Cooper gathered the blindfold in his fist until it sat snug on Park’s throat. Like this, it couldn’t possibly choke him, but it did give Cooper a sort of makeshift collar to tug on. Which he did. “Fuck me. I want you to fuck me.”

“How do you want me to fuck you?

“Hard,” Cooper begged. “So hard I can’t move tomorrow without remembering who—who I belong to.”

Park snarled, pulled back, then slammed into Cooper. At this position it felt impossibly deep, and a prickle of tears appeared as Cooper’s heart launched up into his throat. Not pain, exactly, but surprise and that bone-deep ache of being completely and utterly taken.

He was just able to focus on catching his breath when Park thrust into him again and again, setting a demanding pace that Cooper urged on, guiding him, pulling him deeper, closer with one hand and grasping his own dick with the other, stroking himself frantically.

“Whose ass is this?” Park demanded. “Tell me who owns your slutty little hole?”

“Yours, yours,” Cooper said. He started to moan, approaching the edge now, punctuated by gasps and the slap of flesh on flesh. Cooper registered distantly that Park was staring down at his face intently, pupils so blown that all that remained was gold rings.

Gold rings.

Cooper was sure that any other time he’d think connecting Park’s friggin’ eyes to wedding rings embarrassingly trite, nonsensical sentiment he’d rather die than repeat. But right now—on the edge of orgasm, system going haywire—it seemed like the most poignant, poetic miracle in the universe.

Cooper laughed as he came, overflowing with feeling. Pleasure and joy.

He felt Park stiffen and jerk his own orgasm deeply within, making a broken sound, before collapsing heavily on top of him, forcing Cooper’s legs farther apart in a way that would have been uncomfortable if he had been capable of noticing anything but banked satisfaction. They drifted for one or many moments before Park pulled out and rearranged them on the couch, rolling Cooper over to rest facedown on Park’s chest, lulled by his heartbeat. Soon Cooper’s body would protest with all the dismay and outrage of middle age. But for now, all the happy sex hormones, and quite possibly shock at the audacity of it all, kept his bones relatively silent.

Park’s hand stroked lazily up and down his spine. He was just resigning himself to sleeping on the couch when Park spoke, his chest rumbling beneath Cooper.

“I know we like to laugh during sex, but cackling as you come is a new one,” he said mildly.

“Mmm. I was struck by something poetic. Blame my muse.”

“Does your muse get to hear the poetry?”

Cooper smiled, but wasn’t quite willing to expose his rambling, sex-brain thoughts, which, as predicted, seemed entirely absurd now. Park couldn’t even wear rings because of the shifting.