Touching All of Him
It wasn’t the food that got to me. Or the wine, even though Jackson had paired it perfectly. It was the way everything felt so easy. Over two months in, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d second-guessed anything between us. When it happened, the silence between us wasn’t awkward anymore. It was warm. Familiar. Full of tiny looks and lazy smiles. I was happy. Very happy.
Dinner seemed simple on the surface, but every detail was Jackson. Roasted chicken thighs with lemon and rosemary, crispy potatoes done to perfection like he was auditioning for a cooking show, and an arugula salad he claimed was only for me. The wine was a Syrah, fruity and deep, exactly what I didn’t know I’d want. He never made a big deal about it, but he had definitely figured out what I like. It showed up in his cooking. In the bottle he chose without asking. In how he didn’t say a word when I got distracted halfway through the meal, staring.
Would I ever get used to being this close to Jackson? He looked ridiculous. Sitting there across from me in a black button-down that clung to his chest in a way that made it hard not to stare. The sleeves looked like they’d been painted over his upper arms, fabric stretched so tight across his biceps it was a wonder the seams held. His sleeves were rolled up just below the elbow, forearms thick with veins, tanned and smooth. His traps pushed against the collar, neck thick, posture loose. It did things to me, the way he always did.
At one point, he saw how my gaze was lingering on him. That earned me a flick of his eyes, a tiny smirk at the corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. He didn’t say anything. Just refilled my glass and went back to eating. But the moment stuck. I’d been thinking about peeling that shirt off him ever since.
By the time we cleared the table, I couldn’t sit still. My skin was buzzing. Not just from the wine, but from his presence. The way he made my kitchen feel smaller. The way just being near him made me want more. At one point, he leaned past me to grab something. His chest grazed the side of my face. I moaned softly. I didn’t bother hiding it. What was the point?
When he finally sat down on the couch, I followed. Close. My thigh brushed his. I let my hand rest on his knee, innocent, but not really. He gave me a look, but didn’t say a word as I settled. His body ran hot even at rest. It soaked through the soft stretch fabric of his pants, through the casual calm he always wore like armor.
“I’ve been thinking about your arms all day,” I said, my voice quiet but not shy.
He glanced down, then back at me. Smirked. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm.” I ran my hand up his arm, slow. “Chest, too. That shirt’s been driving me insane since you sat down.”
His smile curved higher. “Good. I picked it for you.”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
He shrugged, all innocent confidence. “I know what keeps your attention.”
I scoffed, lightly, even as I felt my face warm. “So that’s the plan now? Dress like a fantasy and wait for me to fall apart?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes told me everything.
Then, slowly, he shifted, curling his arm just enough to swell the muscle under the fabric. A casual, deliberate flex. A quiet reminder of exactly what I’d been distracted by all through dinner.
I stared, helpless.
He grinned, like he knew I was already too far gone to stop now.
I shifted closer, my hand moving to the buttons of his shirt. “You're impossible,” I said, laughing softly under my breath.
He just watched me, knowing I wouldn’t hold on long.
And he was right. Within seconds, I was slowly working the buttons open, one by one, lips trailing down as each new inch of skin came free. His pecs looked even bigger up close, rising and falling in slow rhythm. I kissed along the centerline, then pushed the shirt off his shoulders.
It caught on his biceps — too much muscle, not enough give. I tugged a little, trying to work the fabric over the peak of his arm. He didn’t help at first. Just watched me, a quiet smirk in his eyes. Then, with deliberate ease, he flexed. The muscle swelled under my hands, making it harder.
“Seriously?” I muttered against his collarbone.
He laughed, low and soft, but didn’t make it any easier. I had to wrestle it off him, feeling how solid he was the whole time. He knew exactly what it did to me.
I shifted lower, hands drifting to his belt. He watched as I undid the buckle and pulled the zipper down. I didn’t strip him completely. Not yet. Just enough to reveal the V of his hips, that sharp line of muscle vanishing into the waistband like it was pointing me where to go.
Then he leaned back, slow and easy, and stretched out across the sofa. Head turned toward me. Legs long, relaxed. Like he knew what was coming and was happy to let me take my time.
“I want to give you a massage,” I murmured, eyes still on his body.
His voice came back low and amused. “Feels like you want more than that.”
~~~~~~
Jackson lay there, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting near his hip, fingers twitching slightly as I hovered over him. His shirt was off. His pants open. The waistband sat low across his hips. His chest rose and fell in long, slow movements.
He was beautiful in a way that didn’t seem possible. Like a sculpture someone had forgotten to lock away. All clean lines and impossible mass, carved with too much detail. Too perfect. Too masculine to make sense. And somehow, all of it was real. Waiting for my hands.
I straddled his left thigh. The size of him, the strength built into every inch, he felt like solid ground. My hands settled on his arms. I started at the wrists, where the veins branched like rivers under smooth, tight skin.
I traced up his forearms with both hands, thumbs gliding over thick cords of muscle. Then up to his herculean biceps, and the stunning horseshoe shape of his tricep. I gave one a light squeeze, and felt it respond under my palm. He flexed, just a little. Not showing off. Just feeling it. My breath caught. His arms weren’t just strong. They were obscene. The kind anatomy textbooks used as models. And he was mine.
My hands slid over his chest, and the first thing I noticed was the heat. His skin was warm, almost not, like he carried a low burn under the surface. Every inch of him was solid. No give, no softness—just mass and definition. His pecs were full and high, the kind of thickness that resisted my touch. My palms moved across the striated curve, and I could feel the separation where his chest met his delts, that deep groove like it had been carved there on purpose.
I traced it without meaning to, fingers slipping into that cut before gliding over to his shoulder. He didn’t flex, but the shape was still pronounced—rounded, dense, like something that shouldn’t belong on a human body. The muscle pushed back against my hand, thick and vascular, skin tight over everything. There were places I could press and feel nothing but hardness. Places where his veins stood up like they wanted to be traced.
It was overwhelming in a quiet way. All that work, all that muscle, and he liked seeing how much it got to me.
I brushed my thumbs across his nipples, felt the smallest shift in his breath. A flicker of awareness. He liked me taking my time. Liked knowing how much I was into it.
I leaned in and kissed the center of his chest, then again, lower, letting my lips press into the heat of his skin. He smelled like soap and something distinctly him, clean and a little sharp, like crushed pine needles and warm air. My tongue darted out before I could stop it. He tasted like salt and skin and something I’d never get tired of.
Then down again, to his stomach. His abs were carved, tight and symmetrical, each row broken only by the sweep of his obliques cutting hard into his waist. I ran my fingers along every line, tracing the rise and dip of each ridge. He flexed under me, not fully, just enough to remind me what was there. What he could do.
I wasn’t in control of my breathing anymore. My hands had long ago memorized this body, but touching him still hit me like the first time. The precision. The density. The sheer discipline it must have taken to look like this and keep looking like this. I didn’t just want to feel him. I wanted to lose myself in him.
I slid off Jackson, standing for a moment. My hands moved down the sides of his open pants. He lifted his hips, eyes still on me as I peeled them off, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric catch on the mass of his thighs before tugging them past his knees and off completely. His briefs stayed on, stretched tight across him, leaving nothing to the imagination. He shifted slightly, planting one foot on the floor, spreading his legs just enough to make space for me between them. Like he knew what I needed and saw no reason to get in the way. I settled on the sofa, between his impressive limbs.
I ran my hands down the tops of his thighs, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
His quads were enormous. Not just thick—they were sculpted, swollen with size and years of work. My fingers skimmed over the outer sweep first, tracing the arc where it bulged out and tapered toward his knee. His skin was smooth and warm, pulled tight across the deep striations that shifted beneath it.
I pressed in. The muscle didn’t give. It pushed back. He was so firm, thick all the way through, like nothing underneath could be moved without force. I found the edge of the teardrop, followed it upward, then let both hands drift higher, sliding into the groove where his legs framed the base of his cock. He radiated heat. Every inch of him felt full, flushed, like his body had been waiting for this worship.
I kept tracing him, slow and steady, until I felt his gaze on me. I looked up.
He was watching me, mouth curled into something just shy of a grin.
“You really are a leg guy, huh.”
The way he said it, a little smug, made my face flush. But I didn’t stop. If anything, I pressed harder.
His calves were thick, curved high and tight like they’d been poured into shape. Every inch of him looked intentional. Built for power. I pressed my mouth to the inside of his thigh, just above the knee, and kissed him there. His skin was hot, the muscle steady under my lips. He watched me, eyes half-lidded, calm and unreadable. He wasn’t doing anything, just lying there, revelling in my worship of him. He knew exactly what it was doing to me. And he loved watching me wanting more.
He was already hard. The shape of him strained against the front of his briefs, the fabric pulled tight, damp at the tip. I ran my hand over it once, slow and deliberate, and watched his stomach tense. I felt it in my chest. In my cock. In the quiet pride that came from knowing I was the one doing this to him.
I curled my fingers into the waistband of his briefs and looked up.
“Fuck… I need…” I swallowed, barely able to look at him. “I need you in my mouth.” Like saying it would make the ache easier. It didn’t.
He met my eyes, grinning, confident as ever, and gave a slight nod.
I eased the fabric down, careful not to rush it. He lifted his hips again, smooth and silent, letting me peel them off. His cock sprang free. He was thick, flushed, already glistening at the tip. I sat back for a second, just to look.
He was hard in a way that made my chest ache. Not just from arousal, but from the fact I could do this to him, how right it felt. How easily we fit like this. It was a chemistry we didn’t need to talk about. I could take my time with him because he wanted this too.
I leaned in and kissed the head, lips soft and open. Jackon exhaled through his nose, hand still resting near his side. I licked him once, slow from base to tip, then again, letting my tongue circle the head before I took him into my mouth.
He was hot and heavy on my tongue, the taste sharp and familiar. I wrapped one hand around the base, kept the other steady on his thigh. My pace was slow. Purposeful. I was letting myself get lost in it. Showing him how much I wanted to enjoy every inch of him sliding between my lips.
Jackson let out a soft sound. Not quite a moan. More like approval. His body stayed still, but I could feel the tension building in his legs, the way his hips almost responded before settling again. He didn’t guide me. Didn’t need to. After two months, I knew what worked. Where to focus. How to draw it out.
I let my lips slide lower, taking more of him, then pulled back to tease the tip with my tongue. The salt of his precum registered in the back of my throat, and I welcomed it, letting it linger as I worked him deeper again. He groaned, quiet and controlled, like he knew exactly how much to hold back and how much to give me.
My free hand drifted along his thigh, fingers pressing gently into the muscle as I sucked him slow and steady. I took my time, enjoying how his body was speaking to me—the tightening of his abs, the subtle shift of his hips, the way his breath came heavier with each pass.
I found the pace he liked. Just enough suction. Just enough pressure from my hand at the base to meet the rhythm of my mouth. I hollowed my cheeks, eased my grip, and then did it again. Over and over. I was giving him a slow build.
He let his head fall back, arm still tucked behind it, chest rising in sharper arcs now. The muscles in his neck were tight, jaw clenched like he was trying to hold something back but losing ground. His control was slipping, and I could feel it. In the way his thighs twitched. In the breath he caught and couldn’t quite steady. He was coming apart beneath me, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
And still, he didn’t take over. Didn’t reach for my head. Didn’t rush me. He just let it happen. Let me do this for him. I could feel how close he was, how hard he was trying to appear in control, but his body was already giving him away. That tension. That heat. I drank it in. I wanted every second of it.
I eased lower, taking him deeper, until the tip bumped the back of my throat. I breathed through my nose, pushed past the reflex. My throat tightened around him, gagging softly, but I didn’t pull away. I wanted this. Wanted him to feel it, the way my body was adjusting to let him all the way in. I swallowed once, and that’s when Jackson moaned. Low. Ragged. His hips jerked. Just enough to push in deeper, against the spasm of my throat. He was leaking steadily now, salty and slick, and I felt it spill out over my tongue, down my chin.
I let my mouth slide back, slow, wet, dragging heat along every inch of him before sinking down again. His thighs tensed under my hands. His stomach jumped. His head tipped back harder into the cushion, a curse spilling from his mouth. He was close. I could feel it in the way his body shook, in the way his cock throbbed against my tongue. I sucked him deeper again, hollowing my cheeks, and that was it. He roared. It was rough and involuntary. Then, he came hard, thick pulses hitting the back of my throat. I swallowed, then again, holding him steady as he gave it all to me. His legs stayed braced, his breath wild and uneven, and I didn’t move until the twitching slowed. Until I knew he’d finished.
When he stilled, I pulled back gently, wiping the corners of my mouth with the back of my hand. His cock twitched once in my grip, slick and softening. I kissed the tip before letting him go.
~~~~~~
I stayed there for a while, cheek against his thigh, fingers tracing slow circles into the other. His hand was resting on my head Just there. Present. The taste of Jackson lingered in my mouth. My lips were swollen, my jaw loose, my whole body humming with heat and reverence. I hadn’t just gotten him off. I’d felt it. Every shudder, every pulse, every breath he didn’t quite control. It was still rolling through me, even now.
Eventually I shifted, just enough to slide up beside him. He was still on his back, taking up most of the couch, but he shifted enough to give me space between him and the cushions. I moved alongside, facing him, one leg hooked lightly over his. My head rested near his collarbone, and one hand stayed free, drifting slowly over his chest. I wasn’t looking to start anything, but equally, I could help myself. I followed the shape of him, the swell of his pec, the curve of his shoulder, the line of his collarbone. His skin was warm, still flushed from release.
He grinned, pleased to see how captivated I continued to be by his physique. It was quiet satisfaction, like he enjoyed being seen by me this way.
My fingers traced lightly along his collarbone, the firm shelf just above the thick curve of his pecs. The muscle shifted gently beneath the skin as he breathed. I let my hand linger there, gliding back and forth without purpose. Just taking him in. The size of him. The calm under my touch. All of it so familiar now, and still somehow a little unreal.
The thought had been with me for a while. Quiet at first. Just an idea. A question I wouldn’t let myself finish. But it was louder now. I’d touched every part of him. Worshipped him. Loved him. And still, there was something I hadn’t done. Something I wasn’t even sure I should want.
But I did.
I kept touching him. Letting my hand wander, slow and aimless, like I didn’t want to stop feeling him. I brushed across his chest, let my fingers trail along the curve of his side, down to the dip just above his hip. Everything about him still felt impossibly solid, like he hadn’t softened at all. Not really. My hand looked small against him. It always did. He seemed happy for me to stay there, curled in against all that strength, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, then rested my cheek there for a moment. His hand moved to my shoulder, fingers curling loosely against my skin. I felt the rhythm of his breath, slower now. Centered.
The question came back again.
With Jackson stretched out beside me, breath slow and skin warm under my hand, it didn’t feel as distant. It felt close. Possible. Dangerous. I was already hard. I had been for a while. Not just from wanting him, but from everything he made me feel.
I kissed his chest again. Let my lips linger for a second longer than I meant to. Then I looked up.
He was already watching me. His eyes didn’t give anything away.
I swallowed. Tried to find a way to say it that didn’t sound stupid. Or selfish. Or worse, like I was trying to prove something.
“I don’t know if I should ask this,” I said quietly. “Or if I even have the right to.”
He didn’t blink. Just waited.
I ran my hand down his side, fingers brushing over warm skin, steady muscle. Took a breath.
“We’ve never really talked about… this stuff. Positions, I mean. It just kind of happened. We fell into it.”
He kept watching me. Still nothing in his expression. Not pushing. Not helping. Just letting me work through it.
“And I’m not complaining,” I added quickly. “Not even close. It’s been... amazing. All of it. You’ve given me more than I knew I wanted. I just—”
I faltered. My hand settled against his ribs.
“I’ve topped before,” I said. “Plenty of times. And it’s not that I need to. It’s not about… switching, or changing anything between us.”
Another breath. My chest was tight now. I could feel the heat rising in my face.
“But lately I’ve been thinking about what it would feel like. With you. Not just the physical part. The rest of it. What it would mean. What it would say. If I ever…” I paused, voice dipping into almost nothing, “if I ever topped you.”
The words hung there. Thin. Fragile. Almost embarrassing.
“I know that’s not your thing,” I added, voice a little unsteady. “And it’s okay if you say no. I just needed to say it.”
He didn’t move for a few seconds. Just kept looking at me. Like he was weighing it. Like he wanted to be sure I understood what I was asking. And what it meant if he said yes.
Then he grinned. Warm and real. Like he could see exactly what this meant to me.
“That took balls,” he said, voice low. “You been holding that in?”
I nodded, unsure if I was relieved or more nervous now that it was out in the open.
He shifted slightly, opening his body a little more to me. His hand drifted to the back of my neck, not guiding, just touching.
“I’ve never let anyone do that,” he said.
He was being honest, like I deserved to know. His thumb moved slowly at the base of my neck. Then he looked at me again—calm, focused, completely present.
“But, you’re not anyone. I had a feeling this day might come. I can see you want this, Andy. So, yeah. You get your turn too.”
He shifted slightly, adjusting his position. One leg slid to the side. The space opened up between us like an invitation.
The invitation was clear. It felt earned. Like something he’d decided, not given away. He trusted me to carry this moment the way it deserved to be carried.
My chest tightened. My cock throbbed, hard and aching, the weight of it pulsing between my legs. I hadn’t moved yet. My whole body felt locked in place, stunned by the reality that this was really happening. My hands hovered, unsure of where to land.
I felt breathless. Grateful. Almost dizzy with the pressure of what I was holding in my hands. Not just his body, but everything he was giving me by opening up like this.
I rose to my knees, shifting between his legs. My hands settled on his thighs, warm and solid under my palms. For a moment, I just looked at him. Took in the way he lay there, muscles relaxed, legs open, eyes on me. Focused. Curious.
I leaned in and kissed the soft skin below his navel. Then lower, to the base of his cock. His body twitched slightly beneath me. I let my tongue drag across him one last time before sitting back.
I was already leaking. I reached down and guided myself to him, the head of my cock slick and hot in my hand. I pressed in gently, not to enter, just to touch. I let the tip stroke across his opening, slow and deliberate. Circling. Probing. Letting my body prepare him with what it was already giving. His skin flexed under the contact, his breath catching just enough for me to feel it. It was intimate in a way that felt almost unreal, like we were both standing at the edge of something special.
He let out a breath through his nose. Then shifted slightly, adjusting under my hand. Still watching me.
He looked at me with that same quiet intensity, eyes steady, unreadable. Not distant. Just focused. Like he felt what I did, that we were stepping into something new. Something deeper.
I guided myself forward, one hand on his thigh, the other around my cock, pressing in slowly. His brow furrowed. Like he was adjusting to it, feeling every inch. His fingers curled into the cushion beneath him. His chest rose sharp under my eyes.
Halfway in, I paused. Just for a breath. He met my gaze, then gave a small nod. Like his body had caught up with the moment and made a decision.
I pushed deeper, shuddering as I advanced.
His mouth parted, still silent, but something changed in the lines of his face. The stillness shifted. The air around us thickened.
He felt different around me. Not just in how his body held me, but in the way it changed the space between us. I was inside him. One with him in a way I had never been before.
I exhaled, long and shaky, and eased my hips back just enough to feel the shift. Then forward again, slow. Careful. My hands tightened on his thighs, to anchor myself.
He was so warm. So tight. Every inch of him pulled me in and held me there. He was with me. Present in a way I could feel deep in my chest.
I moved again, adjusted my angle just slightly, and sank in deeper this time. A little more sure. His brow furrowed, then smoothed. His jaw flexed. I couldn’t read him, not completely, but I didn’t need to. The heat under his skin, the tension in his legs, the way his breath caught as I bottomed out again, that told me enough.
He didn’t speak, but he was communicating plenty. It was in his face now, something that hadn’t been there before. Focus. Curiosity. A spark of surprise, maybe. Like he was still adjusting to the feel of me inside him. And maybe even liking it.
I bent forward slightly, one hand sliding up his torso, palm flattening over his chest. His skin was hot. Damp. My thumb brushed his nipple. His stomach twitched.
“Jackson,” I whispered.
His eyes met mine.
I thrust again, slower this time. Smoother. His lips parted. Not a word. Just breath.
He was letting me in. Not just physically. Something more.
I looked down at him, at the body I’d touched a hundred times, the face I thought I knew. But nothing about this felt familiar. Nothing about this felt normal.
His legs were still wrapped around me. His hands gripped the cushions like he didn’t realize he was holding on. His eyes hadn’t left mine.
He could have told me what to do. He could have taken control back at any point. But he didn’t. He was letting me lead. Letting me feel what it was like to have all of him. And it wrecked me.
I rocked into him again, deeper this time, and felt the shift in his body. His thighs tensed. His grip on my side tightened. Something changed in his breath, shorter now, sharper. Not uncontrolled. Just focused. Like he was moving toward something and wanting it to happen.
My own rhythm faltered. From the way he was with me. He wasn’t enduring. He was taking it in, responding to every thrust with something deeper. A lift of his hips. A curl of his fingers. His head tipped back, jaw tight, and I felt his body start to tremble under mine.
Then it hit him.
He came with a low, guttural sound. Just pressure breaking free. His cock pulsed between us, wet heat spilling across his stomach as his body tightened around mine. His legs stayed locked behind my back, holding me there through it. His hands didn’t fall away.
I watched him come, and it sent a shudder through me. I had pushed him over the edge. I had made him come undone. It hit harder than I was ready for.
I didn’t even have to move.
The way he looked at me, chest heaving, skin flushed, eyes lit with something I’d never seen before, was enough to push me over the edge. My hands scrambled for him, for the cushion, for anything. My hips thrust once, then again, and I came hard, buried deep inside him.
I cried out, something half-broken, half grateful. The moment stretched out, thick and silent, except for the sound of our breathing. My body shook as I emptied into him, his legs slipping down around my waist, holding me there. Keeping me close.
~~~~~~
My head was still against his chest, my body draped over his like I’d landed there and forgotten how to move. My skin was damp, my heart still pounding. His was steady beneath me, deep and calm under all that heat. One of his hands rested on my back. The other slid into my hair, slow and loose, like he wasn’t even thinking about it. We breathed together. In, out. In sync.
The room was quiet. Just the hum of distant traffic through the open window and the soft tick of the wall clock across the room. No voices. No movement. No urgency. I didn’t want to shift. Didn’t want to let go of the weight of his body beneath mine. I’d never felt so still. So exactly where I was supposed to be.
He adjusted slightly beneath me, just enough to ease the pressure from one of his arms. Then he nudged my leg into place over his and curled his hand more securely against my back. It wasn’t a squeeze. Just a quiet act of care. A settling. Like he wanted me to stay right where I was.
I let out a soft breath against his chest. “That was...” I didn’t finish the sentence. I couldn’t. It didn’t need a label.
He gave a quiet sound in response, almost a hum. Then I felt his lips press lightly to the top of my head. “Yeah,” he said.
Nothing more. It was enough.
Two months ago, I would’ve panicked after something like this. Overthought it. Rushed to name it, to downplay it, to twist it into something I could control. But now? I didn’t feel exposed. I didn’t feel small. I felt... right. This kind of trust used to terrify me. Now I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
I shifted just enough to slide my hand along his side. The familiar rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his skin, the sheer weight of him under my palm. He was still ridiculous. Still built like someone had sculpted him with intent. But I didn’t feel like I was shrinking next to him anymore. I felt more like myself.
He let out a long, steady breath. His fingers traced a small pattern at the nape of my neck. Absent. Gentle.
Then, quietly, “Come here.”
His hand curled around the back of my neck and drew me in.
I tucked in closer, cheek to his chest, our legs tangled together. His breathing slowed again. I could feel mine matching it. The whole room exhaled.
I didn’t need to ask where this was going. I already knew.
Author’s note: This is the final chapter of Jackson and Andy’s story. Thank you for reading, voting, and sharing your thoughts along the way. It means a lot.
This series was meant to consist of the first three chapters, before Andy came along. But I became attached to Jackson and decided to explore what it would look like if he met someone he could really respect.
I’d love to hear what you think is the sweet spot for stories on this site.
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Single chapter stories? 2 to 5 chapters, 5 to 10, or longer?
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Chapter length -- is 5,000 to 6,000 words too long?
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Do you lose interest after a few chapters?
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Is it really just about the sex scenes?
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Do you like a bit of character development and plot twists?
Your feedback may help shape what comes in the future.
Eric
