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I’ve never been a man to come so quickly that I can’t relish the experience, but with Ethan’s thighs pillowing my pulsing prick, my balls are already tightening.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, no!” I growl, not ready for it to end.

But it’s too late.

Ethan pushes his ass up a bit, causing his thighs to squeeze and slide against my cock.

“Master,” Ethan moans.

I lose it.

I pound myself into his thighs as I come, trembling as my dick weeps hot cum between his thighs. For a second, everything is fuzzy, and I’m not sure where I am.

Then my face is pressed against the back of Ethan’s shoulder, and my entire body is limp on top of his.

The room is quiet and humid as I lie there on top of him catching my breath, listening to him do the same.

Little moans and sounds escape us both as we settle, and my dick softens against the backs of his thighs and ass. Everything is sweaty, wet, nasty…perfect.

“There’s something within every genre of music that I like,” Ethan explains to me as he brushes his damp hair while sitting down on my bed wrapped in a towel. My eyes shift down his naked torso, along all of the darkening hickeys and bite marks I’ve left there.

“Mhm,” I hum, losing focus.

“Did you hear me?” he asks with a chuckle. “Or are you just ogling me?” He narrows his eyes, as if he isn’t aware of how irresistible he is and I’m committing some crime by looking at him.

“I heard ya,” I insist. “You like everything. Even country?”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Yes. Let me guess, you don’t like country?”

I shrug. “I guess there are a few songs I like.”

“So you listen to classic rock and alternative, that’s obvious, but what else?” Ethan asks.

I stand up from the bed, still naked, and head to my dresser to grab some clothing. “Classical. I grew up with it.”

“Like Vivaldi or Mozart?”

As I turn around to look at him with clothing draped over my arm, he’s eyeing my naked body, his cheeks a bit red.

I smirk. “Still blushing at my ass when I’ve eaten yours?”

His blushing face turns into a crinkled, furrowed one. “Shut up.”

“Yes, like Vivaldi and Mozart. My mother was into Reichardt, though,” I mumble. A memory of sitting on her lap when I was a kid as she listened to music and hemmed pants pops into my mind.

I stare at the floor for a moment, until Ethan drags me back to the present.

“Reichardt?” he asks.

“Ah. Louise Reichardt. German composer, concert piano,” I tell him.

He smiles softly. “I don’t know much about classical music other than what’s mainstream. You don’t hear about many female composers,” he muses. “I wouldn’t expect you to…well, be very into that.”

I chuckle. “I’m not. She was. I like it, but what I know is all…memories.” A shadow of pain falls over me for a moment, causing my face to fall and my mood to darken. I don’t like it. I quickly turn toward the bathroom.

I hear footsteps behind me.

Ethan’s hand touches my bare shoulder. “What happened?” he asks. “To your mother?”