I bite my bottom lip as he eases into me, his eyes fixed on mine, gauging every reaction. Savoring every whimper. It’s slow at first, torturous and exquisite. Testing of limits. Relishing in sensation.

Pain flirts with pleasure in that way that makes me crave more of both. The stretch he creates. The heat of him. The way he fills me.

“Can you take a little more of me?” he begs as he shifts his hips and pushes even farther into me.

My head dizzies and my nerves sing with a headiness like I’ve never felt before.

When he’s all the way in, when I’m gasping to form some version of coherent thought, he stills with a groan. “Fuck, Hendrix,” he says, and it sounds like a prayer.

He stays like that, so deep inside me, that everything else fades away until all I feel is him. Until all I know is him.

He begins to move. Slowly. Firmly. Stretching me in every way imaginable until it feels like there will never be enough of him inside me because nothing has ever felt this good or this right or this perfect.

“Jase.” It’s only his name on my lips. It’s only his body I feel.

My mind becomes a haze of incomplete thoughts. Of praise I want to say and directions to what I like. Of pleasure like I’ve never felt before.

“Fuck,” he grunts as he begins to pick up speed, as his hips get faster and rougher and more desperate with each thrust. The sound of our skin slapping together barely audible over my pleas for more, for harder, for faster. For simply him.

I cling to him as everything blurs together: my need for air, my desire for more, my want to make this last forever and then the urgency to claim my orgasm.

I’m gone and lost, my body moving with a mind of its own to get closer, to sink deeper into the sensation he’s creating.

The world is reduced to just us: heat and skin and friction. Until it feels like we’re both catching fire. Until it feels like we’re both burning. Scorching. Consumed by each other and how alive we feel.

“Come for me, Hendrix,” he demands just as my vision starts to fade, just as my pulse starts to race even faster than it already is. “Come for me before I lose my fucking mind.”

He works harder—hands and lips and cock and . . . just everything. So that when my orgasm slams into me, there is no point of return.

There’s no saying I don’t know what good sex feels like anymore.

It’s just him driving me to plummet over the edge without any ability to hold myself back. There’s nothing else in those few euphoric moments but us—panting, grasping, climaxing—tangled together and lost in sensations.