Author's Note: Hi, I’m Milo Nox—and this is where I begin.
Only for You is a love story wrapped in longing, memory, and the raw beauty of surrender. I write stories where kink isn’t just an act, but a language—one couples speak in gestures, glances, and groans. Stories where desire is deeply tethered to emotion, where sex isn’t separate from love, but saturated with it.
The street looked like an Instagram photo come to life. Hydrangeas in bloom. Lawns mowed in uniform diagonal patterns. Every porch light glowed a soft yellow, as if the neighborhood had conspired to remain warm, inviting, and utterly unaware.
But Kyle Matthews knew better. He sat in the driver’s seat of his Ford Edge, eyes fixed on the two vehicles parked in his driveway.
Diego’s Camaro was there, of course. Jet black. Waxed to a high shine. The kind of car that never got dirty, no matter how many miles Diego—30, a day trader—clocked between his downtown Chicago office and their suburban home. It was his pride—his only real extravagance. Kyle could see the faint reflection of their garage in the polished curve of its hood.
Next to it sat the other one.
A dusty, sun-bleached Ford F-150. Chrome faded. Tires worn. Bumper dented with age. In the truck bed sat a battered red tool chest, its corners rusting. It wasn’t a truck typically found in their neighborhood.
The sight of it did something to him. A tightening of his chest. A seed of anguish.
His fingers gripped the steering wheel as he tried to quiet the rhythm of his thoughts. But the moment felt sharpened. Intentional. Inevitable.
He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Confrontation had never been his strong suit.
But his husband, Diego Reyes, was his North Star. The love of his life. The man to whom he had pledged everything.
You were his the second he leaned over and asked if you were always this quiet, Kyle thought.
Northwestern. Microeconomics. The lecture hall with bad acoustics. Diego’s cologne sharp against his throat. The way he smiled like he was already memorizing Kyle.
At 6’3” with a broad, muscular build, Diego had a chest and shoulders that filled a room. His thick arms still strained the sleeves of his tailored dress shirts. His jaw was sharp, his skin a warm bronze, and his dark brown eyes were never afraid to meet someone—or something—head-on.
Even ten years later, Kyle still found himself intimidated by his husband’s physique. Though no longer boyish, age had only added more solid mass to the faithful gym-goer.
“Oh, you’re a quiet one, huh,” Diego had joked as he slid into the empty seat beside him.
Kyle hadn’t been quiet. Not really. Just careful. There had been dozens of other open seats, but Diego had claimed the one next to Kyle. Walked up to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And now Kyle was here—on this block, in this car, in this moment—about to walk into something most people wouldn’t understand. Hell, something he didn’t fully understand.
He opened the door slowly, wincing at the courtesy beep from the ignition. The air was warm, thick with June’s late dusk. He stepped out onto the neatly edged curb, smoothing the front of his slate-blue tee, brushing invisible lint from his thighs like it mattered—a nervous habit amplified. The automatic porch light triggered as he approached. Another spotlight. Another truth exposed.
Their house stood perfectly still in the twilight.
A white-brick Colonial with black shutters and a bold cobalt-blue door. The kind of home that made real estate agents sigh and couples salivate. Symmetrical planters flanked the steps. A seasonal wreath—pink peonies this time—hung neatly on the front door, changed every month like clockwork.
Tonight, it felt like camouflage.
Kyle paused at the foot of the steps, eyes flicking across the street.
Mr. Landry was watering his flowers in cargo shorts and sandals, nodding to an invisible beat only he could hear. A boy—maybe sixteen—sped past on a mountain bike, head down, earbuds in. A golden retriever barked faintly three houses down.
Does anyone see this? The truck? The extra vehicle in their perfect domestic tableau? Could they feel it, the way I can—buzzing just beneath the ordinary?
He didn’t think anyone knew. But maybe some part of him wanted them to. Just a little. He climbed the steps.
You don’t have to go in yet.
He opened the door. Stepped inside. Closed it behind him with a whisper.
Silence.
The foyer greeted him with cool, lemon-scented air. Everything was exactly as it had been that morning. Keys on the tray. Shoes in the rack. The soft tick of the hallway clock marking time.
The normalcy almost seemed ridiculous.
To his right hung the entry mirror—oval-shaped with a matte black frame. Diego had picked it because it “balanced the sight lines.” Kyle had rolled his eyes and bought it anyway.
Now, it caught him in full.
He looked at himself as if he were a visitor in someone else’s home.
At 30 years old, his frame was slight and toned from years of laps and Pilates. Not delicate—just tight. Conventionally attractive, though slighter. A twink gone twunk.
His shirt clung at the chest from sweat. His lips were parted, breath shallow. He tilted his head slightly, studying the softness of his features, the flush in his cheeks, the light tremble in his jaw.
Then—there it was. A thump upstairs. Then steady. A creak. A hitch. A low, guttural sound that shivered through the floorboards.
Kyle inhaled. Held it. Let it go slowly.
He moved forward, feet padding softly across the tile before finding the rug. The house remained quiet—except for the second floor.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t call out. He just listened. The sounds upstairs were unmistakable now. The deep creaks of springs. The groan of a wooden bed under the weight of pleasure.
He had never felt so scared—and so alive.
He slipped off his shoes. Climbed the stairs barefoot, each step a ceremony. At the top landing, the air shifted. Warmer. Closer. Any other day, he would’ve turned left—toward the master bedroom he shared with his husband of five years.
Tonight, he turned right. His destination: the guest bedroom.
The hallway stretched ahead like a timeline—walls adorned with their story. Large, professionally framed photos lined the wide upper hall.
When he and Diego had first hung the photos, Diego had griped about cluttering the walls. But afterward, he would smile and often admire the images.
A moan echoed through the hall—the door at the end just slightly cracked. He stopped walking. Time dilated. The hallway seemed to tilt as his pulse climbed into his ears.
He took another step. Then another.
Kyle’s eyes flicked from photo to photo as he moved toward the door.
Their first real photo together—grainy, dimly lit, taken in the basement bar of a college dive that served cheap draft beer and cocktails with no more than two ingredients—captured the night their relationship had really begun.
Tucked under Diego’s arm, his smile was unsure but bright. Diego grinned wide, eyes locked on the camera like he already knew this moment would matter. Kyle remembered the heat of Diego’s hand on his shoulder. The buzz of beer. The press of their thighs under the table. The pretense of talking about their Intro to Econ class quickly crumbling.
They kissed twenty minutes after that photo was taken, pressed against the brick wall outside the bar. The Chicago night chilly and windy. Kyle’s youthful inexperience fueling Diego’s hunger. Staring into each other’s eyes. The glow of something starting to burn.
“Fuck—that’s fucking huge, man,” an unknown voice drifted from the hallway, followed by the sound of spit. A masculine voice. “How does he even take that?”
“Only one way to find out,” Diego’s deep baritone answered. A groan followed, seconds before the sound of an unmistakable gag. “Watch the teeth. Go slow.”
Kyle’s chest clenched again. His feet inched forward, closer to the door. Closer to his husband’s voice.
The next photo showed their graduation from Northwestern—adorned in obnoxious purple gowns, clutching their caps in one hand and each other in the other. Though surrounded by a sea of fellow graduates, it was clear the two were in love.
Kyle had spent most of the day in disbelief. They’d both made it. They’d done it together. Diego had whispered in his ear during the ceremony, promising they were only getting started. Later that night, they’d gotten high on champagne and adrenaline, slow dancing barefoot in their empty apartment—their whole lives in boxes, the future a blank page.
“I told you—fuck yeah—you just gotta get past the tip. Fuck. Mmhm, like that. Harder,” Diego’s words came punctuated by moans, his voice dropping even lower.
The sounds of wet slurps and sloppy spit created an obscene soundtrack. Kyle continued toward it, called by it.
He caught his favorite photo out of the corner of his eye. Their proposal—Lake Michigan at sunset. A friend had captured the moment just as Diego dropped to one knee. Kyle’s ecstatic grin frozen forever, mouth caught mid-yes.
Diego had looked up at him, not with the arrogance of someone certain he’d hear “yes,” but with the devotion of someone who would wait if he didn’t. The picture caught that look. He looked reverent. Steady. The kind of expression that made strangers stop and stare.
They’d spent that evening surrounded by friends and loved ones. Gleeful about what lay ahead. Wrapped in each other and the congratulations. The next phase of their life on the way.
The groans grew louder. The gags, deeper.
Kyle hesitated for a second. He could turn around. He could run. He could scream or beg.
“Shit—fuck—you just had to get past the tip. You’re almost there—fuck yeah—I can feel your throat,” Diego’s breath hitched. “Tight and wet—damn, so wet.”
Another gag, followed by a groan of protest from Diego. The other man’s voice, hoarse and wrecked, trickled down the hall.
“You don’t get sucked like this, do you? A fuckin’ huge cock like this should be worshiped,” the man said, smug and confident. “Bet he can’t handle you?”
Kyle faltered.
Diego didn’t.
“Don’t talk about him,” Diego shot back, voice sharp and venomous. “Stop running your mouth. Put it back to use.”
The sounds of spit and swallowing resumed—more intense now, almost vicious. Diego’s grunts blended with them.
Kyle kept walking—almost to the door. He didn’t even look at the largest photo, the second-to-last in the hall. It was burned into his brain.
His favorite memory—their wedding. A pocket-sized version sat in his wallet. Another copy lived on Diego’s desk at work.
They’d married in a decommissioned chapel turned art gallery—whitewashed brick, cathedral ceilings. In the photo, they were mid-laugh, cheeks touching, Diego’s fingers tangled in Kyle’s as if anchoring him. They had just said I do. Sealed their union with a deep, soulful kiss.
“FUCK YEAH!”
Kyle’s stomach clenched. He’d heard that countless times over the years. Could picture the look on his husband’s face—jaw tight, eyes hard. A look bordering on hunger and mean. Diego was fired up. Hungry.
Knew you were gonna get there—mmhmm—got all the way down to the balls, Diego groaned.
The slick sounds of a mouth working his husband over, hard and fast, were separated from Kyle by only a door. He had reached the end of the hall.
“Get it nice and wet—gonna want it that way when I pound a load deep in that ass,” Diego growled.
Kyle stood frozen. Tensed. His body clenched. Jealousy. Anger. Fear—fear of what was beyond the door. What he was about to see. What he would feel.
Breathing deep, he looked at the last photo.
Kyle stood with keys in hand, Diego behind him, arms around his waist, forehead resting on Kyle’s temple. The house—this house—loomed behind them. That day, Kyle had imagined the future inside it: Sunday morning coffees, friends laughing around a dinner table, quiet nights on the porch swing, growing old in rooms that would age with them.
This was the house they’d said yes to—not just with signatures, but with intention. Each photo reminded him this was their life. They built this.
And the faceless, nameless man clearly fucking his husband didn’t come close to that. Beneath the jealousy and agony was something else—electric. It was wanting. The tension in his shoulders and shaking hands clashed with the heat growing in his pants.
Kyle pushed the door gently. The hinges didn’t creak. He paused at the threshold, hand on the doorknob, breath shallow.
There he was.
Diego.
Propped against the headboard of the queen bed like he belonged to it.
Naked. Thighs spread. Back pressed into a row of stacked pillows. His body was all tension—chest rising in slow, deep drags of breath, abs contracting beneath a soft sheen of sweat, arms taut with restraint. His biceps curved sharply where they rested against the bed, clenched not in aggression, but firm from holding.
Diego’s eyes were closed, brows slightly drawn, jaw tight with pleasure. His hips barely moved—just the faintest, controlled flexes, like he could have bucked, thrust, taken—but chose not to.
He wasn’t passive. He was receiving like a king—motionless but still powerful.
Between his legs, the other man lay.
Shirtless. Head bobbing slowly. Hands splayed across Diego’s thick thighs to keep balance. The man was fit. Short brown hair and a neat beard.
Diego’s cock—thick, well above average, and so wet it shined—disappeared rhythmically into the man’s mouth, each motion met with a subtle lift of Diego’s hips. Just enough to give control without taking it. He dove into the man’s throat seamlessly, without effort.
A true cocksucker. Enthusiastic. Appreciative. Taking Diego in a way the stockbroker seldom received at home.
The visual knocked the air from Kyle’s chest.
He stood silently in the doorway. His whole body went tight—pulse roaring in his ears, blood rushing to the center of him, to the ache already forming beneath his waistband. But he didn’t touch himself.
He let his eyes roam, soaking in every detail. Diego’s shoulders shifted—broad, rounded with muscle—as he threaded his fingers through the man’s hair. His chest was thick, rising and falling with every slow drag of air. His nipples were flushed. His torso tapered down to that endless V Kyle had traced with his tongue a hundred times.
Every inch of Diego looked alive.
Not just aroused—charged.
The power of being desired. Worshipped. Witnessed.
And the way he was receiving—head tilted back, mouth slightly parted, throat taut—that was what turned Kyle on most. Not the act itself, but the fact that Diego could let himself be undone by it without flinching. He didn’t moan. He didn’t whimper. He absorbed.
Like every flick of the tongue, every suck, every wet slide of lips around his shaft was something to be earned.
Kyle stepped inside.
Quietly. Slowly. The door clicked shut behind him with the softest whisper—and still, Diego didn’t move. Kyle wasn’t sure if he’d even noticed him yet.
But he could feel it.
The way the room shifted slightly. The way Diego’s breath hitched—just once—like the temperature had changed, like the air had taken on new weight.
He knew.
Kyle walked closer—close enough to see the man’s tongue flick out as he worked over the head of Diego’s cock, to see the saliva glistening at the corners of his lips.
Diego’s thighs tensed again. Not jerking. Not shaking. Just a subtle flex, like a man tightening a grip on something invisible. His legs were massive—hard, defined, cords of muscle beneath skin that looked impossibly smooth, golden in the low light.
Kyle's eyes dropped lower, drawn without resistance.
The movement of the other man’s mouth was faster now—confident. His hands had moved up to Diego’s hips, fingers digging in just slightly for leverage, anchoring himself as he took more of Diego in, let his mouth go deeper.
Diego’s abs clenched.
Kyle’s cock throbbed beneath his jeans. He wanted to breathe, but his lungs were shallow. His skin tingled with electricity, and every sound in the room—every wet drag of the man’s mouth, every soft groan deep in Diego’s chest—echoed like thunder.
Diego’s head turned slightly now, resting against the headboard, his jawline lit in profile. His eyes finally met his husband’s gaze.
Kyle stopped breathing.
That look was possession. That gaze didn’t ask. It claimed.
In that single look, Kyle felt stripped bare—seen in the deepest way, like Diego had peeled him open and looked directly into the soft, aching place inside him. The place that whispered, I want to belong. I want to be kept.
He felt it in his chest first—a tight, trembling throb that cracked him open. Then lower. That sharp drop in his stomach, like he was falling but safe. His cock pulsed without being touched.
Kyle didn’t need to be touched to feel claimed. Diego didn’t need words to say, You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.
Kyle could see it in that look. Diego didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just pointed to the plush chair in the corner.
The chair welcomed him like it always did—soft, deep, with a cushion that still carried the faint scent of their laundry detergent.
A leftover from their first apartment. They had joked about replacing it a dozen times, but neither ever had. It was too comfortable. Too familiar. It had seen quiet mornings, late-night arguments, and rough days.
Now it would see this.
Kyle sank into the fabric like a diver slipping beneath the surface, breath catching in his chest. He could feel the heat clinging to his arms. The air smelled faintly of sweat and something heavier, thicker—sex and desire.
Across the room, Diego was a carnal vision.
Thighs splayed. Chest rising slow. Skin glowing with slick sweat. He hadn’t moved when Kyle entered—hadn’t spoken, hadn’t flinched. But he was looking at him.
Diego’s eyes were locked on Kyle like a hand around his throat: firm, unrelenting, intimate.
Between his legs, the other man worked.
His head moved in practiced rhythm—deep and sure, lips stretched wide around Diego’s cock. He was focused, eyes closed, fingers curled tight around Diego’s hips. His beard glistened with spit. His throat made wet, guttural sounds that echoed in the low light like applause.
But Kyle didn’t look at the man.
He watched Diego watching him.
Every inch of his husband looked carved and worshipped. His chest—broad and rising—pulled taut with each slow inhale. His abs flexed every time the man’s throat closed around him. Diego’s cock disappeared into the slick heat again and again, a slow, steady fuck of the man’s face—but his expression barely changed.
Except for his eyes.
Those were on fire. A dark, molten stare that saw straight through Kyle. Not cruel. Not sweet. Something in between. Possession wrapped in devotion. You asked for this, it said. Now take it.
Kyle’s cock throbbed beneath his jeans.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t breathed fully. His fists were tight in his lap, knuckles white. He wanted to squirm, to adjust himself, to relieve the pressure building at the base of his spine—but he couldn’t break the connection. Couldn’t look away.
Diego tilted his head back slowly, exposing the thick column of his neck. His jaw clenched. The tendons flexed. His fingers—one hand in the man’s hair, the other gripping the sheet—tightened just slightly. His hips rolled once. Deliberate. Controlled.
The man gagged softly and pulled back, gasping for breath. A thick string of spit snapped from his lips to Diego’s tip.
Diego didn’t look down.
He never looked down.
His eyes were still on Kyle.
He moved his hand—not to guide the man’s head back down, but to stroke his own cock, slow and heavy. The tip glistened. His thumb swept over it, gathering slick and spreading it down the thick shaft. He wasn’t performing for the man on his knees. He was performing for his husband.
His wedding band—wide and silver—glistened in the light of the room. Its slightly smaller mate encircled Kyle’s own finger. The words D + K Always etched on the inside.
Kyle’s mouth was dry. His body ached. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He still hadn’t touched himself. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. He looked at his own ring, finger twitching.
Diego tracked his eyes and smirked.
Just a flicker of it—crooked, knowing. The kind of smile Kyle had seen when Diego lifted more than anyone else at the gym, or closed a deal. Confidence sharpened to a blade. He was showing off.
Kyle swallowed hard, shifting in his seat just enough for his jeans to pinch. The pressure was unbearable now. His cock strained against the zipper, leaking into his briefs, twitching every time Diego’s hand curled around his length.
The man between Diego’s legs moved again—back to work, eager. His hands gripped Diego’s thighs, fingers digging in like he wanted to disappear into the heat. He took Diego deep, all the way down, choking just a little before pulling back with a gasp and a loud, wet slurp.
Diego exhaled sharply.
His hips lifted—once, twice—small thrusts, perfectly timed with the man’s rhythm. But it was calculated. Restrained. Like every movement was designed not for his own pleasure, but for Kyle’s gaze.
Kyle licked his lips. His breath was short now, chest rising fast, throat tight. He was dizzy with it—desire and jealousy and awe crashing over him like a riptide. But Diego’s eyes steadied him. Anchored him.
This wasn’t chaos.
This was control.
Diego’s hand moved again, gripping the man’s hair tighter. His other hand released the sheet and gestured.
A single motion. Fingers snapping. Palm up.
It was a command, not a request.
The man obeyed instantly—climbed higher on his knees, letting Diego guide him. The movement exposed more of Diego’s cock—slick and swollen, the base of it thick and veined.
Kyle’s breath hitched.
Diego stroked it once with the hand not tangled in hair—slow, deliberate—then let the man take him in again. But now Diego was thrusting, shallow and slow, using the man’s mouth like a toy.
Still staring at Kyle.
The pressure in Kyle’s chest tightened. His fists trembled on his knees. He wanted to come untouched. He could feel it building—hot and coiled, threatening to break him open.
Diego’s eyes narrowed slightly. Calculating.
And then he mouthed it—silently.
Don’t.
Not a warning. A command.
Kyle’s whole body clenched.
He was close. So fucking close. But he held the line. Bit the inside of his cheek. Dug his nails into his palm.
He would not come. Not while Diego looked at him like this.
The third man gagged again, louder this time. Diego’s head rolled slightly—back, then forward—eyes still locked. He grunted softly, a deep, guttural sound that made Kyle throb again.
Then Diego smirked—wider now. Sinful. Triumphant.
And with one firm hand, he pushed the man off his cock. The sound of parting lips and wet breath filled the room.
The man fell back slightly, panting, spit running down his chin.
Kyle sat like a man trying to survive his own body. The chair cradled him, but it might as well have been a restraint. His arms pressed hard against the rests, his fingers twitching but never rising. Every part of him ached—his thighs, clenched. His jaw, tight. His cock, stiff and soaked against his briefs, the fabric sticking to skin like a warning.
Still, he didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Kyle could barely breathe beneath the weight of him—shoulders gleaming with sweat, chest rising like slow thunder. One hand still rested lazily on his thigh. The other dragged once across the sheets before settling back into stillness. That cock—slick, flushed, impossibly hard—rested against his stomach, veins prominent, shining in the low light.
Diego looked at him.
Not the man on the floor.
Not the glistening spit trail left behind.
Him.
And that look told Kyle everything he needed to know: stay still. No gesture. No nod. Just that stare—steady and exacting—like a hand curled tight around his obedience.
The heat in his pants bordered on unbearable now—every beat of his pulse a reminder. He couldn’t relieve the pressure. Couldn’t squirm. Couldn’t shift to find relief.
That wasn’t what Diego wanted. That wasn’t what this was.
His breath came in short, shallow bursts, chest rising against his t-shirt, soaked at the collar. The air around him tasted like sweat and power and sex. His mind felt glassy, caught in some still place between worship and madness. He let it hold him.
He imagined Diego’s voice—not out loud, but in that private way it sometimes lived in his head.
You’ll come when I say. Not before.
Usually said with a smile or a joking tone. Slow and gentle or fast and frenzied—sex with his husband was always fun.
Tonight, the inner voice sounded different.
Diego broke the charged silence only with movement.
He reached to the nightstand, never taking his eyes off Kyle, and pulled open the shallow drawer. The familiar clack of a plastic bottle echoed. He didn’t hand it over.
He tossed it—casual, sharp. The lube landed beside the third man with a soft thud.
“Make me ready,” Diego said.
Not a growl. Not a whisper. Just even, steady command. Authority worn like a second skin.
The man scrambled up from where he’d been kneeling, fingers slick already with spit and reverence. He snapped the cap, squeezed the lube onto his palm—too much, Kyle thought, way too much—and wrapped his hand around Diego’s cock like he’d done it a hundred times.
Kyle watched the glide.
Watched the way the man’s fist stroked Diego with long, worshipful pulls—from base to head and back again—spreading the shine. His grip adjusted. His thumb swept over the tip, smearing slick down the vein. He leaned forward, mouth open again, and licked once—slowly—like he couldn’t help himself.
Kyle understood. He’d spent many lazy mornings tracing that vein with his tongue. Chasing the bigger man’s moans. Spurred on by his husband’s praises. Desperate to consume his orgasm. Hungry for the groans.
Diego didn’t flinch. Didn’t look. No sounds came from his mouth.
He just watched Kyle.
Kyle sat frozen. Heat pooled in his spine, his thighs, his throat. The sound of wet skin and quiet breath made him ache. The visuals were unbearable—the glisten, the slide, the pink head of Diego’s cock twitching under attention. But it was the memory that wrecked him most.
Kyle knew that cock.
He knew how it felt after two minutes. After ten. After begging for more and getting it. He knew the way it stretched him open—thick and hot and steady—how it filled every inch and pushed him to the edge of too much before curling him back into pleasure again.
He could almost feel it now. The phantom weight. The burn. The way Diego whispered Take it against the shell of his ear.
But this wasn’t his night to feel it.
He stayed in the chair. Breathing through his nose. Legs shaking just enough to notice. Watching another man prepare what had once been his—and still somehow was. Time moved so slow.
Diego moved like he had all the time in the world.
Not with urgency—just ease. Control. He rose from the pillows and shifted toward the center of the bed, each movement deliberate, unbothered. His muscles stretched and coiled beneath bronzed skin, the lines of his back rolling in slow procession. He adjusted a single pillow with the same care he gave his trades—calculated, precise.
Then he sank down, spine meeting cool cotton, arms spreading lazily behind his head.
His cock stood flushed and slick against the ridged plane of his abs. Ready. Commanding.
Both sets of eyes followed him.
The third man, kneeling at the edge of the bed, shifted upright. Kyle didn’t move, but his entire focus honed to a razor point. He tracked every moment—Diego’s breath, the flex of his thighs, the way he adjusted his shoulders like he was settling in for a performance made only for one witness.
The man climbed onto the bed—tentative, clearly intimidated by the size. He crawled forward on his knees and swung one leg over Diego’s lap. The stretch of his body was hesitant, like his muscles weren’t quite ready for what they were about to take. Lube glistened on his fingers and between his cheeks, smeared with nervous haste. He reached between them, gripping Diego’s cock, angling it, lining himself up.
Diego didn’t look at him. He looked at Kyle. Only Kyle. And Kyle couldn’t breathe.
The man began to lower himself—slow, trembling. The head of Diego’s cock met resistance, then pressure, then parting.
Diego exhaled—just once. A soft, guttural groan. Quiet but unmistakable. It poured out of him like something earned.
Kyle flinched like the sound had been pulled from his own throat.
Another inch.
The man whimpered. Diego’s hands lifted, resting at his waist—not pushing, not guiding. Just present. Possessive.
Kyle’s stomach knotted. He could feel the phantom stretch, the way it pressed against the edge of too much. He remembered the burn. The bite. The breathless moment before his body surrendered to fullness.
You take it so well, Diego echoed in his mind. Always so good for me.
The third man sank deeper.
Another inch. Then another. Swallowed slowly into the slick heat of his body. His face twisted—jaw tight, lips parted—every muscle across his chest and thighs straining with the effort. He braced both hands on Diego’s chest for leverage, fingers splayed across muscle and sweat.
Diego’s cock slid further inside, disappearing inch by inch with devastating patience.
A guttural groan rumbled out of Diego’s chest—longer now, throatier.
Kyle knew that sound. The one Diego made when he was nearly all the way in, when the pressure met resistance, when the other body had no choice but to stretch or break.
It wasn’t just arousal. It was satisfaction. Being swallowed by the heat.
Diego’s hands tightened around the man’s hips.
Not guiding. Not helping.
Just holding him there. Letting him take it. Letting him feel it.
Kyle couldn’t look away. His vision had narrowed to that single point of connection—where the man’s body stretched open to accommodate what Kyle knew was too much. Too thick. Too deep. The man’s thighs trembled as he tried to lower the final inch. Diego’s cock—fully hard, fully slick—glided slow through the tight grip of the man’s ass, disappearing until the base pressed flush against him.
The man groaned—loud and wrecked.
Kyle felt the sound in his spine.
He could almost feel the stretch again himself—the impossible burn of the first full sink. That moment when he’d thought, I can’t take it, right before his body gave in and took everything.
He could feel it now. His hole clenched on nothing. Fluttering. His cock twitched again, untouched, aching.
Diego exhaled, his mouth parting with a low, open-throated moan that made Kyle shake.
That one.
The one Diego only made when he was seated balls-deep. When the heat was perfect. When he could feel every twitch around him.
Kyle’s thighs burned. His chest ached. He didn’t dare move.
Diego still hadn’t looked away.
He watched Kyle like he was cataloging his every reaction—like this wasn’t complete until he’d seen exactly what it did to him.
And Kyle sat there, leaking into ruined briefs, breath trapped behind his teeth, body screaming for release—but still. Silent. Obedient.
The man atop Diego began to rock—tentative, shallow—like he was trying to adjust. Trying to accommodate the girth stretching him open.
Diego groaned again—deeper this time. Kyle trembled, nerves alive, every inch of him screaming—but still, he stayed. Diego’s gaze held him. And that was enough.
His hips shifted, slow and grounded, pressing up into the man’s body with unflinching precision. No warning. No adjustment. Just a rhythm—measured, devastating.
The man gasped, hands scrabbling for leverage against Diego’s chest, his body clearly unprepared for the depth, the stretch.
Diego didn’t ease up. He fucked up into him again. Harder this time. Then again.
Not rapid. Not wild.
Just certain.
Each thrust dragged a noise from the man’s throat—half-moan, half-protest. He was overwhelmed already, and Diego had barely begun. His body rocked with each drive of Diego’s hips, the slap of skin now audible in the heat-slick room.
But Diego wasn’t looking at him. Diego was watching Kyle.
Eyes locked. Chest heaving. Every muscle across his torso working in concert with control and intent. His jaw was clenched, brow furrowed—not in strain, but focus. He was showing Kyle what he could do. What he had so often done to Kyle himself.
This wasn’t about pleasure. Not really.
It was about offering Kyle the intangible.
Diego’s hands slid lower, gripping the man’s ass now, pulling him down as he thrust upward again—this time deeper. Angled. The man cried out, a sound caught somewhere between ecstasy and surrender.
He looked wrecked. Boneless. A true toy. A prop. Something to fuck into until the room bent around it.
Kyle’s mouth was dry. His briefs were soaked. His cock strained so hard it ached, the pressure behind his zipper pulsing with every wet slam of hips on flesh.
But he didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
He just stared. Took it in. Let Diego give him this offering in the only language they both understood: obedience and ownership.
And still—Diego watched him.
Even when the man tried to kiss him—leaning forward with open mouth and closed eyes—Diego turned his head, jaw locked. Denied. Dismissed.
His attention never drifted from the chair in the corner. From the body inside it that was coming undone without being touched.
Then, Diego moved again. One hand came up to the man’s back, pressing him upright, guiding him with quiet pressure until he rose off Diego’s cock with a thick, wet slide. The man panted, thighs trembling, chest heaving. Diego sat up. Still watching Kyle.
He patted the mattress beside him once—firm, final. Without speaking, the third man understood. He turned. Shifted. Got on his knees.
Diego didn’t hesitate.
He rose behind him—powerful, unhurried—the way a lion moves when it knows no one will challenge the kill. His cock—still gleaming, still impossibly hard—slapped against the man’s ass once, then again, before Diego reached down and guided it back into place.
A slick press. A forward roll of his hips.
And then—he entered.
No buildup this time. No slow descent. Diego pushed into the man with one long, measured thrust, and the man cried out—a strangled sound of surprise and surrender. His spine bowed under the stretch, arms trembling. Diego filled him in seconds, burying himself to the root.
Kyle flinched.
He could feel it. Could remember it. That first thrust from behind—the way Diego’s cock curved upward and found him in one smooth stroke that knocked breath from his lungs and made his vision blur.
That first time was sacred. Every time since had only deepened it.
Diego grabbed the man’s hips and started to move.
Short, deep thrusts. No testing the water. No mercy. Just deliberate motion—angle, drive, retract, repeat. The sound of slick skin colliding filled the room—sharp and fast and unrelenting.
The man gasped, then groaned, then stopped trying to speak at all.
He was just fucked.
Kyle couldn’t look away. His breath came in shallow pulls. His cock throbbed with a pressure that bordered on pain. And still he sat—watching, witnessing, owning nothing but the ache in his chest and the damp heat in his pants.
Diego was stunning in motion. Even after all these years together, that always sent a zing through Kyle. Fueled his hunger. Was the basis of this entire evening.
His body flexed with every thrust. His abs clenched. His mouth hung slightly open now, the smallest grunt escaping with each push forward. His brow was drawn, teeth grit—not from effort, but control.
Diego could have taken more. Harder. Wilder. But he held back, dialing his power like a weapon he refused to unsheathe completely.
Every few seconds, his eyes flicked to Kyle.
Still him. Always him. Even now, with his cock pistoning in and out of another man’s body, Diego’s gaze was tethered. Like each stroke was drawn from memory. Like he was chasing something he’d only ever found in Kyle’s skin.
The man beneath him was losing form—shoulders sagging, face buried in the mattress, moaning without rhythm. His hands clutched the sheets like he needed anchor.
But he didn’t get one.
This was not a shared act. This was Diego fucking for Kyle.
Kyle felt every inch Diego gave. Every pulse of muscle. Every deep, guttural groan.
He watched Diego shift again—adjusting his angle with precision—and the man cried out, louder now. Broken.
“Yeah,” Diego growled. His voice was low, barely more than breath. But Kyle heard it like thunder.
The pace picked up. Thrusts sharper. Breaths rougher. Diego’s hands now gripped hard enough to bruise. He was close—Kyle could see it. His thighs flexed harder. That rhythm in his hips stuttered just slightly, like his body was fighting the edge.
Kyle’s own body clenched in response. He was trembling. His pulse deafening. He wanted to come so badly he could barely think. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Diego’s mouth opened—no words, just sound.
A growl. A groan.
A sound pulled from somewhere deeper than sex. His body shuddered forward once, then again.
Diego’s pace turned punishing. His hips slammed forward with a rhythm that was calculated wreckage. The man beneath him sobbed into the mattress, fists curled in the sheets, his body no longer riding Diego’s thrusts so much as absorbing them.
Flattened. Spent.
Diego grunted through his teeth, jaw locked tight, each thrust driven by the thrum of blood and breath. His thighs flexed harder. Sweat beaded at his temples and slid down his chest, catching the light.
He was close. He wasn’t moaning. He wasn’t groaning. He was holding it back.
And still—he looked at Kyle. Like he needed his husband to see it. To feel it. To witness what Diego’s body could do, and who it was really for.
The third man trembled. Then gasped. Then let out a choked cry. His back arched. His body jerked. And he came.
It was abrupt. Raw. Hands still fisting the sheets. Legs shaking.
A strangled, involuntary sound left his mouth as his body seized around Diego’s cock. His hole clenched hard, milking Diego mid-thrust.
Kyle expected Diego to stop. He didn’t.
He didn’t slow. He didn’t pause. He didn’t flinch.
The man’s orgasm was nothing to him.
Diego kept fucking him through it, eyes locked on Kyle, sweat-slicked and relentless. His own breath started to hitch now, stuttering behind clenched teeth. That telltale tremble hit his hips—Kyle knew it. Knew the feel of it when Diego was right there, holding the edge like a live wire.
And then—Diego moved.
He slammed forward once, deep and brutal. The man cried out again. And Diego froze—cock buried to the base, muscles taut. For a heartbeat, he was still.
Then he pulled out. Quick. Sudden. Merciless. The third man collapsed into the mattress, breathless and emptied, his body ruined and spent. He didn’t say a word.
Diego didn’t look at him. He stood up, chest heaving, cock flushed and wet and twitching with need. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, not breaking eye contact. Not even blinking.
Then—he walked toward the chair. Kyle’s entire body locked.
Diego’s eyes didn’t burn. They didn’t ask. They just held—a look not of lust, but possession. Of ritual. Of something promised long ago and never taken back. It was ownership. It was lust. It was love.
Kyle didn’t move.
His thighs were shaking now, clenched so tightly it hurt. His cock throbbed, soaked into the fabric, the pressure behind his zipper now unbearable. His breath was a gasp barely held in his throat. He could feel the sweat under his arms, the way his shirt stuck to his back.
And Diego came closer. His cock bobbed with each step—glistening, thick, already dripping. His stomach twitched. His jaw was still tight. He didn’t say a word.
He stopped right in front of Kyle. Kyle looked up. The moment cracked open.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t blink. The space between them was a live wire, humming with heat and history. Diego reached down and took himself in hand—one slow stroke from base to tip. A drop of precum glistened at the crown. He stroked again.
Then he reached out, thumb beneath Kyle’s chin.
Lifted his face. Kyle parted his lips. He didn’t ask. He didn’t plead. He just received the look—open, exposed, worshipful. This wasn’t shame. This wasn’t degradation.
Diego stared down at him, muscles locked, hips twitching forward with each shallow stroke.
And then—he came. Hard.
With a growl that was animal, human, his. The sound tore from his throat as his cock jerked in his fist and the first rope of come hit Kyle’s cheek, then his mouth, then his neck.
Kyle didn’t move.
He kept his mouth open, eyes half-lidded, breath shallow as Diego released everything onto his face—thick and wet, spilling across his lips and down his jaw. Diego’s body convulsed with each pulse, hand tightening, chest heaving.
“Fuck,” Diego hissed. “Fuck.”
Another spurt. Slower. Then another. And then… stillness.
Diego’s cock twitched in his hand, now spent. His fingers released the grip. His breath dragged in—rough and broken. He looked down. Kyle looked up.
His cheeks were streaked. His lips shone. His breath caught in his throat. He didn’t wipe it away. Didn’t flinch. He wore it like a seal. A signature. A mark.
Diego dropped to his knees.
They were eye level now—chest to chest, air between them thick and damp. Diego’s hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from Kyle’s forehead, his touch suddenly soft. Reverent. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Kyle’s chest cracked open. Everything inside him twisted—shame and pride and ache and love tangled so tight he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. His cock throbbed beneath the fabric, still untouched, still aching. His lips parted, and he finally let out a sound—a low, broken sigh.
Diego leaned in. And kissed it away. One soft press of lips against the corner of Kyle’s mouth, come and all.
Diego’s hand lingered at Kyle’s face, thumb brushing the slick curve of his cheekbone. His other hand came up slowly, cupping the back of Kyle’s head, drawing him in until their foreheads touched.
No words yet. Just the heat of two people who knew each other too well to say anything careless.
Then, softly—so softly it almost didn’t register—Diego whispered, “I love you.”
It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t a balm. It was true.
Kyle nodded, eyelids heavy, the ache in his chest dulling into something fuller. Diego’s breath ghosted against his skin.
“I’m gonna wrap up in here,” Diego said. His voice had dropped an octave—calm again. Grounded. “Then come find you.”
Kyle didn’t need more than that. He nodded again and leaned forward, just slightly, to press his lips against Diego’s temple. A small act. A grateful one.
He stood.
Slowly—deliberately—Kyle rose from the chair. His thighs ached. His legs were shaky. He didn’t wipe his face. He didn’t check his reflection. He didn’t even look at Diego again.
He walked past the bed.
The third man lay sprawled on his side, face turned away, breathing like someone who’d just come back from the brink. His back rose and fell, muscles twitching with the aftershocks of what he’d taken. There was no tension in him now. Just a kind of dazed surrender.
Kyle didn’t touch him. Didn’t speak.
And for a moment, Kyle felt nothing at all. No jealousy. No pity. Just stillness.
Then he moved. Quiet steps across the hardwood, the door whispering shut behind him.
The hallway was the same—but it wasn’t. The photos looked back at him with quiet gravity, the same memories now painted with the afterglow of something unspeakably real.
The proposal photo caught his eye again. That smile—his own, wide and guileless. The way Diego had knelt like he was already holding Kyle’s future in his hands. He reached out, touched the frame lightly, his fingertips trembling. Then let it go.
He descended the stairs barefoot. Each step pulled him further from the heat of that room, but the charge clung to his skin like static. He could still feel it behind his teeth. Still taste the air—thick and alive with Diego’s scent, Diego’s moans, Diego’s claim.
The foyer was dark now. Only the soft glow from the living room lamp lit the space. The silence felt cavernous. He walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, poured himself a glass of water with hands that barely obeyed.
His free hand braced the counter, knuckles tight against the granite. He didn’t cry. He didn’t collapse. He just stood there for a long time, staring at nothing, letting his pulse slow. Letting the enormity of it catch up.
Kyle set the empty glass in the sink with a soft clink. His skin still buzzed. The ache in his briefs hadn’t dulled—it had only shifted. Gone from pulsing to constant, a low-grade hum beneath the surface. He didn’t want to touch himself. Not yet. Maybe not at all. It wasn’t time.
He wandered back toward the foyer.
The memory hit in shards, almost too bright to hold: Diego's gaze like a vice. The spit-slick sound of every thrust. The wet heat of come streaking his jaw. The way Diego’s body had gone rigid—not when the other man came, but when he was watching Kyle break.
Kyle let the back of his head rest against the wall. He didn’t know how long he stood there.
But he felt it when the air changed again.
The faint creak of stairs. A rhythmless shuffle. Then, the sound of someone descending.
Kyle straightened.
The third man appeared at the base of the staircase—fully dressed now. Jeans, snug across his hips. A soft tee clinging damp to his chest. His hair was mussed, beard darker where spit had dried along his jawline. His eyes were unfocused. Glassy.
Kyle took him in—not just visually, but intuitively. The man’s gait was loose, uncentered, like his body hadn’t quite recalibrated. His shirt had been tugged on with shaky fingers; the collar twisted, hem uneven. His lips were swollen, pink from friction. He looked less like someone who’d had sex and more like someone who’d been opened. Dismantled. Put back together with the wrong instructions.
Kyle knew that look. Knew what it meant to be taken by Diego—thoroughly, possessively, like a body was both a playground and a tool.
His name is Steve, Kyle idly thought. He owned a carpentry business with his partner, Don—at least, that’s what his profile had said.
“You okay to drive?” Kyle asked, voice scratchy from disuse.
Steve blinked, like the question had floated to him from underwater. He rubbed a hand over his face, then down his chest, grounding himself. His eyes found Kyle’s again, and something seemed to settle.
“Yeah, I am,” Steve said. He paused, shoulders slumping slightly, as if a weight he’d been carrying had finally dropped. “That was intense. Pretty hot, dude. That was really the first time you guys did that?”
Kyle nodded.
Almost in disbelief, Steve chuckled and shook his head. “Sure as fuck felt like it wasn’t,” he said. “You guys ever want a repeat of that—don’t hesitate. That guy’s a fucking stud."
Kyle let out a chuckle. “His ego doesn’t need any help,” he said. “Thanks for stopping by, Steve.”
Though friendly, the intention was clear. The time for you to go layered beneath the benign interaction.
Steve smiled and nodded, like he’d heard the unspoken part and appreciated the clarity. He adjusted his shirt again and stepped toward the door.
His movements were slow. Not hesitant, not guilty. Like gravity had come back—but in pieces. Kyle didn’t speak further. He stepped aside slightly, giving the man space to pass.
At the threshold, Steve hesitated just long enough to glance back—but not at Kyle. Not at anything in particular. Just a look toward the hallway. Toward what had happened.
Then he opened the door and slipped outside. The porch light cast a sharp glow over him, outlining a silhouette too loose to hold shape. The door closed behind him.
And Kyle stood in the silence. Still hard. Still soaked. Still humming with the imprint of everything Diego had just done—not to him, but for him.
He didn’t know if he felt like a voyeur or a devotee. Maybe both. Maybe that was the point.
Kyle stood in the foyer for a long moment. The air felt heavier now—settled, like a storm had passed but left something raw in its wake. Not destruction. Not even regret. Just reverence. Like whatever had happened in that room upstairs had stained the house in something sacred.
He turned toward the stairs.
His body still felt sluggish—not from fatigue, but from restraint. Every muscle down his back and into his thighs was tight with unspent need, but he didn’t rush. He climbed each step like he was relearning the act of returning to himself.
At the top landing, the hallway stretched out like a familiar film reel.
He looked down it—the same photos still hanging, the same paint color Diego had insisted wasn’t “too gray,” even though Kyle had called it storm cloud. And at the end of the hall: the door to the guest bedroom.
It was open now.
The sheets were gone, stripped and folded into a soft, careless pile just outside the door. No ceremony. No shame. Just practicality. The faint sound of running water reached him—steady and muffled. The shower in the guest en suite. Diego was cleaning up.
Kyle paused at the hallway’s mouth a moment longer. He could have gone toward the noise, toward the warmth and steam and the man who had just marked him with more than come.
But he didn’t. Instead, Kyle turned left—toward the master bedroom.
Their bedroom.
He opened the door and stepped inside. The quiet greeted him like a soft exhale.
The room was untouched. The duvet smooth and tucked. Pillows fluffed. Their shared space, their shared bed, unmarred. Kyle’s eyes swept across it—not looking for flaws, just confirming what he already knew.
It was still theirs.
Something anchored deeper in him. A kind of certainty. No matter what Diego had done in that other room—what Kyle had watched, endured, even needed—this room remained steady.
Safe.
He crossed the floor, footsteps silent against the thick rug. His fingers brushed the corner of the bed as he passed it, not to straighten anything, but just to feel. Just to remember the texture of their ordinary life.
The echo of Diego’s voice filled his mind again—not the filthy moans from earlier, not the commands—but the simple whisper: I love you.
Kyle sat on the edge of the bed. He let his hands fall to his lap. Palms up. Open.
The ache between his legs hadn’t vanished, but it was quieter now. Muted by something heavier: devotion. This wasn’t a kink anymore. It was the shape of their trust.
It was where they held each other. Fucked each other. Whispered good mornings and goodnights. Countless promises and thoughts and praises—the bed was saturated in their love.
Kyle rose, slow and quiet. He reached for the hem of his shirt and peeled it off, the fabric soft and damp from the weight of the day. His skin prickled in the cooler air. He moved toward the mirror above the dresser, not to examine himself, but because something in him needed to be seen—even if only by his own eyes.
He looked soft. Disheveled. His hair was flat on one side, the sheen of sweat still on his throat, and the faint pink flush on his cheeks hadn’t faded. The streaks on his jaw had dried to a dull shine, visible only if you knew what to look for. But Kyle didn’t wipe them away.
He stood in silence. Watching. Breathing. Feeling. Then—footsteps.
Soft at first. Then closer. The sound of a towel being adjusted. A shoulder brushing a doorframe. And then the reflection of Diego filled the mirror behind him.
Freshly showered, a white towel hung low around his hips. His chest was still damp, a drop of water sliding down between his pecs. His curls were flattened, darker with moisture, clinging to his brow. He looked calm again. Grounded. But his eyes—they carried something more.
Diego stepped behind Kyle and wrapped his arms around him, the towel brushing lightly against the backs of Kyle’s legs. His arms were warm, strong, and still. He didn’t press for more. He just held—the way he always had when Kyle needed anchoring.
Their eyes met in the mirror.
Kyle’s lips parted, a soft exhale escaping him. Diego rested his chin against Kyle’s shoulder for a moment, his touch unhurried, letting the silence speak first.
“You didn’t say red,” Diego murmured. “You didn’t say yellow either.”
“I didn’t need to,” said Kyle, shaking his head faintly.
Diego nodded slowly, his voice quiet. “Are we okay?”
It wasn’t just about tonight. It was about all of it. The look in his eyes—equal parts caution and longing—was the look of a man asking for something sacred. Kyle didn’t hesitate.
“We’re okay,” he said.
Diego breathed out. Not relief, not release. Something steadier.
Kyle turned slightly in his hold, enough to see him without the mirror’s help. “Are you okay?”
There was a pause. Then Diego nodded. “Yeah. I think so. It’s bouncing around in my head. He tried to kiss me… wasn’t a fan of that.”
He pressed his lips to Kyle’s shoulder, then rested his forehead there. His hands tightened around Kyle’s waist, grounding them in the quiet. Kyle let himself lean back. Let himself be held.
One of Diego’s hands drifted lower. Over Kyle’s hip, then to the front of his pants, the pressure of his palm deliberate but gentle. Kyle flinched—not from discomfort, but from awareness. He reached down, stopped him with a hand to his wrist. Their eyes met again.
Diego’s brow furrowed slightly, unsure.
“I want to feel this a little while longer,” Kyle said, voice soft with vulnerability. “The hunger.”
Diego’s expression shifted—not to disappointment, but something far more tender. He stepped even closer, wrapping Kyle up tighter, kissing the side of his head.
“Thank you for doing this for me,” Kyle whispered, his voice nearly breaking.
Diego shook his head, just once. “Thank you for asking.”
They stood in silence for a beat longer before Diego spoke again—this time slower, almost like he wasn’t sure how much to say.
“When he was on me,” Diego said, “when I was inside him—I wasn’t thinking about him. Not once. I kept looking at you. Imagining it was you again. The way you watch… the way you break open for me.”
Diego paused and swallowed before continuing. “That did more than anything he could’ve done with his body.”
Kyle’s throat went tight.
“And when I came—” Diego paused, resting his forehead again against Kyle’s. “It wasn’t for him. It was for you. On you. Like my body knew.”
Kyle blinked hard, fighting the sting behind his eyes.
Diego touched Kyle’s cheek again. “You are—” He paused again, searching for the words that wouldn’t feel cliché. “You’re the reason I can give that much of myself and still feel whole.”
Kyle exhaled. His hands found Diego’s, twining their fingers.
“I needed to see you that way,” Kyle admitted. “Needed to know… you still had that part of you. That edge. That power.”
Diego smiled, tired and real. “I’ve always had it. But it’s only ever been for you.”
That broke something open. Not shattered, but peeled back. Kyle leaned in and kissed Diego gently—no hunger, no lust. Just breath and lips and closeness.
When they pulled back, Diego spoke again. “So what now?”
Kyle looked at the bed, then back at him. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower and then… we get under the covers.”
Diego nodded. He gently guided Kyle to the attached master bedroom.
Diego didn’t say a word. He pulled down Kyle’s pants, then reached for the hem of Kyle’s briefs and peeled them down slowly, like he was undoing armor. The fabric clung for a moment, damp and stretched, before falling to the floor. Kyle stepped out of them without speaking. The air against his bare skin felt like a second presence—cool, settling, cleansing.
Diego touched him once—just a hand to his hip, thumb brushing the sharp ridge of bone—and then turned toward the shower, stepping into the oversized tiled stall. Turning the water on, he didn’t test the temperature. He knew how Kyle liked it. Then he stepped back.
Kyle stepped in. The water hit him in a wave—hot, heavy, enveloping. He tilted his face up into it, letting it run through his hair, over his jaw, down his chest. It softened everything. His muscles. His mind. His memory of the chair. His hunger.
Behind the glass, Diego didn’t leave.
He sat down on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on his knees, watching. Not leering. Not with lust. Just there. Witnessing. His eyes never left Kyle.
Kyle washed himself slowly. Lathered his chest, his arms, his neck. When he reached his face, he hesitated—but only for a second—then gently worked the soap over his cheeks, rinsing away the dried streaks that had marked him as Diego’s.
Diego said nothing. But his presence—his calm, still presence—was everything. Kyle felt it more than he saw it. Every pass of his hands over his skin was seen. Every inhale, every flick of water, every trace of fingers through hair—registered by Diego, absorbed without comment.
When the water finally shut off, the room went quiet except for the drip of droplets and the faint hum of the bathroom fan.
Kyle stepped out into the thick warmth of steam.
Diego didn’t wait. He stepped forward with the towel and met Kyle like a ritual. Not rushed. Not clinical. He brought the cotton to Kyle’s shoulders first, drying him off in slow sweeps. Over his arms, his chest, his back. Down each leg, around his calves.
When he reached Kyle’s groin, he slowed—but not for arousal. For reverence.
He didn’t grope. Didn’t tease. Just dried gently, methodically, like he was wrapping up something precious. Then he stood and brought the towel to Kyle’s hair, tousling it once, softly.
They walked back into the bedroom, their steps soundless against the rug. Diego let go only long enough to peel back the comforter. Kyle slid beneath it. The sheets were cool against his still-warm skin.
Diego followed, wrapping his arms around. No clothes now. No barriers. Just skin to skin beneath the covers. Diego’s chest met Kyle’s back, his arm draped over his waist with no expectation. Just presence.
Kyle closed his eyes. Diego kissed the back of his neck. The sheets were cool, but Diego was warm—an anchor behind him. One arm tucked beneath Kyle’s ribs, the other draped across his waist. Their legs tangled like old roots, familiar and steady. Kyle could feel the slow rise and fall of Diego’s chest against his back, the rhythm syncing to his own breath like a metronome of something ancient and trusted.
Neither spoke at first.
There was no need.
They’d said what mattered already—said it in glances, in groans, in restraint and surrender. In spit and sweat and ceremony.
But here, now, with nothing between them but the slow hum of exhaustion, Kyle let himself soften. Let his body finally let go.
He turned, carefully, in Diego’s arms until they were face to face.
Diego’s eyes were half-lidded, heavy with sleep and afterglow, but open. Still watching. Still here.
Kyle brought a hand to his chest, resting just over his heart. “It’s still racing,” he whispered.
Diego blinked slowly, then covered Kyle’s hand with his own. “Yeah. Mine too.”
Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was velvet. It wrapped around them, softened the corners, blurred the edges of everything sharp.
Kyle leaned in and kissed Diego’s collarbone. Then again, a little higher, to the base of his neck. Then tucked himself under Diego’s chin, nose brushing against the stubble he loved more than he ever said aloud.
“I felt it,” he murmured. “All of it.”
Diego’s hand slid up his back, fingers dragging lightly. “I wanted you to.”
Kyle smiled into his skin. “I was afraid I’d feel replaced. Or… erased.”
“You weren’t.”
“I know.”
Diego tilted his chin to rest his cheek atop Kyle’s head. “That man was a body. That’s all. A placeholder. A symbol. But you—you were the reason.”
Kyle nodded, his lips brushing Diego’s chest. “I know.”
They lay like that for a while, not sleeping, not speaking. Just absorbing. The weight of what had happened no longer felt dangerous. It felt honest.
Eventually, Diego chuckled softly. “That chair’s seen some shit.”
Kyle laughed—a low, raw sound. “It really has.”
“I should’ve replaced it years ago,” Diego murmured.
“Don’t you dare.”
Diego smiled. “Never. It’s a relic now.”
Kyle shifted again, head on Diego’s shoulder, one leg draped over his husband’s thigh. “So what happens next?”
Diego exhaled. “We sleep.”
“And after that?”
“We live.” A pause. Then, with more weight: “Together.”
Kyle let that sink in. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Only for you.”
Diego tightened his arms around him, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Only for you.”
And then they closed their eyes, two men in one bed, steady in the aftermath. No fireworks. No finale. Just this—love that had never broken.
If you’re drawn to ache, devotion, and the holy mess of love and lust, you’re in the right place. This is only the beginning. Let me know what you think of this journey, and where it should go next.
— Milo
