Page 79 of Employing Patience

“I’m not giving you more until you’re relaxed,” he warns.

“I’m trying.”

“Talk to me, meu lutador. Tell me what you feel.”

And I might not have any clue what that word means, but it sends a thrill through me like last time.

“I don’t … have words …”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Hell no. But my stupid body doesn’t know if it wants you to keep going either.”

“Does it hurt?”

I shake my head.

“Are you scared of me going further?”

“A … a little. Not scared,” I hurry to clarify. “More … apprehensive.”

“Then we’ll stay like this until you’re ready.” And in the slowest movement ever, allowing me to feel every shift, Art drags his cock out and then presses the tip back in again.

Over and over, he slowly fucks me with the head of his cock, never pressing deeper, getting me used to the feeling of him entering me over and over. Blood pumps into my dick again, and where I was tense and unsure before, those feelings are rapidly being overrun by need. I need him to keep going.

His grip bites into my ass, spreading my cheeks as he builds up speed but still keeps things frustratingly shallow. He’s barely penetrating me, but somehow, that feels so much more intimate than if he’d slammed home. Like a nudge, a kiss, a brush, stimulating the nerves around my stretched opening, and the heavy breathing behind me clues me in that Art isn’t unaffected by this.

“Think you could get off like this?” I ask.

“Easily. This view I have will live rent-free in my mind for a long, long time.”

“With all those other men?”

He chuckles, pausing inside me just enough to drive me out of my skin, and leans forward to kiss the back of my neck. “Joey … you are incomparable.”

Ah, fuck. Apparently, that’s all I need to hear because insecurities be damned, this is the greatest moment of my life. With Art occupied, I press onto him, slowly, steadily, and he waits me out, giving me the freedom to take him at my own pace. Some of those feelings of being unsure threaten to take over again, but all I need to remember is how good it felt when only Art’s tip was moving inside me for my body to want more.

It feels like an eternity before my ass makes contact with his hips, and as soon as I’m impaled on him, Art grabs the front of my thighs and flexes forward, pressing himself even deeper.

It’s … it’s …

Goddamn perfect. His large, rough hands, his coarse pubes rubbing against my ass, the deep stretch, his nose pressed into the dip between my neck and shoulder.

I reach down for his arms and pull them up around me.

“Fuck me like this.”

He freezes.

Then lets out a long breath. “Okay.”

He barely pulls out with each thrust, just holds me tight against him and flexes his hips in a way that presses him in deep. Over and over, brushing that magic spot, filling me completely. I lean my head against his head, hold my hands against his hands, back to his front, thighs almost bracketed by his.

I’ve never felt so consumed.

And my cock has never been so angrily neglected.

Art keeps testing me, thrusts getting longer, faster, harder. Each one fills me completely and makes me think that I can’t take any more. But I do. I want it. Crave it. Knowing this is Art, after over a year of banter-filled foreplay, of flirting and teasing and steering us toward this point, only makes every movement, every touch more intense.

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