our bodies line up - balls grazing, tight and full, sensitive from everything that’s passed between us. The weight of him, the smoothness, the soft give of flesh against flesh - it’s maddening. His breath catches at the contact. Mine stutters. For a moment, we just stay there. Pressed together. Cocks curved along one another like they know where they belong.
He changes the angle - rolls his hips slower, deeper - then wraps one strong hand around both our cocks, hard by now, pressing them tight together. They slide against each other, thick and slick, pre-cum smearing between them with every stroke. The friction is perfect. Maddening. I can’t think. I can only feel. Every movement drags a sound from me - low, guttural. Needful.
I’m pinned between his body and the counter, every nerve ending lit up, overwhelmed by the press of his skin, the slick drag of our cocks grinding together in his fist. It feels incredible – so intimate, like he’s wringing pleasure from the deepest part of me. I’ve never felt so open. So owned. So alive.
Bryn fists the back of my shirt, pulls me tighter.
He must feel the way my breath catches, the way my body arches into him like it’s chasing the friction. Every thrust of his hips grinds our cocks together - slick, hot, pulsing. My legs are trembling now, thighs clenched, toes curling against the floor. It’s building fast - tight in my belly, electric in my spine. I’m gasping, open-mouthed against his neck, and he knows.
He feels it. The way my cock twitches against his, how my thighs start to tremble, how I gasp like I’m already halfway undone. His hand squeezes tighter, dragging our shafts together - thick and swollen, flushed dark, smeared with a sheen of pre-cum that’s turned sticky and slick. Every pulse sends a fresh bead leaking from the tip, adding to the mess between us.
Bryn glances down and breathes out hard. “Fuck, look at us.”
He leans in, opens his mouth - and lets a thick string of spit fall slowly from his tongue. It lands right where our cocks meet with a slick, wet sound, mixing with the mess we’ve already made. He catches it with his hand, spreads it over both our shafts with a slow, twisting stroke, the kind that makes me shudder so hard I nearly lose it.
The pressure. The heat. The raw friction of it. His grip is tight enough to make my toes curl, slow enough to keep me right on the edge.
“Cum for me,” he whispers. “Right here.
I bury my face in his shoulder, trying to hold off, but it’s too good. Too much.
I groan - long, helpless - and then I’m cumming hard between us, the heat of it spilling out in thick, urgent spurts. It floods Bryn’s hand, slicking his knuckles, running hot over his fingers and dripping from his grip. He holds on, tight, stroking us both through the pulses. My hips jerk with each contraction, thighs trembling, as my cum coats everything - our bellies, our cocks, the skin between.
The thin cotton of my shirt doesn’t stand a chance. It clings to me in sticky patches, wet and translucent now. Bryn’s hand is still moving when he gasps - once, sharp - and then he bucks forward with a choked groan. His cock jerks hard against mine and then spills, thick and forceful, his release shooting up to catch just beneath my ribs before splattering down our joined bodies. His cum smears across the mess I’ve already made, white-on-white, hot and slick and more than we expected.
It runs down his fist, over his wrist, pooling in the crease of my belly. He draws his hand back to look at it - glistening, gluttonous - then brings two fingers to his mouth and licks. Slowly. Deliberately. His eyes don’t leave mine as he tastes us.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, voice rough with awe.
I watch, dazed, as he leans in and kisses me - deep, hungry, full of heat. I can taste us on his tongue. Salty. Sweet. Raw. It’s intoxicating. I groan into his mouth, pulling him closer, grinding our still-slick cocks together. Cum smears between us again, coating his thigh, my belly, the hem of my shirt, even the inside of my wrist where I’d held onto him.
We don’t stop kissing. If anything, it gets needier - our mouths open, tongues tangling, moaning into each other like the taste alone is enough to make us hard again. His fingers trail back down my stomach, scooping more of the mess and smearing it lower, then across my hip. My skin’s sticky with it, warm and wet and completely claimed.
And just behind us, another drop hits the floor with a soft splatter.
We are soaked in each other. Marked everywhere.
And neither one of us wants to be clean.
We stay there, locked in the moment. Sweating. Breathing hard. Our foreheads pressed together. My hand still cradling his ass.
He finally laughs, soft and breathless. “Fuck.”
“That… wasn’t what I meant when I said you could mark me.”
“Pretty sure you marked me, too.”
Just beyond us, a thick drop of cum clings to the edge of the counter, sliding down like it’s trying to join the wreckage below.
For a second, I genuinely can’t tell whose cum is where - mine, his, tangled together across fabric and skin, the counter, the floor. It’s a blur of heat and stickiness and need.
“Shit,” I say.
“Worth it, “ Bryn pants.
We both laugh this time. Quiet. Unashamed.
Still tangled. Still hungry.
And not ready to let go.
Bryn pulls back first, grinning, eyes still wild with afterglow. His fingers trail down my chest, then lift slightly, as if admiring the way we’ve slicked each other up. He doesn’t reach for a towel. Doesn’t even pretend to clean up. Instead, he steps out of his pants completely, kicking them aside with casual satisfaction.
“That cumshot deserves a toast,” he announces, striding to the fridge.
I blink after him, stunned and half-hard, still wearing the shirt he’s just decorated. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t flinch. Just grabs a bottle of champagne from the bottom shelf of the fridge - as casual as if it’s orange juice - and pops the cork one-handed. It hisses and foams over his fingers, dripping down his wrist. He licks it off with the same ease he licked cum off his knuckles not five minutes ago.
Two flutes from a floating shelf. No tray. No hesitation. He turns, still gloriously naked, and gestures for me to follow.
“Come on,” he says, already stepping through the glass doors. “It’s a beautiful day to drink naked on a sex-soaked patio.”
I laugh, genuinely, and follow. My shirt clings to me - wet, sticky, transparent in places - but I don’t care. Somehow, out here in his sunlight, I feel untouchable. Seen, but safe. No one can look down on us from a taller floor. This is the top. Literally for the apartment, figuratively for both of us. The view stretches out over the city, bright rooftops and treetops dipping into golden distance. No one can see us. Just sky. Just sun.
The patio is more beautiful than I expected. Wooden deck. A small table. Low loungers with sand-coloured cushions. A single umbrella half-tilted, casting soft stripes of shadow across the space. Potted herbs. A lemon tree. Everything slightly weathered, but cared for. Lived in. Loved.
Bryn settles into one of the loungers and tilts the umbrella with a casual flick of the wrist. His body glows - legs sprawled, cock still soft but heavy, thighs wide apart like the space is his and always has been.
He pats the seat beside him. “Cheers, Mitchell.”
I sit. The chair is warm from the sun. My shirt clings wet to my lower belly, and I catch the scent of sweat and sex lifting from the cotton. Bryn hands me a glass.
“To what?” I ask.
He raises his flute with mock solemnity. “To unapologetic morning orgasms.”
We clink. The champagne is cold, tart, dry enough to slice through the heat in my throat. I close my eyes and let the sun touch my skin, the glass cool in my hand, the afterglow stretching its limbs across my chest.
For a while, we don’t talk. Just sip. Just breathe. The city sounds faint and far below - horns, gulls, a motorbike downshifting two streets away. None of it touches us here.
“This place used to be my grandfather’s,” Bryn says suddenly. “I inherited it after he died. He was a writer. Old-school pulp guy. Smoking jackets and whiskey. Wrote under at least four pseudonyms.”
I glance at him. “Any I’d know?”
He smirks. “Not unless you collect vintage erotica.”
“Actually…”
He laughs. “Of course you do.”
He leans back, resting the flute against his cock, unintentionally, watching the sunlight dance across the bubbles.
“He used to write the same woman into every story,” he says. “Tall, blonde, always wearing heels. No matter where the scene was set - ballroom, yacht, cab of a truck - there she was, bent over something and begging for it.”
He gestures vaguely at the railing. “One of his scenes even takes place right out here. I recognized the description. Same lemon tree. Same wobbly deck tile.”
He nudges it with his toe. “See?”
I do. I can’t stop smiling.
“He called her Sylvia. Said she was a composite of every woman he’d ever loved. Or wanted to.”
“Did your grandmother know?”
“She was Sylvia.”
We both laugh.
He finishes his glass, stands with lazy grace, and heads back inside. I watch his ass as he goes, my own breath catching slightly at the way he still moves like he’s mid-fuck - loose and confident, like the world’s made of velvet. He returns a minute later with a fresh bottle of champagne and a small plate of snacks - cheese, figs, a few crackers, and two dark chocolate truffles.
“I wasn’t sure what would go with post-coital champagne,” he says. “So I went with everything I like.”
Bryn clinks his glass to mine. “To our mess.”
“To our mess,” I echo, and we drink again.
He hands me another glass and settles beside me again, this time closer. Our legs brush. The plate rests between us. The chocolate starts to sweat in the heat.
Bryn sinks back into the chair, his skin flushed now not just from the sun but from the champagne as well. His curls are starting to fall loose, cheeks pink, grin easier than it was an hour ago. There’s a slight drag to his words. Not sloppy - just warm. Languid.
He lifts his glass again, eyes dancing.
“To moments we don’t regret - yet,” he says, more to the sky than to me.
Then he glances at me, winks, and throws the rest back with a flourish. “Now it’s your turn to pour, mister artist.”
We nibble. Sip. Talk about nothing. About the absurdity of how loud babies fart. About the seagull that once stole Bryn’s wallet from the balcony. About how he never figured out who bought his grandfather’s erotic manuscripts after the estate sale - but how he hopes they went to someone who appreciated them.
“This is nice,” I say softly.
He glances at me. His expression shifts - open, soft, but something deeper swims just behind his eyes.
“It is,” he says. Then, almost absentmindedly, “It reminds me of a time when things were still good between Kane and me. Before things… shifted.”
The name drops like a bead of cold sweat down my spine. I watch the words hit him a second too late.
His smile falters. Just slightly. Then he lifts the bottle and refills our glasses with exaggerated flair.
“But enough about the ghost of monogamy past,” he says, turning to me with a wicked grin. “I believe I’m ready for a second round of fucking.”
He leans in and kisses me - mouth sweet from figs and champagne, tongue lazy, teasing.
“This time,” he whispers, “I want to see how loud I can make you get out here.”
The wind rustles the umbrella. The lemon tree sways just slightly. Below us, the city buzzes on, but we’re miles above it now.
I see it now – subtle, but there. A softness in Bryn’s eyes. His grin still glows with champagne mischief, but the edge is blurred. Not drunk, no - but not quite sober either. The kind of warm looseness that turns gravity tender and makes people speak just a fraction too freely.
I lift my glass one last time, sip, then set it down.
The breeze shifts. A shadow moves across Bryn’s thigh where the sun had been, and he squints upward with a soft wince. “We should probably move inside before we both get sunburned and end up explaining very awkward tanned cocks in the gym showers.”
He’s grinning again, but his voice is lower now. The edge of teasing is still there, but softened - blurred by the kind of calm that comes after real exertion. After release. After knowing something’s shifted and pretending it hasn’t.
He stands first, cock swinging freely, and reaches for the bottle. “Bring the glasses,” he says, already stepping through the sliding doors.
I follow without a word. The shirt I’m still wearing is cold now - stiff with dried cum across the front, crusted in places where it clings to my stomach. It’s starting to itch. Starting to feel foul. I tug it off with a grimace and let it drop onto the tiles just outside the doorway. Honestly, I should’ve stripped it off hours ago. It lands with a sound more indecent than clothing has any right to make.
Bryn laughs quietly without turning around. “About time.”
He heads into the kitchen, and I follow, slower, barefoot. As naked as Bryn now. It’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels more honest. Like we’ve stopped pretending clothes ever did anything for either of us.
He sets the two flutes in the sink, neatly bins the empty bottle in the recycling. Then, without breaking the rhythm, he starts prepping coffee again. Measuring beans. Heating water. His body moves differently now. Still fluid, still beautiful, but looser. Not aroused. Not posturing. Just present.
I lean against the island, watching him. He doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t try to shape it.
When the pour-over’s done, he hands me a mug. Our fingers brush again. Still that charge - softer now, but unmistakable.
We carry our cups to the living room, the one anchored by the painting. "Adam and Steve" glows like it's watching us from the wall, but it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Just a witness.
We settle on the wide, low couch, still naked, still unhurried. Bryn sprawls back first, taking up space like it’s his birthright, then swings his legs over mine, draping them across my lap without asking. His skin is warm against mine. His cock, flaccid now but still thick, rests heavily against his thigh - obscenely present in the soft space between us. I shift slightly, careful not to jostle him, but he doesn’t move. Just lifts his mug, sips, and exhales like we’ve done this a hundred times. The coffee’s hot. Welcome. Grounding.
“So,” he says at last, “now what?”
I don’t answer right away. Because I don’t know. Because that’s not the question I want to answer.
He shifts slightly to face me. “You’re quiet.”
I sip again, then meet his gaze. “I’m trying to stay in the moment.”
“And?”
“And also not get lost in it.”
He tilts his head. “Is that your way of saying you’re trying not to fall for me?”
“No,” I say. “It’s my way of saying I might already be in trouble.”
That makes him smile - not wide, not smug. Just soft. Grateful. “Me too.”
But something coils in my chest at that. Not fear. Not shame. Just reality. The sobering, adult kind.
I look at the painting again. At the halo of light around the figures. The curve of their bodies. The tension in their hands. It’s the only piece I ever let go of with regret. And now here it is, staring back at me in the home of a man I never should have touched.
I glance at Bryn again. His eyes are shining a little more than before. The champagne? The morning? Or something harder to name?
He sets his mug down and leans back, stretching his arms along the couch. “I like this,” he says. “Us. Like this.”
“I do too.”
But I feel it rising anyway. That sense of tipping. Of wanting too much. Of getting in deeper than either of us planned.
I glance at the clock on the microwave.
Still early.
Still escapable.
Still enough time to call this what it was - beautiful, intense, and temporary.
I stand slowly, not reaching for my clothes yet. Just letting my body remember the weight of its own decisions.
Bryn looks up at me.
And I already know what I’m going to say.
“I should go.”
It’s not what he expects. His brows twitch upward, not frowning - just surprised.
“Why?” he asks, simple as that.
I reach for my shirt – not really anything particular, trying not to make it feel like a statement.
“Because I think you need space. Because we’ve crossed more than one line today. And because I don’t want you waking up tomorrow and wondering if any of this was a mistake.”
“Bruno.” His voice tightens just slightly. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
He lets out a sound - somewhere between a breath and a baffled laugh - and pushes to his feet. Still naked. Still beautiful. Still flushed from sun and champagne and sex.
“Fine,” he says. “Then let me walk you out.”
It’s not angry. But there’s something steely in it. I nod, stepping toward the hallway. The space between us pulls taut like a wire.
I glance down and realize - too late - that I can’t leave like this. My shirt is still balled up on the floor just outside the kitchen, soaked through with sweat and dried cum. No way I’m putting that back on. But I also can’t walk out of here bare-chested, not in broad daylight. Not into the world beyond this apartment where things are still supposed to make sense.
I hesitate. Then look at Bryn, a little sheepish. “Would it be weird if I borrowed something to wear?”
He blinks. Then smiles - not unkindly. “Only if you give it back.”
I follow him to the bedroom. The air shifts as we step inside. The bed’s still unmade, sheets wrinkled with evidence of us. The room smells like skin, sex, coffee, and now faintly like sunlight-warmed citrus from the open window.
Bryn crosses to the tall wardrobe and opens it without ceremony. “T-shirts, button-downs… there’s a hoodie if you want to hide completely.”
I step in behind him, close enough that our arms brush. The movement is casual. The charge is not.
He reaches for a hanger, then pauses. I glance over - and catch the outline swelling beneath his skin again. His cock, thickening slowly. Rising like it’s just remembered something unfinished.
He doesn’t comment. Neither do I.
But the moment thickens anyway.
He doesn’t take the shirt. Instead, he turns.
Slowly. Facing me.
His eyes find mine and hold there, steady and searching.
He doesn’t smile this time. Doesn’t joke. Just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out whether I’ll stay if he doesn’t say anything at all.
His cock is fully hard now, rising heavy between us, no longer pretending it’s just a side effect of affection or sun or wine.
“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’re just going to leave?”
“I think it’s the right thing,” I say, turning. “For tonight.”
He still looks at me. His body close. His breath a little faster now.
Then he rests his hand flat against my chest, just beneath my collarbone, fingers spread like he’s anchoring himself there. Not pushing. Just touching. Steady. The heel of his palm settles over my sternum, and for a long, suspended moment, he doesn’t move.
I don’t either.
He can feel it - I know he can. The thud of my heartbeat, fast and bare beneath his hand. He presses just slightly, not to hold me down, but like he’s trying to feel it deeper. Like he needs me to know it’s real. That I’m real. His thumb strokes up, almost absently, grazing the edge of my clavicle. His gaze flicks to my chest, watching the way my skin pulses beneath his touch.
“Please don’t leave me alone."
"Not tonight.”
The words knock the air from my chest.
I see it - all of it - in that moment. Not just desire. Not just heat. But loneliness. Need. The sheer effort of holding his life together in parallel halves. The ache of splitting himself between responsibility and want, identity and obligation.
He’s not asking me to fix it. He’s asking me to see it. To stay anyway.
And I told myself I wouldn’t do this again. That I wouldn’t let someone halfway in.
Against better judgement - I close the space between us, eyes never leaving his. My hands land on his hips.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His mouth opens, just slightly - relief, or gratitude, or some mix of both - and then he surges forward.
The kiss is different this time. Less playful. More desperate. His hands come to my face, cupping it like something precious. Like I might vanish if he doesn’t hold me steady. I kiss him back with the same heat, the same need, our mouths tangling, our bodies drawing together like magnets.
He presses me into the wall, thigh sliding between mine, cock already dripping again against my hip. I moan, the sound swallowed into his mouth.
But this isn’t fast. Not frenzied. His hands trace me slowly. Up my chest. Down the back of my thighs. His lips move to my jaw, my throat, his breath warm.
“Bruno…” he murmurs. “Let me…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just drops to his knees.
My breath catches. My cock’s hard. I don’t even remember getting this aroused again, but here we are.
He looks up at me, eyes wide, hands sliding over my hips.
And then my heart is pounding louder than before. Dick aching.
He kisses my hip, my belly, then sinks lower, dragging his lips across my skin with maddening patience. His hands cradle my thighs, spreading them wider, thumbs brushing sensitive muscle. And then - his breath on me, warm and close. I barely manage to inhale before his mouth finds my cock.
Hot. Wet. Certain.
I groan - low, guttural - as his lips seal around the head and draw me in. Not all at once. Not yet. He takes his time, swirling his tongue, working me deeper with every slow bob of his head. His eyes flick up once, and the sight nearly undoes me: flushed cheeks, pupils wide, devotion painted across his face like hunger.
His hand wraps around the base, stroking in tandem with the motion of his mouth. It’s not about teasing. It’s about tasting. About making me feel every inch of what he’s doing. The bedroom narrows. Time folds. All I know is him - his tongue, his rhythm, the soft slick sounds echoing off the walls. I reach down, threading fingers through his curls, not to guide him, but to ground myself.
He moans around me - vibration and suction blurring into bliss - and I nearly lose it right then. But he slows, pulls back, licking the underside of my cock like he’s savouring something sacred.
Then he stands slowly, his own cock brushing mine as he rises. We kiss again. Harder now. More possessive.
I spin him. Press his chest against the opposite wall. “You’re not the only one who gets to lead,” I murmur.
He groans low. Then grabs my waist. Spins right back.
“You can dominate me next time,” he whispers. “Right now… I need to be inside you.”
I search his face. It’s all there. The ache. The honesty. The tears he hasn’t cried yet but might. The sheer emotional gravity of him asking - not demanding, not assuming - but asking.
“Yes,” I breathe.
His hands steady me. His lips find mine again, then trail down my neck, over my chest. My back hits the opposite wall. He lifts one of my legs over his hip. I balance with my arms around his neck, anchored in him.
He kisses me as he slides his fingers between my cheeks, finds my hole, works me open gently. My head drops back against the wall. His forehead rests against my chest as he strokes me - tender, reverent, patient.
When I’m ready, I nod once.
“He presses against me, thick and hot, lifting me fully off the floor. I wrap both legs around him as he sinks into me, his arms locking under my thighs.”
The moment he pushes in, I gasp.
Not from pain. From the fullness. From the raw emotional charge of letting him in this deep - physically and otherwise.
He stays like that - deep, still, almost reverent. His eyes never leave mine. Then, with a quiet breath, he begins to move.
Slow. Deep. Beautiful.
My back arches against the wall, head falling forward to rest on his shoulder. He fucks me like it’s more than sex. Like it’s truth. Like it’s forgiveness. Like it’s him trying to stitch himself together inside of me.
I groan his name. He kisses me. Keeps moving. Every thrust angled, controlled, pulsing.
The bedroom echoes with skin on skin, with our breathing, with the quiet little whimpers I didn’t know I could make.
It builds fast. Maybe because it’s not just my body involved. Maybe because my heart’s already half in his hands.
I tighten around him. His rhythm stutters.
“Bruno,” he gasps. “I can’t - ”
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please.”
He drives into me harder now, and I’m the one who loses it first - legs clenching, spine arching, cock spurting untouched between our bodies, cum splattering across his belly and mine.
“Fuck - ” he moans, shoving deep once more and cumming with a broken cry. I feel him pulse inside me. Feel his arms tremble as he holds me up.
We sink to the floor. Still wrapped around each other. Still trembling.
My back slides down the wall. He cradles me in his lap, still inside me, still buried, but softening.
His chest rises and falls. I can feel his heart hammering against my cheek.
And then I feel it. The shake. Not from exertion. But from something deeper.
I look up.
Bryn’s crying.
Not sobbing. Just tears - quiet and hot - slipping from the corners of his eyes.
I reach up, brush them away with my thumb.
He leans into the touch. Breath shuddering. Mouth opening.
I think we’re done speaking for the day. But then he says -
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” he whispers. “About before. About someone else. I need to.”
His voice catches.
“But I don’t know if I’m ready to tell the full story.”
My stomach clenches.
But I don’t move.
Because I’m not going anywhere. I just hope the story is about Marianne.
But I don’t say it out loud. I just pull him closer.
