Page 26 of For Real

The last coherent thing left in my brain is: Oh, so this was what I was looking for.

And then I let him fuck me into a mindless, moaning, trembling mess, and I love it. I completely love it. I can’t even get a handle on when I begin to come. It’s like I’m coming the whole damn time. Everything’s just a blur of sweat and heat and the strength of him, pounding into me, pushing me higher and higher and deeper and deeper until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t see, can only feel and feel and feel.

I’m making such a bloody racket I only half notice he’s saying my name.

I say…everything.

Yes. God. Fuck. There. That. Harder. Deeper. Yes. Yes. Ohhhhhhh yes.

Embarrassing porny stuff I can’t even believe is coming out my mouth.

I think I maybe tell him I love him.

Because, right now, I do. I totally do.

At some point, God, it’s not even like it crests, but something happens to the pleasure. It pulls in tight as a universe, and then it’s everywhere like falling stars, and I’m just taken by it. By him.

Little death, my arse. It’s a fucking massive death.

And I die for ages.

Next thing I know, I’m kind of limp and fucked, my lungs tight and my heart pounding, my hands aching from where I’ve been holding on.

My fingers uncurl and my knees give out by inches until I’m flat on my face, and he’s still buried inside me, which is just on the verge of being unbearable, except I don’t want to lose him or a single last second of this pleasure. Though what I’m experiencing right now is way too big for pleasure.

I think it might be rapture.

He comes down on top of me, catching himself on his elbows before he smooshes me like a grape.

“Unghh,” I say.

“Toby.” Wow. He can still do words. “Toby…can I…”

Well. Ish. He actually sounds about as wrecked as I do. My balls do this weird sort of spasm thing—like they’re checking their pockets for anything else they can squeeze out my cock—and come up empty.

I wish I could see him. I can sense the strain in him as he shudders against my back, but he probably looks amazing right now. Nothing but taut muscles, ferocity, and desperation.

I want to tell him to turn me over and finish that way, so I can watch him come apart in me, for me, because of me.

But all I can get out is, “Yuhhhh.”

“Oh God.” His voice breaks with need and gratitude.

And I made him feel that too.

A few thrusts is all it takes, and honestly, that’s a relief because, yeah, it kind of hurts. But his hands reach round me and find mine and we tangle up together and that’s how he gets there. Clinging to my fingers, his body pressed tight to mine, his mouth open against the back of my neck where he lavishes my skin with all his smothered groans.

He comes gasping my name.

And I’m seriously starting to love the way he says it. It doesn’t sound like me anymore. It sounds like some other, different, better Toby. A Toby who can bring someone to his knees. A Toby who gets expertly fucked.

His Toby.

I don’t know how he manages it—same magic as whatever makes him awesome at sex, I guess—but he eases out of me carefully and without too much mess. I hear the schloop of a condom coming off, and then he falls onto his back next to me.

We lie there a bit.

There’s lube drying in weird places. And to say I’m in a wet spot would be to seriously underplay the enormous ocean of come he’s amazingly fucked out of me.

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