Page 90 of Unwritten Rules
Zach doesn’t move for a few seconds, just kneels there, breathing, and he puts his hands behind his back, testing how it feels, fingers of one hand circling the wrist of the other. Light from the city outside filters in through the glass doors. And he might be visible, to anyone in a neighboring building, the shape of his back, the bend in his neck, Eugenio holding him where he wants.
“I could...” But Zach doesn’t know what he’s offering other thananything, his mouth, his hands, his cock. The prickles of tension at his temples, his knees complaining on the floorboards, a muscle in his hip beginning to bark at him. “But I don’t want to end up on the injured list, so if you could decide.”
Eugenio laughs, releasing Zach’s hair, offering him a hand up. “You look good like that. Though maybe next time, you should bring home your leg guards. C’mon.”
Zach strips when he gets to his bedroom, shucking his pants and shorts, his socks.
“Go lie down,” Eugenio says.
Zach has a bed frame with a real headboard, one he grasps, arms above his head, laying himself out. He curls his hands meaningfully around one of its wooden slats. “There’s a belt if you want.”
“That’d probably leave marks.” Eugenio is standing in just his underwear, palming himself, tattoos across his chest, the vine tracing up his hip, an emptied outline of California on his ribs.
“I can tape my wrists if there’s bruising.”
“I thought we were trying to keep you off the IL.” He comes around to the side of the bed, encouraging Zach over, pulling out his cock. He rubs it on Zach’s cheek, on his chin, across his lips, his hand guiding him, pressing his cock into Zach’s mouth.
It’s slow, the slide of it, messy, when Zach starts licking him, earning a yank of his hair. “Just let me,” Eugenio says. Eugenio moves him, pace unhurried, though he fucks deeper into Zach’s mouth, sinking and holding himself there until Zach has to breathe a little desperately through his nose, before retreating. Again, holding longer this time, the muscles in Zach’s throat working involuntarily around him. There’s spit down Zach’s face, on his lips and neck. His eyes start to water, especially when Eugenio punctuates it with a roll of his hips, head of his cock against Zach’s soft palette.
He pulls back, cock slick against Zach’s face, and he slaps him with it, sudden and pornographic, a wet sting.
“Don’t move.” Eugenio works himself, climbing on the bed, knees over Zach’s hips, hand and wrist working, thumb pressing into his foreskin. “I’m gonna come.” He does, over his own hand and Zach’s stomach, but mostly onto Zach’s cock where it’s hard against his belly, marking him with it.
“Should I?” Zach looks down at himself, streaked, cock an unhappy red, sac tightening up against his body.
“No.” Eugenio reaches, a little backhanded tap of him, then gripping his balls, pulling them down, away. “I have plans for this.”
Zach motions to his nightstand. “Here.”
Eugenio roots around in the nightstand drawer, retrieving a bottle of lube, pouring some in one of his hands and reaching behind himself.
“You’re not gonna let me do that?”
“You can. After.” The lube is cold when he squirts some on Zach’s cock, when he adds his spit, and the friction of his hand, when he dips his fingers into his come, wetting Zach with it. “All right.”
And he sits across Zach’s hips, positioning himself.
“I don’t have a lot of leverage from this angle,” Zach says.
“Use what you have, because I’m not going to help.” And Eugenio waits there, expectant, as Zach gathers the strength in his thighs and back and glutes, negotiating the limited space. As he pushes up and into him.
It’s a hard angle, Eugenio seemingly impassive, even as Zach presses past his rim, as he works his hips. Zach’s sweating, pricks of it on his forehead and down his spine, doing the kind of breathing he normally reserves for deadlifts.
“Does this feel good at all?” Zach asks, when Eugenio doesn’t move.
“Keep going.” Eugenio leans, halving Zach’s range of motion to a few grinding centimeters.
And Zach is panting, the muscles in his lower back burning, pressure building there, gathering, desperation beginning to mount.
“Hold still,” Eugenio says.
Zach’s hips are off the bed, the wooden headboard biting into his hands.
“Don’t move.”
Zach doesn’t, except for the fine trembling motions in his wrists, the automatic tense and roll of his hips. His arms start to shake with the effort, heat in his hands and face and back.
“I thought about this,” Eugenio says, “in New York when I was out with other people.”
