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Patrick leaned on him as they reached the door, his head on Art’s shoulder, one arm draped loosely around his neck. He was giggling about something, still slightly off-balance. Art kept them upright. He braced one hand on the doorframe and used the other to swipe the keycard. He missed the first time. He tried again. The light blinked green, and the door clicked open.
Patrick dropped his jacket onto the armchair. “Swear to God, if one more guy told me I ‘clean up well’ like it was a discovery—”
Art didn’t answer. He fell back onto the bed, shoes still on, tie askew. He landed with a dull thud and let himself sink into the mattress.
Patrick looked over, smirking. “You planning to sleep in that?”
Art closed his eyes. One arm reached toward Patrick, palm up, fingers loose. Patrick watched it for a moment. Then he sighed, sat at the edge of the bed, and placed his hand into Art’s. They stayed like that for a while. A shoulder shifted. Someone exhaled through the nose. Art’s thumb brushed the base of Patrick’s hand in an absent rhythm.
Eventually, Patrick moved. He sat up with a groan and started tugging at the knot of his tie.
“Definitely made this too tight.”
Art didn’t respond. He flopped an arm across his chest and muttered something under his breath.
“Drama queen.”
Patrick snorted. “You’re gonna get a leg cramp if you don’t at least kick off the shoes, Donnie.”
He got no answer, which made him softer in spite of himself. Patrick turned toward him, bent down, and started tugging at one of Art’s laces.
“Okay, so you saw that guy who kept following me around tonight, right?”
Art cracked one eye open. “Matthew?”
Patrick nodded, focused on the knot. “Yeah. Would not shut up. Talked to me about the shrimp, the wine, and the weather. He was down to talk about anything and everything.”
Art made a low sound, amused. “He’s a nice guy.”
“Sure. Probably is.” Patrick worked the knot free, a little rougher now. “But he’s not my type.”
Art shifted slightly on the bed. “You’re only nice to people you think are hot?”
Patrick looked up, offended. “Excuse you. I’m nice to everyone. You think I’m that vain?”
Art shrugged, lips twitching. Patrick went back to the shoe, slipping it off and setting it beside the bed. He moved to the other.
“I just knew he was trying something. No one asks about body count at a formal dinner unless they’re trying to see if the night’s gonna end horizontal.”
Art let out a soft laugh. “Okay. That’s weird.”
Patrick smirked. “Thank you.”
Art didn’t say anything else. Patrick reached for the socks. He peeled one off with ease and tossed it lightly onto Art’s chest. Art brushed it off without opening his eyes. Patrick pulled off the second sock slower, less theatrical this time, and dropped it to the floor. Then he leaned back on his palms and looked over at him. Art stretched out, legs finally freed.
Patrick’s gaze dropped to the ankle— still a little swollen. The light from the bedside lamp made it obvious now. “You didn’t say anything about this all night.”
Patrick’s voice was quiet as he reached down and brushed his fingers just above the bone.
“Was it holding up okay?”
Art was in the middle of pulling his tie loose, teeth working the knot out with a twist.
“It’s been on its best behavior, actually,” he said through his breath, exhaling as the tie slipped free. “Shocking, really. Thought I’d be limping around the room by dessert. Tash gave me an antihistamine for the swelling, just in case.”
Patrick made a thoughtful noise and took the foot in both hands. His grip was warm, steady. Art let him. He sank deeper into the mattress. Patrick rolled the joint slowly, rotating it with practiced caution. “Did you have anything to drink?”
His thumbs pressed along the arch of the foot, slow and firm. He watched the way the skin flushed, the way Art’s breathing shifted, quiet and deliberate.
“Haven’t you been watching me all night?” Art said. “No. Didn’t drink tonight. The drinks weren’t that good anyway.”
His shirt hung open now. His hands rested beside his ribs. His head tipped back on the pillow. A soft sound slipped from his mouth, low and almost surprised. “You’re a blessing in disguise, Doctor Zweig.”
Patrick didn’t look up. “I’ve been telling people that for years. Nobody listens.”
His thumbs pressed behind the ankle now, working at a tight spot. Art twitched slightly. “Relax,” Patrick murmured. Almost a whisper.
Art chuckled. “I am relaxed.”
Patrick lifted the first foot with both hands, gave it a last gentle squeeze, then set it down against the sheet. He moved to the other without asking, cradling it in his palms. Before starting, he bent his head and kissed the top of the foot.
Art startled. A soft, incredulous half-giggle slipped out. “Seriously?”
Patrick was already digging his thumbs into the sole. “Don’t act like you didn’t like it.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Exactly. You’re just talking because you like hearing yourself.”
“Oh, boo hoo,” Art smiled.
Another sound left him, this time closer to a sigh, and he melted into the mattress. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm under the lamplight. Patrick’s tie still hung around his neck, swaying as he worked.
“God,” Art murmured, eyes closing, “you’re really good at that.”
Patrick smiled, though Art couldn’t see it. “I know.”
Art stirred. His voice was low now, sleep-warm and teasing. “If you’re feeling generous,” he murmured, “you could take the rest of my clothes off.”
Patrick looked up, still holding his foot. He grinned, lazy and sharp. “Oh, now you want help?”
Art didn’t open his eyes. “Just thought I’d give you something to do with those hands.”
Patrick didn’t rush. He let go of Art’s foot and crawled up the bed, moving with quiet focus. His knees slid to either side of Art’s thighs. He looked down at the shirt. Already half-undone.
“Want this off?”
Art nodded. “Mmhmm.”
Patrick finished the buttons one by one, careful. He didn’t pull it off right away. Instead, he ran his hands across the cotton tee beneath it, dragging his palms slowly over Art’s sides, his ribs, and the soft slope of his stomach. Only then did he ease the shirt off his shoulders and toss it to the floor.
“This one too?” His fingers tugged lightly at the hem of the tee.
“Mmhmm.”
He lifted it inch by inch, knuckles brushing skin. Art raised his arms lazily to help. Patrick pulled it over his head, folded it without thinking, and set it aside. Now Art was bare-chested, skin flushed under the lamplight. He watched Patrick’s face. Something tight lived in the way he moved— like he was keeping his body reined in, just barely. Patrick looked down again. His hand moved to the button of the pants.
“These?”
Art’s voice was quieter. “Mmhmm.”
Patrick popped the button and drew the zipper down slowly. He dragged the pants off carefully, palms sliding over his legs as he went. When they reached his ankles, he gave them a gentle tug and let them fall into a heap at the foot of the bed. Art lay back in only his briefs; his blonde curls had started to fall out of their styled shape, damp at the edges. A few strands curled around his temple. He felt warm all over. Patrick stared at him a moment longer. Then he leaned down and placed his mouth to Art’s neck, slow and steady.
The first kiss was light, almost absentminded. Then another, just beneath the jawline. Then lower, dragging lips along the collarbone. Patrick’s hands pressed against Art’s ribs, thumbs moving slow and steady. He breathed in deeply and let out a quiet hum.
“God. You smell like—” He trailed off, mouth brushing behind Art’s ear. “Like something sexy and expensive,” he murmured. “Is that a new one?”
Art chuckled. The sound was warm, slightly winded. “Might be.”
“What’s it called?”
“Musc Ravageur. Frédéric Malle. Birthday gift from Tash.”
Patrick grinned. “You rich freaks and your French perfumes.”
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t wear it if it showed up in your bag.”
“You’re right. Remind me to steal it later.”
Art tilted his head, giving him more space. Patrick leaned in and pressed another kiss to his neck. “I like this,” he murmured. “The way you smell. The way you just let me…” Then he bit.
Art jerked slightly, groaning through a laugh. “Did you just fucking bite me?”
Patrick smirked, licked the spot in apology— then immediately winced, tongue recoiling.
“Ugh. Shit.”
Art blinked at him, grinning. “What?”
Patrick’s face twisted. “Got a mouthful of your damn perfume. It’s like licking a cologne counter.”
Art burst out laughing. “So my blood tastes bad?”
Patrick shook his head, dragging his tongue along his own teeth like he could scrape it off. “No, but whatever’s on your neck tastes awful.”
Art was still laughing when he reached up and ran his fingers along the tie draped around Patrick’s neck. The silk brushed his chest; it was soft and warm from his body.
“Your tie feels nice.”
Patrick looked down at him, eyes darker now. “You wanna keep it?”
“No,” Art said softly. Art ran his fingers along the edge of Patrick’s waistband.
“We still need to get your pants and socks off.”
Patrick didn’t hesitate. He moved quickly, standing just long enough to shove the pants down and toe off his socks. The boxers followed in the same motion, ending up in the same careless pile on the floor. He reached for the buttons of his dress shirt, working them open fast. Then he slipped it off and let it fall. The tie, though— that stayed.
Art raised an eyebrow. “No undershirt?”
Patrick shook his head. “Never wear them.”
“But don’t you worry about armpit stains?”
“I’ve honestly never thought about that,” Patrick said, walking back toward the bed. “Dry cleaning keeps things under control.”
Art nodded, accepting the answer. The man operated differently, but it was still respectable. Patrick climbed back onto the bed and settled between Art’s legs. He pressed a kiss to Art’s chest, then another. He worked his way down slowly, dragging his mouth across the ribs, the stomach, pausing just above the waistband. His fingers rested at the edge of the briefs, but he leaned in and pressed his face close enough to breathe him in. Maybe he took a whiff. Maybe it was just the heat. Whatever it was, he lingered there for a second too long, and Art felt the air change. Patrick kissed the fabric once, open-mouthed and warm. Then he looked up.
Art gave a soft nod. “Mmhmm.”
Patrick hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled the briefs down slowly. He let them slide past Art’s thighs, revealing his erection. His hands followed, palms brushing lightly, then firmer. His mouth opened. His tongue slid up the length in a single warm stroke. Then a swirl at the crown. Gentle. Playful. Without ceremony, Patrick took him into his mouth, easing down inch by inch.
He swallowed around Art’s cock until his lips brushed the base. Art moaned, the sound low and frayed at the edges. One hand moved to the back of Patrick’s head, fingers threading into the soft hair above the nape. The other clutched the tie still hanging from Patrick’s neck, fist closing around the silk like it was an anchor. Art’s fingers curled tighter as Patrick shifted the angle — deeper, closer — and let out a hum low in his throat.
The tie dragged faintly across Patrick’s cheek as he moved, catching between them. Art didn’t let go. Patrick pulled back with a breath, lips slick, eyes half-lidded. He wrapped a hand around Art and stroked in slow, steady passes.
“God,” he muttered. His voice was rough now. “You in those nice-ass pants tonight— you’re right, I couldn’t stop watching you. From across the room. Sitting, standing, even when you were just adjusting your watch.”
A sound caught in Art’s throat. A flush crept across his face. “Yeah?”
Patrick chuckled, thumb dragging gently along the slit. “You were so handsome tonight.”
Art’s breath hitched. “You really thought so?”
Patrick looked up, still working him in his hand. His voice softened. “I know so,” he said. “My handsome little blonde boy. All dolled up, chatting it up with a room full of CEOs and sponsors and whatever the hell that French guy was. You didn’t even flinch. I was impressed.”
Art let out a small laugh, half sheepish. “I’ve had a few years to shake the awkward teen out of me.”
Patrick’s grin curled. “Yeah. And look at you now.” He leaned forward and rested his cheek against Art’s hipbone. “You grew yourself into a man I can’t take my eyes off of,” Patrick murmured. “Confident. Gorgeous. God, you’re a specimen.”
Art’s hand moved gently through his hair now, slower than before, almost shy. But he didn’t disagree. Patrick stayed there a while longer, resting against him, moving only when Art’s fingers tightened slightly in his hair. With a soft tug, Art spoke.
“Me or Matthew?”
Patrick scoffed. “Stupid-ass question, Donaldson.”
“Answer me, Zweig.”
“You. All day. Every day.”
Art tugged him in by the tie, fingers curling just beneath the knot. Patrick followed easily, his body loose with trust. As their chests pressed together, Art’s other hand found him: wrapped around Patrick’s cock with slow assurance, holding him at the base. Patrick sucked in a breath.
“You get hard so easily,” Art murmured. “You always this desperate, or is it just for me?”
Patrick’s mouth opened to speak, but nothing came out.
Art grinned. “Thought so.”
He pulled him into a kiss. It wasn’t like the earlier ones. It overtook everything. Patrick moaned into it, soft and broken. Their hips began to move, just a slow grind, cock to cock, the press of skin building heat between them. Art rolled his hips to match. The friction caught and spread. Patrick's breath stuttered. His hands clutched Art’s waist like he was holding on for balance.
“You’re already shaking,” Art whispered into his mouth. “You gonna fall apart on me?”
Patrick didn’t answer. He just kissed back harder, tongue eager, breath caught in his chest.
Art let the tie slide a little tighter through his grip. “You like when I take my time with you?”
Patrick nodded, desperate.
“Yeah, I know you do.”
He ground up again, slowly. Their bodies moved together with rhythm. “Look at you,” Art murmured, voice low against his lips. “My pretty little mess.”
Patrick whimpered into the kiss, and Art swallowed the sound whole. Patrick pulled back slightly, just enough to breathe. His grin had changed into something a little sharper. “You think you’ve got control right now?”
Art smirked, steady. “Feels like it.”
Patrick let out a short laugh, shook his head. “You forget I knew you before the confidence. Before the big talk.”
He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate. “You remember the first time we fucked?”
Art nodded. “You bottomed.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed, still smiling. “Shut up.” He leaned in, dropped his voice to a mock moan. “‘Oh, Patrick… please, I can’t… oh God—’”
Art scoffed. “I remember it differently.” He wrapped a hand around Patrick’s cock and gave a firm tug. Patrick clenched his teeth, hissed through it. His eyes lit up with something wild.
“You little shit.”
Art didn’t let go. Patrick bit his lip. “I could still leave you for anyone I wanted, though, couldn’t I?”
Art's grip loosened just slightly. His chest lifted with a small, careful breath.
“Wait…” he murmured.
The grin on Patrick’s face faded, even if the edge stayed in his voice. “But doesn’t it turn you on?” he asked, quieter. “That guys like Matthew want me so bad… and I’m here. On top of you.”
Art nodded slowly, still unsure. Patrick brought a hand to Art’s face, smoothing a thumb beneath his eye. “Fuck,” he said quietly. “I fucked up.” His brow creased just slightly. “You don’t have to worry about me leaving, okay?”
Art looked at him, open but quiet. Patrick leaned in again, his breath hitching. He bit his lip again, hips twitching. “I need you inside me.”
Art blinked. A slow grin started to spread across his face. “Yeah? That so?”
“I’m not kidding,” Patrick said, voice ragged. He tried to laugh through it, but it broke halfway.
“You looked so goddamn good tonight, Donnie. The hair, the pants, the cologne. The way you were talking to people like it was nothing — charming the hell out of everyone — God, it was driving me insane.”
Art raised an eyebrow and leaned toward the nightstand. One hand dragged across Patrick’s waist as he reached. “Oh yeah?”
“Something about you tonight,” Patrick groaned, eyes falling shut, “just made me feel... hot and bothered in the most biblical way possible.”
Art looked back at him. “Biblical?”
“I needed absolution,” Patrick said deadpan.
Art barked a laugh. “Jesus Christ.”
He cracked open the drawer, pulled out a small bottle of lube and a wrapped condom. As he looked back at Patrick, his smile lingered. “We using this just in case?”
Patrick glanced at the condom, then back to Art. His cheeks were flushed, lips parted, chest rising with quick breath. “Honestly?” He licked his lips. “I’ve been, uh… keeping things clean. On purpose.”
Art narrowed his eyes. “Oh?”
Patrick shrugged, too pleased with himself. Art stared at him for another second. Then he tossed the condom back into the drawer. “You’ve definitely been planning this.”
Patrick didn’t even try to deny it. He grinned like a man caught red-handed. Art leaned in again, wrapped the tie around his hand, and gave it a slow, steady tug. Patrick followed until they were nose to nose.
“Good boy,” Art murmured, low and fond. “Taking care of yourself for me.”
Patrick melted, his breath shallowing out. Art kissed him again, slower this time, letting it linger. He dragged his hand down Patrick’s back, fingers splayed, pressing in like he could feel the heat humming under skin. Patrick whimpered into his mouth and rocked forward.
“C’mon,” he mumbled, voice frayed. “Don’t make me beg.”
“But you’re so good at it,” Art protested.
Patrick huffed a laugh out of frustration. His hands trembled at Art’s sides. Art reached between them. He slicked his fingers then paused— waited until Patrick opened his eyes.
“Want me to get you ready?”
Patrick nodded so fast it bordered on desperate. “Please. Just— yeah. Please.”
Art kissed him once more, then pulled back slightly. He guided Patrick onto his back, spread across the mattress, curls sticking to his temple, lips still kiss-bitten. Art knelt between his legs. He worked his fingers down, tracing the curve of Patrick’s thighs before reaching behind. He circled the rim with careful pressure. Then pressed in.
“Fuck— okay—” Patrick’s hands clutched at the sheets, then at Art’s arms. Art moved slowly, gradually easing in deeper. His free hand stroked Patrick’s hip. He twisted two fingers inside, pressing to the inner walls until Patrick’s legs trembled.
“That’s it,” Art whispered. “You’re opening up so easy.”
Patrick’s head fell back. His voice was hoarse. “I told you— I’ve been ready.”
Art slid in a third finger, and Patrick arched. His toes curled against the bedspread. He moved in a slow rhythm, caressing warm insides until Patrick was panting and pulling him in by the shoulders.
“Now,” Patrick said. “Come on, Donnie, just— please.” Art kissed his knee, then his hip, then leaned forward and reached for the lube again. He rubbed lube along his dick and lined up, guiding the tip of it to Patrick’s entrance. Patrick looked up at him, dazed and burning.
“You want it like this?” Art taunted.
Patrick nodded hard, heels digging into the mattress.
“All the way,” he said. “Don’t think about holding back.”
Art pushed forward, slow and careful, watching every flicker of expression across Patrick’s face. He sank into him inch by inch. Patrick cursed low, one hand clapping over his mouth to muffle the sound. His legs wrapped around Art’s hips, anchoring him there. Art kissed his knuckles and rocked in deeper.
“You feel—” he whispered, the words falling apart.
Patrick dragged his hand away. “Say it.”
Art thrust again, slow and deep. “You feel fucking perfect. It reminds me…” Art spoke quietly, eyes flicking up. “Back when we first really had sex. Like, actual sex. I can still hear it—how you broke. And the look on your fucking face. God."
Patrick let out a breathy laugh, shifting slightly against the pressure. “Jesus, Donnie."
Art’s smile was smaller, but deeper. “You remember now?”
Patrick nodded, barely. Art leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, still holding the tie between them like a tether. “Good,” he said softly. “I plan on reminding you.”
Patrick couldn’t speak. He could barely think. He loved the way Art looked at him — still looked at him — even now, like he was something to admire. He was watching a fire he didn’t want to put out. Art pushed into him, hips slow and deep. Then again, harder, mouth slack and open, brow furrowed in that dreamy, unguarded way Patrick secretly adored. His hair was starting to curl at the edges from sweat. His jaw twitched every time he hit deep.
Patrick’s legs trembled slightly where they wrapped around Art’s waist. He couldn’t get over the way it smelled: sweet from his own cologne, sharp from Art’s skin, and under all of it the warm, almost savory scent of them together. It soaked into the sheets. Into the back of Patrick’s neck. Into memory. Then Art slowed. Just for a beat. And yanked the tie.
Patrick panted, dragged slightly forward. Before he could register it, Art drove into him again, hard enough to bottom out, filling him completely. A full-body tremor shook through him. Each time Art did it—slow, pull, thrust—he hit just right. Patrick saw stars. Heat fired through his limbs like a metronome, steady and perfect. He could feel the rhythm in his fingertips, his spine, his throat. He gripped the sheets beside his head, knuckles white.
Then Art spoke, low and half-wrecked. “You seriously just gonna take it like this?”
Patrick’s lips parted, breath stuttering out. “Huh?” he whispered, voice thin and broken.
Art thrust again, stupidly deep, then stilled. “I asked you a question.”
Patrick blinked up at him, dazed. His mouth moved before sound could come out. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I’m just gonna take it.”
Art’s grip on the tie didn’t loosen. “You’re not gonna fight me?”
Patrick shook his head.
“You’re not gonna beg?”
Another shake. He looked too far gone to lie. Art leaned in, brushed his mouth along the edge of Patrick’s jaw, the heat of him heavy and patient. “You’re just gonna let me fuck you stupid?”
Patrick moaned, helpless. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t stop.”
Art pulled back and drove into him again. He enjoyed how Patrick seemed to clutch around him as if to welcome his efforts. His hips met the backs of Patrick’s thighs with a steady slap. Patrick arched, mouth falling open, eyes fluttering. He clutched at Art’s back, nails grazing down muscle, anchoring himself as his body was rocked forward, again and again. Each thrust met the same spot — glans against prostate, pubes against perineum — and left him gasping.
Art’s voice was low, unshaken. “You take me so well.”
Patrick let out a noise that couldn’t decide if it was relief or desperation. His whole body trembled now, every muscle taut and burning. Art slowed for just a second, pulled out until only the head remained. And there he stayed.
“Please,” Patrick whined.
Art gave the tie a tug. “Say you need it.”
Patrick’s voice cracked. “I need it.”
“Need what?”
Patrick swallowed hard. His hand fumbled for Art’s wrist, clutching tight.
“Need you to— Please—just—fuck—”
Art slammed back in— brutal this time. Patrick cried out, a shiver ripping through his whole frame. He grabbed onto Art’s grip around the tie, desperate for anything to hold himself together as Art thrust into him unerring.
“Good boy,” Art murmured again. “You’re taking me like it’s all you know how to do.”
Patrick whimpered, the praise flooding him with something hot and dizzying. He rocked back against every thrust now, hips twitching upward to meet Art halfway. His own cock bobbed between them, flushed and leaking, woefully untouched. Every time Art hit deep, precum smeared across his stomach.
Art eventually noticed. He slowed again, pulled out just enough to look.
“You haven’t even touched yourself.”
Patrick shook his head, teeth clenched.
“You hard just from me fucking you?”
Patrick nodded.
“Jesus.” Art’s voice caught. “You’re really all fucking mine, huh?”
Patrick groaned. His head tipped back against the pillow, curls damp with sweat. He looked almost ruined. Beautiful.
“Say it,” Art demanded. “Say who you belong to.”
Patrick opened his mouth. Nothing came out at first. Then—breathless, trembling— “You. I’m yours.”
Art pulled him in by the tie and kissed him rough, teeth against teeth. Then he fucked him even harder. Patrick broke into fragments, mouth open around moans, fingers locked into Art’s back like he’d never let go. The words snapped something in Patrick. His smile, when it came to, was dangerous.
Still panting, he reached for the fist clenched around his tie and tugged it closer. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to the knuckles. His tongue followed, tracing along the ridge, licking across the back of Art’s hand, then between the fingers. Art swore low and strained. His rhythm faltered.
Patrick kept going. Teasing. Worshiping. Acting like he could taste something more than sweat — control, maybe. Power. The moment stretched. Art stopped moving altogether, just watching him. Patrick kissed higher, mouth dragging over the inside of Art’s wrist, then the curve of his forearm. Inch by inch he kissed until he reached the elbow. Art didn’t stop him. He lay back fully, breathing hard, arms slack.
With a shift of weight, Patrick straddled him. Art’s head pressed deeper into the pillows. His eyes were half-lidded, lips parted. Patrick’s trembling thighs framed his hips. The length of Art’s cock now rested between them. Patrick started to move into slow, deliberate grinds that made both of them gasp.
Art groaned, voice gone thin. His hands found the tie again, tugged it lightly.
“You’re leaking all over yourself,” he murmured, eyes low.
Patrick didn’t hesitate. “Shut the fuck up.”
The words landed fast, rough. Art gave the tie another tug. His voice dropped.
“You wanna say that shit again?”
Patrick froze mid-grind. Then, slow as sin, he smiled. That grin bloomed like a dark bruise. He lifted his hips just enough to reach down. Wrapped a hand around Art’s cock. Lined it up. The head nudged right where he needed it. Then he sank down without teasing.
Inch by inch, Patrick took him in until he bottomed out fully, seated flush in Art’s lap, his whole body shivering. Stretching gave way to fullness. He ground down, letting the dick inside him rub against his prostate. He leaned in close. Eyes wild. Breath hot.
“Shut. The fuck. Up.”
Art couldn’t speak. He could only watch. Watch the way Patrick started to ride him — steady, unhurried, the tie swaying with every motion. The way he kept eye contact, pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, curls damp and sticking to his forehead. That stupid smirk still carved onto his face like it had nowhere else to go. His breath came in ragged pulls. Every exhale sounded earned. And God, Art loved seeing him like this. Cocky and desperate. In control and unraveling. Like he didn’t know what to feel first. It made something misfire in his brain.
He gripped Patrick’s waist, tight enough to bruise. He wanted to feel him. Patrick moved like he was made for this. Like his body was designed for it. Each rise and fall was practiced. Memorized, even. Like they’d done this in dreams a thousand times and were only now catching up.
Art hadn’t really had sex like this. Not with other guys. Maybe a few blurry nights, some jerking off in the dark, a clumsy blow job or two. Nothing that mattered. But this — Patrick on top of him, working himself open, rhythm tight and purposeful, mouth parted, tie tight between them — this would stay.
Every time Art got too close, he tugged the tie. Patrick always understood. He’d slow down, settle into a grind instead of a bounce, letting Art breathe. His hands would press flat to Art’s chest, and he would rest his body weight until Art’s breathing grew hindered. From below, Patrick looked monstrous, his thighs flexed and trembling from effort, his whole body strung tight like a bow. Strong and stubborn and beautiful. It made Art dizzy.
That’s when he decided. He wanted to fill him. To wreck him in a way that left a mark no one else could touch. If it were another world, he’d breed him. Make him carry the proof. But here, now, this was what he had: Patrick clenching around him, grinding down with maddening precision, whispering filth like he wanted to be ruined for good.
Then Patrick started to move faster, fucking himself on Art’s cock now, not just grinding, but bouncing with intention. His breath broke apart into small, stuttered moans, and he braced himself with one hand while the other kept the tie looped tight.
He looked like a vision, something holy in how completely undone he was. And he still hadn’t touched himself. He just took it. He just worked himself open, drunk on the fullness that Art gave him. And Art… Art could barely hold it together. Art’s thoughts scattered like glass.
His eyes rolled back as pleasure struck. “Fuck,” he gasped, hips jolting upward. The motion was reflex. There was nothing else to say. Not with Patrick like this. Not when he was still riding him, deep and steady, soaked in sweat and lit from the inside.
“Fill me up, Donaldson.” Patrick’s breath caught in his throat. His smile flickered. But his hips never faltered. He kept moving, fucking down with every ounce of focus left in his body. Art clutched the tie like it was the only thing keeping him from drowning. He didn’t pull this time. Just held tight. Let it dig into his fingers. Patrick leaned in, curls sticking to his brow, his chest slick where it hovered just above Art’s. His voice was hoarse, caught between a gasp and a dare.
“Beg me not to stop.”
Art’s mouth opened. “Don’t stop,” he breathed, barely a whisper.
Patrick ground down harder. “Again.”
“Don’t—don’t stop.”
His rhythm faltered, slowed to a cruel, torturous grind.
Art’s voice cracked. “Keep going, Pat—don’t fucking stop—”
He bucked up into him, wild and sharp. Patrick moaned, sharp-edged, laughing through it.
“You’ve gotten good at that,” he panted, settling lower, pinning Art with his knees. “Fill me up, baby.” He sank down, deep and slow, milking another sound from Art’s throat.
Then, softer now, but just as sharp: “Did you hear what I said?”
Art nodded, frantic. Neck arched. Lips parted like he couldn’t breathe right.
Patrick slowed again, letting the space stretch. “Say it back to me.”
Art blinked. His chest stuttered. “F-fuck—”
Patrick waited.
Then Art spoke, broken and wrecked: “Fill you up,” he whispered, then louder, filthier— “fuck—wanna come so deep you’ll feel it in your fucking throat—”
It hit him mid-sentence. His hips surged up hard, driving deep, snapping tight with a full-body spasm. He spilled into Patrick in sharp, pulsing waves. Patrick gasped — eyes wide, smirk even wider — as the heat flooded through him. He slowed but didn’t stop, savoring every second, rocking down with care, letting his body take all of it. He rode the aftershocks with long, aching rolls, clenching around every last pulse, dragging it out and milking it.
Art whimpered beneath him, legs twitching, hands desperate. He reached for the tie and yanked Patrick down to kiss him. All teeth and tongue and saliva, like he needed to push the rest of himself inside too. Patrick moaned into his mouth. His thighs trembled even more. His whole body shook like the tension hadn’t released. He still held Art’s cock inside, moving up and down slowly.
The kiss broke apart. Patrick looked far away, and his body was shaking. His shoulders were tense, and his hands were clutching at Art’s chest. Art saw the way Patrick’s mouth parted around a gasp, eyes dazed and glassy.
“Pat,” he said softly.
Patrick blinked.
“I know you’re close.”
Patrick nodded, too far gone for words. Art reached up, brushing sweat-soaked curls from his face. His palm cradled his cheek, thumb dragging lightly along the edge of his jaw.
“Look at me.”
Patrick did.
“You’ve been so good for me.”
Patrick whimpered, shivering at the sound.
He moved quicker, sliding on Art’s cock with trembling legs. It seemed that he found the perfect angle, rubbing his prostate again and again with every stroke.
“You ride me like you were made for it,” Art murmured. “You take me so deep, Pat. I can feel how close you are.”
Patrick nodded again, teeth clenched. Art let the tie slip from his hand and ran both palms down his sides then back up to cradle his waist.
“Give it to me,” he whispered.
That did it. Patrick’s whole body locked up, then jolted. He came with a choked cry, cock pulsing untouched between them, leaving ropes of come on Art’s chest. His thighs quaked. His hands clutched anything he could reach. Art held him through it. Held him steady. Let him ride it out until the spasms dulled and the rhythm fell away.
Patrick collapsed forward. He landed with his forehead against Art’s neck, panting, the tie still draped between them. Art stroked his back, slow and rhythmic, like smoothing down feathers.
“You did so good,” he whispered. “You looked so fucking beautiful when you came.”
Patrick laughed, the sound more like a broken sigh. “You didn’t have to say it like that,” he mumbled against Art’s skin.
“I wanted to.” Art’s lips brushed his temple. “You deserved it.”
—---
They stood in the fogged-up bathroom, barely moving. Patrick leaned against the counter, hair dripping, towel slung low around his hips. Art stood behind him, one hand on his waist, the other holding a washcloth.
When Patrick finally spoke, his voice was quiet. His eyes were focused on Art’s reflection.
“Do you think anyone heard us?”
Art pressed a slow kiss to his shoulder, looking back at him through the mirror.
“Probably. We were pretty—” He made a vague motion with the washcloth. “—expressive.”
Patrick snorted. “You’re expressive. I think I was dying.”
Art grinned, but didn’t argue. He reached for the towel and patted Patrick’s back dry. Eventually, they made it back to bed, and there they laid in silence. Just breathing. Patrick's weight rested heavy against Art’s chest. Art was the first to speak, but in a syrupy, god-awful accent.
“Was that as good for you as it was for me, babygirl?”
Patrick groaned against his shoulder. “Oh my God—”
Art grinned. “Tell me, sugarplum.”
“Seriously, just stop talking.” But Patrick was already chuckling, his voice muffled against the damp skin of Art’s neck.
Art pushed on, relentless. “I wanna marry you,” he crooned. “Take you away from all this. Get a little cottage in Vermont—maybe open a candle shop—”
Patrick barked a laugh and lifted his head just enough to glare.
“You’re unbelievable. It’s not even funny. And if you keep talking,” he added, voice dropping low, “I’m gonna take you seriously.”
Art’s grin softened. He looked up at Patrick, something warm in his expression — open, almost shy. He lifted a hand and cradled the back of Patrick’s head, pulling him in for a kiss. This one was light. When he pulled away, he didn’t let go.
“I wouldn’t mind that,” he said quietly.
Patrick looked at him for a long time. His face was unreadable at first. Then he pressed their foreheads together and closed his eyes. His voice was softer now. “I don’t wanna leave, you know.”
Art didn’t say anything. He just ran a hand down Patrick’s spine. Patrick kept going.
“I keep thinking about this one time, when you said something about me marrying someone and vanishing into a white-picket-fence life—” He stopped and swallowed. “It got to me.”
Art’s chest rose beneath him. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he assured.
“I know. But you were right.” Patrick opened his eyes, stared at the edge of the bedsheet. “I’ve been thinking about the next step for so long — career, sponsors, image, all that shit — I forgot to think about where I’d want to be.”
Art ran his fingers through the curls at Patrick’s nape.
“I’m still figuring it out,” Patrick murmured. “But this? You? I don’t wanna lose it.”
Art blinked up at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned and kissed the side of Patrick’s face. Then his jaw. Then, his temple. “You’re not gonna lose me,” he said simply. “Not unless you want to.”
Patrick’s breath hitched. They lay there a while longer, skin to skin, listening to the quiet of the room settle around them. Patrick’s hand found the edge of the tie again, now crumpled and cool against the sheets. He traced it idly with his thumb. “I’m keeping this,” he said.
“Good. I want you to.”