There was a way to do this, to surrender, and I let myself just feel Matthew’s fingers as they traced down my back.
Trapezius, lattisimus dorsi, ridge of my scapula, teres major, teres minor, deltoid. He circled again and the tension ebbed out of me. Third circle, and my eyes were open and the tiny check pattern of my quilt and the rough ecru loops of the towel swam in front my eyes.
“That’s better,” he whispered. “No one else will ever know about this, I promise you.” C2, C7, down my nuchal line, iliac crest, sacrum.
Downy hair became coarser. I exhaled slowly, deeply, and the mattress moved again.
I could wait.
Click. That was the cap of the lube. Squelch. Oh, yeah.
Long, long pause, and I could almost hear the rub of lube over latex as Matthew warmed the liquid for me. It made me smile.
Matthew chuckled, this warm sound beside my ear, then he kissed my cheek and settled back onto the bed close beside me.
The lube was cool, not cold, when Matthew trailed his fingers down the crack of my ass.
His breathing was slow and deep in the quiet room, over the faint hiss of the central heating, and his fingers traced the ridged skin.
Desire crept out, stood between me and the bedside light, casting its shadow over me, and one finger slid in easily.
“Oh, fuck,” I said.
I thought he’d make me turn over, make me even more vulnerable, but he didn’t. His finger see-sawed in and out and the towel was rough underneath me when I rocked my hips involuntarily.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” he said, and he licked his tongue over my ear. Helix, triangular fossa, concha, lobule, tragus. Two fingers. He was right; rubbing against the towel was going to hurt. I stilled my hips while I could.
The world shrunk in. I stopped being able to name the places that Matthew was kissing me, touching me. He didn’t touch me there, though there would soon be a time when he wouldn’t be able to avoid it. He was biting me now, moaning, too, and my back was slick with sweat. I could feel it trickling down my ribs.
He changed angles, pulled back, slid in with three fingers.
I started to fall apart, clutched at the bedding, ground down, and then back onto his hand.
He stopped, added more lube one-handed, and it was cold and sharp and slippery and stinging and so fucking good.
Matthew may have made a hell of a lot of noise earlier in the bar, but I was matching him now. This was beyond sexual, far too intense to only be about arousal or pleasure. This was all of me, and there was nothing else that did this to me.
Four fingers now, and there was no way Matthew could miss hitting the right spot inside me, but he didn’t give me a chance to adjust, just pulled his hand back, bunched his fingers tight, and pushed back in.
I yelled, top-of-my-lungs hollered, and was vaguely aware of Matthew laughing, then the pressure was over. I was completely overloaded with endorphins, blissed out, floating now, boneless, smiling beatifically, no doubt. F could keep his chemicals; they were no match for this place.
I couldn’t come like this; hell, I couldn’t talk or move, could barely breathe, and Matthew slid his hand back out.
“Wait for me,” he said, and he grabbed a condom and ripped the pack open while I rolled over, an inane smile on my face.
Taking him was nothing, though he was still considerate enough to go slow, presumably just in case I was sore.
I wasn’t; just kind of raw. There was a reason I had the very best lube there was in my drawer.
I didn’t last, didn’t have a chance, just came the instant he was inside me and kissing me, and it was the sort of orgasm that was blinding in its intensity. I came with all of me, every pore, every cubic centimeter of air in my lungs, every drop of fluid in my body, came utterly and completely.
It left me stupefied. I couldn’t do anything except grin back at Matthew and loop one anaesthetised hand around his neck and pull him down onto me.
Matthew grimaced, bit at his bottom lip, lifted himself up a little on his elbows, and I got to watch his face, entranced, while he came.
He slumped heavily onto me, making me grunt, “Oof,”
then slid a hand between us to grab the condom as he slipped out.
I could get both of my arms to move enough to wrap them around him as I let out a long breath. There wasn’t anything to say; there never was after sex like this.
Chapter Fifteen
Andrew was pretty much out of it, sprawled across the bed with a stupefied look on his face, so I kissed him and rolled off the bed. I bundled the gloves and condom up and dropped them in the bin in the bathroom, had a quick shower to rinse the lube off myself, and put Andrew’s bathrobe on.
It smelled of him, more so than even his sheets, and I must admit I smiled and buried my face in the collar as I made my way down the stairs.
Who would have thought that Andrew would be into fisting like that? Guess he wouldn’t want to wander around the hospital with a red bandana hanging out of his right pocket; someone would be bound to get it.
The bottle of wine was still half full, so I gathered up the bottle and glasses, and my backpack, and went back upstairs.
Andrew hadn’t moved, so I just let him be and stacked the pillows up against the bed head and opened my laptop. I’d started in on the revision questions, and was struggling with attempting to condense management of cystic fibrosis down to four paragraphs, when Andrew finally stirred.
“Ngghh,” he said, and he rolled over. Fuck, he was beautiful, the way he looked at me.
“Hey. You all right? Want some wine?”
“Yeah.” I figured he was replying to both questions, and held out a glass of wine as he struggled to sit up.
He spread the towel underneath himself and sat up against the bed head beside me, taking the wine. He looked out of it still, and I could understand that. It took a little while to get back to normal after a really intense fisting—after anything that intense.
My fingers intertwined with his, and he let out a long breath. He was right; it had been a long night.
“Was I bleeding?” he asked.
“No more than expected,” I said. “No tears. Next time, though, we do that with some poppers.”
Andrew laughed and squeezed my fingers. “Babe, at least one of us in this bed is a doctor. Tizanidine is what we need, not poppers.”
I looked at Andrew with the dawning realization that he was right; my days of using illicit drugs when there was a prescription alternative available were drawing to a close.
“Tizanidine?” I retrieved my hand from his and opened the pharmacology database on the laptop.
“Short-acting,” he said. “Not a restricted drug, so no one counts them closely. Won’t fuck me over so much that I can’t work the next day. Not a benzo, so it’s not addictive.”
I was stunned. There was a whole world of substance abuse that I knew nothing about. My housemates often asked about drugs, but I’d always approached it from the angle of trying to find something that was analogous to a street drug.
This was different.
“Fuck,” I said. “What else am I missing out on?”
Andrew’s hand slid up my thigh. “Dunno,” he said. “F is the expert on misusing drugs. I just remember that last time I wrote someone up for Tizanidine, it caught my attention.
Hadn’t expected to wind up being fisted quite this quickly, though. What gave me away?”
There had been that moment of insight, wild supposition, and Andrew had been so utterly submissive that I’d been sure a moment later. “It was the gloves in the drawer. You had powderless gloves there, and there’s only one thing you absolutely have to have powderless gloves for.”