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“No more,” the plea spills from my lips as I'm caught in the freefall again, legs spread wide around his hips. It's his hands keeping them there. I can't feel anything except the aching, tingling space between my legs where I'm split open around him. He's not even touching my clit right now, but the sensation of it is still louder than everything. Almost. “No more.”
He slides in all the way, so deep inside me, and stops there. Leon's hands slide up my thighs, press into the little dimples in my hips. The palms of his hands grace the sides of my abdomen.
“Alright,” he says softly. He flips his hands, running his knuckles down my sides with gentle pressure. “No more.”
I'm floating, humming, untethered. I'm not in control. I haven't been since he kissed his way down my stomach two hours ago, since he'd settled his hands on my waist and asked me for everything. All of me in his hands. Promises were made in gentle swipes of tongue and delicate paths of fingertips that had long since been fulfilled. He'd wrung two, three, four from me and I could hardly move anymore.
It wells up so suddenly, a boat cresting on the water, brought in by the waves. All the while he's been tugging at strings, threading his fingers into knots and pulling until they come loose, and it's more than just my body. I feel myself unravel. Someplace deep in my chest loosens and comes undone and I feel the tears dripping, sliding down my cheeks before I even know they're in my eyes.
Leon lifts a hand off of my waist and reaches for mine where it lays loosely beside my head. He slides his fingers in between mine. I don't even have enough strength to squeeze back, to hold on, but I like the feeling of our hands wound together. He leans forward to press down closer to me. It shifts the angle he's inside me just slightly; my breath shudders. He grips my side, squeezing gently.
“‘M here,” he says quietly, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, the edge of my jaw. When his lips ghost over mine, I taste salt. “I'm right here.”
“Leon,” I whisper.
He pulls his hips back and rocks in again, and I whimper. The tears come slow, and from nowhere, tethered to no kind of tension, unlike the usual tightness that constricts my chest when I cry. I blink through them, stare up at him, lips parted in awe or absence. He's so immediately present. Stable. His eyes watch me with unremitting focus and immense tenderness. I wonder if he can see what he's done to me. If he knows what it is that he's undone.
“Kennedy,” comes next, floaty and soft, and he rocks out and in again, and this time my hips jerk. It tilts me into his pelvis and my breath seizes when it brushes my clit.
His hand on my waist moves lower, centers and rests under my belly button, just offering pressure, stillness. He almost looks apologetic.
“You keep saying my name,” he rasps, sliding his mouth over mine again, nose brushing my dampened cheek.
“Kennedy,” it comes again, an echo, falling from my open mouth.
There's a heavy noise low in his throat. He breathes, drags out and back in again. I see the restraint in the line of his jaw and the tension in his arms and shoulders. It's slow, controlled, even as he moves in me like he just can't help it, not when I’m here like this, not when I'm calling his name.
“Fuck,” he presses a kiss to the side of my neck, one just above my collarbone. “If you like it so much, it's yours.”
Leon sits back a little, pressing his cock just a little deeper, his hand on my stomach keeping me from writhing. I think it's for my own good. I'm terrified of the raw feeling pulsing between my legs and how I'm so sensitive that I think I might come again just by breathing too deep with him inside me. Leon lifts our hands to his mouth. He kisses the back of my ring finger, lets his tongue dart out and sucks just a little, just enough to leave a little wetness on my skin when his mouth is gone and our fingers unwind. It feels like a promise I'm too high for. One I might forget when I come down, folding two bare hands together in my lap and wondering why it feels like I'm missing something.
With freed fingers, faint feeling in the strings to my palm, I reach out for him. My thumb dips into his temple. My fingers slide through his hair. It's so soft, so pretty. Darker than it used to be, and longer too, with threads of gray sneaking in. I curl around the silky strands, let my nails scratch lightly against his scalp. One of those rarer low whimpers slips from his chest. His eyes remain open, though, sober and heavy on my face. It's undeniable. I love seeing him get older.
He breathes out low. His hands settle on my hips once more, and he holds me there between them. Then, slowly, he leaves my body, his cock sliding out half an inch and then an inch and more, dragging against my walls. My center of gravity is somewhere outside of my body and all of the matter that makes me up is concentrated between my legs and I'm trembling at the zenith. I think I'm squeezing around him in spite of myself. Tears spill again.
“I know,” he says, low and soothing. “Fuck. I've got you.”
He's been through hell and he's put people—monsters—through it, but gazing up at him from the mattress, I somehow get the impression that leaving my body is one of the hardest things he's ever done. He does it anyway, slides free, and then I'm empty again, empty and open and eyes falling closed in sweet relief. Leon folds over me and scoops my body up into his arms. I cling on tiredly. His skin is hot against my cheek, and he smells like sex and leather and wood, and as he carries me to the bathroom and deposits me on the counter I'm in a hundred different memories. I'm in an old t-shirt, bathing in the golden light on the deck of a safehouse with his arms banded around my waist. I'm in a backless dress at a charity gala and his fingers are splayed wide at the bottom of my spine, his voice low and lips brushing the shell of my ear. I'm on his lap in my apartment, crying against his shoulder because I can't keep my hands steady, and he's kissing my hair, making excuses for me.
Leon turns on the faucet and runs a clean cloth underneath. When it's damp with cool water, he runs it over my skin, starting at my neck and working down my arms and shoulders, to my abdomen and the tops of my thighs. His thumb brushes at my cheeks to clear away the delicate paths of salt. Then there’s another clean cloth run under the water, and he spreads my thighs and steps between them.
“Hi,” he kisses the corner of my mouth, keeps one hand on my thigh as he works the material gently between my legs, ever patient as my hips jump. My eyes close, brows furrow, and I do my best to settle down. He noses at my cheek; he lets me squirm, but not run. “I know. 'M sorry.”
His cock brushes against my thigh, and my eyes open, fall down his body, down his blessed abs and lower. He's still hard. God, he's still hard. He'd put me through four orgasms, but how many times had he come over the edge? Had he at all? I let my fingers flutter down, let them brush against the tip of it. Leon's hips jerk forward, the cloth halts, and his fingers tighten around my thigh.
“Fuck.”
“Leon,” I say softly. I'm not sure what the feeling is that blooms in my chest. Something like despair.
He meets my eyes. His hand leaves my thigh for a moment to grasp my fingers and pull them away from his cock, settling my hand up on his arm. I curl my fingers around the muscle.
“Hey, pretty girl. You were perfect,” he tells me. “I'm good.”
I know what he means. It isn't the first time it's been this way, where hours are spent only to make me come, to take me apart over and over until I seek out his mercy. Leon holds out. He won't follow me over the edge. He won't chase his own high. There was a night that he slid me down on his cock in the living room, rubbed and pinched and rocked me so that I came twice in his lap, whispering about how good I felt squeezing around him. Sometimes, it's all he asks for. It's enough. Any inklings of guilt- as I'm too spent, too blissed out, too sore, to try to make up the difference- are stamped out by his soft reassurances afterward. This is exactly what he wants.
His fingers resume the gentle sweeping motions of the cloth against my swollen pussy, light and gentle as he can be. That melancholy in my chest sits still. Breathless, and exhausted, and still humming, my fingers squeeze around his tricep.
“Please.”
After he cleans me up and lays me somewhere soft, he'll take care of himself. Sometimes he waits until I'm asleep to untangle himself from me and shower. Sometimes, when I don't want to be left alone, he'll stay close by, settle me against his hip, and let me watch.
Leon hums. “You want to stay?”
I nod.
He sets the cloth in the sink, seeming satisfied with his thoroughness, and centers himself between my legs. His hand cups my jaw. His fingers are all cool from the water.
“You're so damn pretty,” he says softly. Holding my head still, he leans forward and kisses me tenderly. "So sweet."
“Please,” I breathe against his mouth.
“Okay,” he relents. He lets go of my jaw and straightens out his shoulders, standing tall in front of me. “Be good for me.”
That's all the warning I get before he's reaching between our legs and wrapping a hand around his cock. He starts with slow, looser strokes that gradually tighten, becoming more thorough, sliding all the way up to the head and down to the base again. His breath hitches when his fingers squeeze at the tip. I wonder how it must feel. Good, I think. He's already worked up from fucking me for so long that it doesn't take long for his composure to start slipping. Little whimpers fall from his lips, and my belly tightens. I love seeing him like this. Relaxed, indulging in his own pleasure. He's earned it tenfold.
I know I'm not supposed to, but he's right in front of me, making the softest noises as his breath picks up, and I can't resist touching him. I press my fingertips up his arm, across his shoulder and the line of his neck, tracing over the body he's worked so hard to build. I slide my hand into his hair again. Leon's eyes rise to mine but he doesn't tell me to stop, so I tug just a little at the locks between my fingers. He grunts, and his eyebrows pinch together just a little in the middle, the softest look of pleasure crossing his face.
“Shit,” Leon breathes.
He braces his free hand on the counter beside my hip. It boxes me in where I sit. As he works himself in a steady rhythm, I see his hips starting to move towards his hand, trying to get more of what he's giving himself. It must feel so good. My cheeks flush with warmth. My fingers unwind from his hair. I brush it back from his face, and then let my hand wander again. He allows it to drift down his chest, where I trace the defined ridges of his pecs and his stomach. His abs are tight. His core squeezes with each movement that he rocks into his hand. I lay my palm flat on his abdomen and splay my fingers wide and watch him fist himself in adoration.
He keeps setting the pace with himself, pushing it higher. At some point he opens his mouth; a puddle of spit drips off of his tongue and onto his cock. Leon slows his thrusts just to spread it over the head with his thumb, moaning as he rubs at the very tip. I'm made aware of his other hand beside my hip. His knuckles are pale, he's gripping the counter so tight, but his thumb reaches out to press against the curve of my ass. The space of each of his breaths tightens up. He's close.
Leon backs off of the counter and one hand at a time, pulls my fingers away from his body, settling my palms against the porcelain instead. It's harder than it should be. I want his warm, solid body underneath my hands again the second I don't have it.
“Hey,” Leon murmurs, the moment they start to leave the cool surface in favor of him. “Sit still.”
His voice is deep, still warm, but it's the low, easy warnings that I like the most. They're just reminders of his capability, an extension of his control. He won't get rough, he won't get angry, he won't try to convince me of anything, he'll just follow through. I know I've pushed my luck a little already, so I settle down against the counter, feeling the weight in my hands and the contrast from his body.
The head of his cock is glistening, and he's squeezing harder now, hand moving faster and pulling the strokes tighter. He's going to come. I feel my own stomach tighten in response, my body still alive despite the exhaustion laying over the tops of my legs and my shoulders.
“Fuck,” he groans.
His fingers wrap around my jaw and he lifts my head until I meet his eyes, until I see the soft, hungry way he focuses on me, the pleasure that laps around the edges of whatever is left. My fingers squeeze the edge of the counter.
“Kennedy.”
He chokes, whimpers falling through a ragged exhale, and I feel the warmth licking at my belly, I feel it dripping down my skin. His eyes stay open even as his face contorts, softening with pleasure. Then he leans forward and kisses me again, and only then do they fall closed, just for a moment, to savor me. To soothe me. He releases my chin and steps back to survey his cum painted onto my stomach. I look down too. My fingers move curiously to my abdomen; they dip into a trail that runs near my hip.
Leon circles his fingers around my wrist. He picks up the washcloth from the sink, and wipes down my palm before going over each sticky finger. Then he moves to my stomach. Each pass is slow, gentle, just as it was before, clearing the evidence from my skin.
“Your cheeks are red,” he muses, wringing out the fabric at last and laying it over the sink. “Are you warm?”
“Mhm.”
“I'll get you some water.”
The residual droplets beaded on my skin is cooling me just a little, but I've been heated from his warm body, from the work he made mine do. Leon stares at me with much softer eyes now. He slips his hand into my hair, cupping the back of my head and smoothing his thumb along the curve behind my ear.
“You were so good for me,” Leon murmurs. “You okay?”
“I'm okay.”
He exhales softly and dips his head.
“So, so good,” he says quietly, kissing at my neck; soft, gentle presses against my carotid. I lift my arms and lay them over his shoulders. My eyes flutter shut at the closeness, and I sigh. His fingers tighten at the back of my neck, creating a gentle pressure for me. “Let me change the sheets, and then I'll take you to bed.”
“In a minute,” I whisper.
“Alright,” he says softly. “In a minute.”