Page 91 of Becoming Us

Thank you.

Thank you for giving me another chance.

Thank you for forgiving me.

Thank you for seeing something I can’t see yet.

Thank you for even looking at me in the first place.

Thank you for loving me.

He held me tightly, just letting it be. Until I could kiss his cheek in return. Until I could loosen my grip, piece by piece, and let us shift into a quiet embrace. Until I could force my throat to work and finally let the words free.

“I love you too. So, so much.”

“I know. Are you okay?”

I nodded, then let out a breath that almost felt like a laugh. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more okay in my life.”

He brushed his thumbs over my cheeks, wiping away the tears, and kissed me again. This time, we didn’t stop. We didn’t come up for air. We just kept kissing, sinking into something we both desperately needed.

At some point, Atty reached for the lube. He stroked my cock slowly at first, then dipped his fingers lower to work me open. Still, the kisses never stopped. If I moaned, it was into his mouth. If I shuddered, it was against him.

“Like this?” he asked finally, three fingers in, both of us panting.

I shook my head, pressing on his shoulders for a bit of space. Then I turned onto my stomach and reached for him. He took my hand instantly, letting me pull him flush against my back. I glanced over my shoulder, searching for his lips, and he met me there.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

The blunt head of his cock pressed against me—gently at first, then with growing pressure—until it breached the tight ring of muscle and started to ease in. I sucked in a breath as the sharp burn bloomed, stretching me open around him. I closed my eyes as he pushed in deeper, inch by inch, until his hips settled flush against mine.

Atty moved his arm, wrapping it around my chest. He anchored his hand on my shoulder, pulling me tighter to him. His other hand rested on my hip, his thumb drawing lazy circles on my skin while he waited—giving me time to adjust.

After a few minutes—and a dozen slow, worshipping kisses to my throat—he started to move. Gentle thrusts, small rolls of his hips that made me feel every inch of him. He didn’t rush. He just stayed close, lips brushing the edge of my jaw as if he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

“Is that okay?” His voice was enticingly low.

I could only moan in response. His cock dragged against everything inside me, every nerve ending lit up and begging. Each thrust made it easier—less resistance, more need. The ache turned molten, twisted into pleasure that curled down my spine and settled in my gut.

And when his hand found my cock and started stroking, slow and easy, matching the rhythm of his hips, I couldn’t hold back the broken sound that escaped me.

Fuck, this was so good.

Had I forgotten how good it could feel? Maybe it had never felt like this. My whole body felt open and exposed in the best way, the rhythm of him—pressing in, pulling out, sliding back in again—was everything.

“Atty,” I moaned, breath catching.

His forehead dropped to the side of my face, his lips brushing my cheek as he panted, as if he was trying not to lose control.

“Yes?”

I reached down and covered his hand on my cock—not to take over, just to feel him there, stroking me, holding me. The bed creaked beneath us with every slow slide of his body. The smell of sex, sweat, lube, and skin was thick in the air already. The heat of his body, pressed over mine, surrounded me completely. He felt solid. Protective. Safe.

It felt fucking perfect.

I pushed my hips back into his, guiding him deeper. Atty followed my rhythm instantly, groaning close to my ear. His thrusts grew sharper, more sure. We found it again—that synchronicity we always had. The way our bodies spoke for us when words failed.