Wicked Boy (77) 🔞NSFW (Patreon)

🔞 WARNINGS FOR:  skippable but explicit sexual content, Ezra being a terrible (outstanding) influence on Milan and his vocabulary, slight dom undertones, Ezra's (gross) potty mouth, mild praise kink, Ezra thinks Milan is pretty, Milan likes that (what's new, really) 🔞

I hope you enjoy 5,000 words, because my eyes sure didn't! 😭 (jk I'm happy for them, what a milestone) but if you find mistakes shhh no u didn’t I’m fragile from two days of editing 

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Ezra's window is caught in the heavy shadow of a lilac bush, with only one panel exposed to the sun and covered by a black-out curtain.  The bedroom isn't entirely dark, but much closer to it than the sunshiny warmth of his bright living room, and my body sags with renewed exhaustion — like a switch has been flicked.

I lift the comforter, sewn thin and soft, and then the singular sheet beneath it.  If it were another day, I'd feel the slightest apprehension or a bit of awkwardness.

Instead, I sink beneath it all with a tired exhale, observing the blossoms of the lilac bush in Ezra's window.  There are bees that slowly wander from each sprig of shadowed purple, a clumsy, lone bumblebee bumping into the window's glass with a tap — as if he's asking to be let inside.

"You'll start to tune 'em out." Ez sits on the opposite side of the mattress, back to me, as he plugs his phone into a bedside charger.  He's oddly casual - like we've done this a hundred times before.

"Tune what out?"

His eyes meet mine over his shoulder, then trail over the segment of bed I've stolen before he lifts his chin upwards,

"The bees."

I glance back at the window and shrug, the blankets a quiet rustle.  They smell like Ezra — but not the version of him that haunts the parking lot outside the diner, poison-eyed and touched by night air and gasoline.  The blankets carry the scent of a man, clean — boasting a modest home, painted birdhouses, and a lilac bush.

"They're sort of cute."

"Cute?" Ezra checks his phone, then clicks off the screen with his thumb and a considering noise. He glances towards the bees with a wrinkled nose, then tilts his head like he's considering the possibility of an insect being cute.  "Whatever floats your boat."

"... Do you work later?"

"Late.  Just calls." He deposits his cell phone face-down on the nightstand, his thumbs tucking up under the end of his shirt as he stands and turns — as he tugs the worn fabric up to reveal the groove of muscle that tucks into the waistband of his joggers.

"Goin' in tomorrow night." The strength of his stomach ripples under ink and skin as he pulls the shirt entirely off, "Got a spot in Pennbrook where we meet clients."

"That's a long drive." I manage to drag my interest away from Ezra's stomach and bravely back to his face, only to find a mirrored curiosity — a slyness to his alley-cat gaze.  I clear my throat.  "... Do they reimburse you for the gas?"

"... So frugal." Ezra shakes out the fabric of his shirt before he sits and folds it against his thigh.  "Rounds out. The hourly rate is high enough to cover it."

"Why is it all the way out there?"

"Brings in more clientele.  Not all of 'em like comin' to Huxley — 'cause they don't care about bein' discreet." He shrugs, leaving his shirt on his nightstand, "Club in Pennbrook is nicer.  And they got food.  I'm not complainin'."

"It's a club?" Surprised, I raise my brows, "... I feel like I understand less about your job the more you tell me."

Ezra smirks,

"Sure ya' know the feelin' of explainin' a weird line of work.  Actuary."

"... True." I glance at the bees that haven't slowed in their pursuit of lilac buds, then shove an arm under my pillow to prop myself up the slightest bit, "I feel like insurance is a little more bland than what you do.  To be fair."

"Mm.  Work is work, ain't it?  'S'all a fuckin' snooze fest."

"... Well.  I'm glad I'll never see or talk about another revenue report." I burrow deeper into the blankets, smiling lopsidedly, "That's a snooze fest."

"Smile at me like that, and I'd listen to anythin'."

"Hysterical.  Save your flirting for your phone calls."

Ezra leans back on his palm like an invitation for a challenge, but he's so suddenly near — leaned above me with ruffled hair and casual arrogance.  There are a couple of dark freckles on his cheekbone, skin tan enough to blend with them, proof of a lost Huxley boyishness.  My heart ticks upwards like it wants to meet them.

"I mean it. You've got a voice worth listenin' to."

"Charming," I smile around the word — small and wry.  I'm not-so-secretly and downright charmed, as sarcastic as I try to play it off, "People pay to hear yours.  So perhaps it's worth a little more than mine."

Ezra snorts before his head tips, lazy and considering — but I don't miss how his eyes drift from mine to my lips and neck. I frown, brushing my fingers absently over my chin and down to my Adam's apple with an unsaid question.  Ezra's jaw jumps minutely, preoccupied before he asks,

"Wanna try it tomorrow night?"

"...What?" I blink, caught off-guard, wrapped up in his eyes — distinctive as always, limbal ring thick, pupil distinct in the sparse light, emphasizing the sliver of color in the iris.  "Try what?"

"Talkin' on the phone." His dark brow cocks, the weight of his arm shifting enough to see new shadows on the grooves of his bicep, the flex of his bare abdomen,

"We talk on the phone all the—"

"Think you could get off that way?"

I stare, bewildered, wondering if I've misheard before my stomach burns with the confirmation of what he's said.

"Where did that come from?"

"Easy.  Been thinkin' 'bout it." Ezra says simply, "Still am. Should talk about that, yeah?"

"You've been thinking about..." My chest is a tight cage, heartbeat trapped and hammering as Ezra's tongue slides into his cheek, index finger tapping my nose, then curling under my chin.  The touch radiates heat — a brand to my nerves.

"... You." His thumb finds my bottom lip, pushing at its center, blunt nail dragging, "Then, sometimes, I think of gettin' you off.  Fuckin' you.  Everythin' between." He repeats, eye to eye, and I stare dumbly in return.

He doesn't seem particularly bothered by his admission — but there's a certain gentleness in his touch, in the way that his finger leaves my lips — following my neck, down to my side, to the hem of my shirt, and then lingering there in a way that feels a bit too mindful.

"And you," my attention is preoccupied with his wandering hands, "wanted to talk about that."

"I wanna know what you'd be alright with."

"Oh."

"Feels a lil' unclear after the night before last." His hand is at my waist, sliding up underneath my shirt, and his eyes track the motion, "Where we're at with it.  If it's alright for me to be makin' moves.  If I should be lettin' you set the pace."

"Okay," I say softly to fill the quiet, and Ezra's lips tug up the smallest bit.  "But I've kissed you.  Since then."

"'Kay.  But do ya' want it to stop there?"

I scratch my neck, casting my gaze toward the wall — the wallpaper that sits far behind Ez and his dark head of hair, the cracked bathroom door,

"If you want to stop there, that's-"

"I don't wanna stop there.  You listenin'?"

"I'm listening, I just don't think I understand,"

"You said no touchin', then — at some point.  It was alright." Ezra leans in, "then said, just kissin'.  Then we weren't just kissin'.  And I'm just keepin' my hands to myself 'cause it ain't clear."

"Right, but," I chew the inside of my cheek, feeling oddly hot — and uncharacteristically shy.  "You don't have to."

"Have to what?"

I huff, frazzled.

"You don't have to keep your hands to yourself.  These things — aren't my... Comfort zone. So, I would feel better if," I gesture vaguely, making an effort to be as confident as Ezra, but it's stiff and aborted at best, "... you were the one to take the lead.'"

"... If Daph' hadn't walked in," Ezra's tongue lolls over his lip, brows gathered, and eyes narrowed like he doesn't quite believe me, "would ya' have let me take the lead?"

I scowl at his disbelief, then with a wrinkled nose,

"Who climbed into your lap?" I say, a little heated from his doubt and a niggling embarrassment, "And who had your fingers in their throat? Of course, I would've. I'm not a nun."

Ez's brows shoot up — then he whistles, disposition easing with a surprised chuckle — a shark-like smile. He scrutinizes me, fond, and raises his hands in mock surrender,

"No nuns here.  Got it."

I watch the shadows in Ezra's abdomen bunch beneath scattered designs as he pulls from me and turns — his back as his palms roll over one another, rings catching small bits of light — as he plucks them from his fingers with his teeth - depositing each onto the nightstand with a clack.

"I get tested regularly.  Don't have anythin'." Ezra adds - direct.  "In case you're feelin' too polite to ask."

I watch, tired and consumed by Ezra's simplest mannerisms — so effortlessly engaging, and the familiarity he exudes with everything around his bedroom so disarming — until he slides into the sheets next to me, and my heart kicks into a new, frantic tempo.

"... I don't have anything, either." My lashes flutter, "In case that's your way of asking."

A familiar dimple settles along Ezra's cheek as his brows rise, seemingly unfettered by the intimacy of bed-sharing.  I don't share the same sentiment.  Having Ezra so close, feeling his heat, sleep rumpled and content, is intimate in ways that sow much deeper inside me.

"What is it?"

"You're not gettin' it.  And you're starin'."

"What don't I get?" I squint, cheek smushed against his pillow - too tired to lift my head entirely.  "Do you always take your rings off that way?"

Ezra gestures toward his nightstand but doesn't turn his head, taking full advantage of my lax eye contact.

"Wanna take 'em off for me next time or somethin'?"

My face pinches - feeling stupid with nerves as the mattress gives, and I find myself off-balance. He's too close - too handsome, and I'm in dire need of sleep and overly aware of his every movement.  So I noisily turn over to snub my entrancement, facing the window and the desk beneath it, counting dimly lit pens to bypass the fluttering in my stomach.

"If you need help, fine.  But I'm not recklessly taking a small piece of metal off with my teeth." I sound calm — collected, though I'm everything but — and can see that in the reflection of his desktop mirror, so I scoot upwards to avoid it.  "I'd probably choke."

"Choke?" Ezra muses, fully shifting onto his side, lilt to his tone burrowing under my skin like a fever.  Then he hooks a strong forearm over my midsection and tugs.

I freeze, all hope of brushing aside a topless, teasing Ezra lost to the movement — unable to ignore the warmth of his hand resting on my stomach as he molds himself against my back.  His body feels sturdy, providing little cushion as his weight and heat hug me close.

And this — this is new.

"Choke on what?  My rings?" Ezra asks. His wry smile spreads on my skin as he tucks his chin down against my nape, lips grazing, before he looks up from beneath his lashes, eyes fixed on mine in our reflection. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, "Or my fingers?"

My breath hitches — stomach twisting at the palatable switch in atmosphere — the absolute audacity of his flirtation. The antsy shift of my nerves and the rumble of Ezra's question climb my spine.

"Did you like pulling pigtails in elementary?" The urge to break away from his regard is overwhelming, so I throw an arm over my face, hyperaware of how the simple action creates friction between us — the nearness and weight of him dizzying.

My back arches slightly as Ezra's fingertips slide beneath my shirt hem, palm heavy along my ribs, his knuckles brushing against my chest.

"You," My sentimental body retains a record of each place his hands have grazed, and here, just over my heartsick pulse, is new.  It's exploratory, bare skin to bare skin, and that I'm very, very —excessively conscious of.  "Seem like the bullying type."

"... And you seem like the type," Ezra speaks quietly, his words warm, and his lips move across my pulse with the barest brush.  I lose the war with the temptation to turn my head slightly - to peek at him, and the sight of his attentive, heavy-lidded eyes sends a wave of heat through me.  I shift and swallow, a rooted knot in my throat.

"Ezra," I inhale loudly as Ezra's hand flattens, and his fingers fan wide, spanning across my torso.  He pulls me even further against him, to fit into each valley he creates.

His mouth finds the curve of my ear — and there, he whispers, "Who pretends that they don't want their hair pulled."

Ezra's lips slant over mine, the weight of his upper body curling over me. It's a chase, the wet slide of his tongue at my lower lip, his fingers pressing, dragging up my chest and finding my neck from beneath the fabric of my loose top — thumb and forefinger cradling my jaw, firm and unrelenting.

"I'm takin' the lead,"  Ezra says, an unadorned explanation, my shirt bunched at his wrist as his thumb pushes along my lip like he's urging me — coaxing me to open up.  I unfurl with a gasp, welcoming him.

I've always thought of men as clumsy and fumbling with their kisses, too eager and selfish to ignite anything worthwhile, their lips something to endure — but not Ezra.  Not Ezra with his unmistakable intent, silent fervor, and deft hands.

He hunts me down against the pillow, kisses unyielding, tongue slick against mine.  It isn't proper, or gentlemanly, or anything of the sort.  It's messy as he tilts me further toward him, mouth warm — teeth catching my bottom lip, tugging before his pierced tongue follows and soothes the sting.

Indecent, but I can't bury the slight noise that climbs from my throat, and my hand reaches back, desiring purchase and finding it in the hard muscle of his thigh.  The thread wound tight between us has finally frayed, ineffective, snapping.  I frantically find his lips, again and again, through the discomfort of the angle — and my body pushes backward on its own accord, seeking nearness, chasing a closeness that has my chest and stomach tightening.

Ezra pulls back, heavy inhale leaving goosebumps on my skin — sensitive as his teeth scrape down the side of my neck.  He breathes out, then, hot and uneven, before his tongue darts out, his lips dragging across the thin skin at my nape. I shiver, eyes fluttering closed as his mouth works over the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

"Spread your legs for me," he murmurs, his other arm shoving beneath my side to curl around my chest, his hand gliding up my thigh and cupping my hip, his fingers squeezing before they dip lower, and then he's palming the space between my thighs. My head falls forward, and my breath catches before my mouth parts in a broken moan.

"Yeah," Ezra exhales, the heel of his hand working against me as my knees part further,  "Good.  Like that." His voice is quiet and rough, his grip shifting, fingers curling and stroking — the heat of his body and praise burning against my back.

I turn my head, obscuring my face in his pillow, stifling a groan in his scent. Ezra follows me each time I hide, persistent, a nip to my nape — just shy of too hard, his chest pressing down on my back. I inhale sharply as he sucks, arching into the touch, biting down the remnants of a humiliatingly greedy sound.

"Ezra. Go," I swallow, lips dragging on his pillowcase, damp, struggling to catch my breath.  "Go easy on me."

He digs his hips forward, a hand moving to cup the back of my thigh, spreading me apart again. I can feel his clothed arousal hard against me as he grinds down, firm against my thigh, and the evidence of his lust leaves me light-headed. His lips continue to trail my neck, then press behind my ear, his free hand sliding — harsh, possessive, down my side.

"I don't wanna go easy on you," The rasp in his voice and the way his breath fans across the tender, bitten skin of my throat has me shuddering.  "Wanna take you apart."

My hips follow the pressure of his touch, pushing towards his hand, seeking relief — but he only affords me the simplest of presses, the ghost of alleviation.  I almost want to beg, but then I hesitate — shut my eyes, jaw clenched — little puffs of desperate noises seeping through my breath.

"... Wound so tight," Ezra rumbles, low and deep, and the heat pooling between my legs pulses. He finally cups me harder through my pajamas, kneads, and my lashes flutter. "Bet you ache," he presses down with the heel of his palm, backing me into him, and I bite my lip to muffle a cry.

He hums, and the noise is satisfied, pleased — and his hand wanders to the band of my pajama bottoms, the pads of his fingers skimming just below the elastic.

"I can't," I make a frustrated noise, mind foggy, eyes half-lidded with heat, "Reach you like this."

My hand slides over Ezra's thigh, reaching further back to pull him closer, my palm leaving and finding the side of his face, and I can feel his lips curve into a smile against it before he kisses it.

"Reach me?"

I rock upwards into Ezra's hand and moan, eyes up — on his narrowed gaze, and his jaw clenches beneath the cup of my palm. My fingertips pad over his lips, enthralled, and he kisses me.

"You're hard," I gasp, the sound breaking in my throat as I pull away, and his fingers dip further into the fabric.  "Let me help you."

I kiss his jaw, nervous,

"You can't possibly — I want you to feel good, too."  I manage, and then he groans, the sound low, and shifts, a hard rock of his hips against me.

"I do feel good," His hand slips beneath my boxers, knuckles grazing skin, the material straining around his wrist — then his fingers wrap around me.  "I feel so goddamn good."

I nearly shout, curling forward, unable to speak or form a coherent thought — not as he pumps his fist, his touch something coiled, practiced — ardent.

"Ya' know why?  'Cause you're fuckin' dripping for it," Ezra whispers, his mouth hot against my skin.  My breath catches, a strangled moan falling from my lips.   "Beggin' for it.  So wet." His thumb sweeps across the tip, collecting precum, and my head falls back onto his shoulder as he grinds upwards, nearly sending me onto my stomach,  "and it's for me."

"Oh my God.  You—" I pant, the heat in my gut coiling tighter, "can't say — don't say..."

I trail off into nothing.  The demand is a fib anyway, a frantic stab to keep my poise — because I abruptly comprehend that I want this.  To feel like a cared for, desirable thing, whose every need will be met.

"Eyes up."

I bite the inside of my cheek and rock into his fist, a shattered, pathetic noise following — nails burrowing into his thigh. I feel the vibration of Ezra's groan against my back, his hips digging upwards and lips dragging wetly along my jaw.

"I said, eyes up, pretty boy."

My breath hitches at the endearment and the desire that halves the two words.  It's very hard to face myself, reflected — dazed and flushed, kiss-swollen.  Ezra is staring from my shoulder as if he knows the truth of my lewd yearning; his lips parted— regard dark and hungry, and the heated, possessive look on his face, the expression on my own, makes me want to crawl out of my skin.

"... You ever think about us?" Ezra's thumb drags slowly down the underside of my length, his hips pushing, incessant.  His gaze is unwavering, skewering.   "Like this?"  His grip is firm, the callouses of his palm rough against me, and another sound catches in my throat, somewhere between a sob and a moan.

I nod, reaching back blindly for the waistband of his joggers, and gasp as he twists his fist, the drag of his fingers slow and steady, and my back arches, "Every time,"  I whisper, broken and sensitive,  "I only think about us.  I only think about you."

Ezra exhales through clenched teeth — unashamedly grinds upwards, his arousal digging into the swell of my backside, and tuts, the noise strangled — the pace of his hand unrelenting and torturous.  I rock my hips, trying to chase the sensation, his other hand tight on my hip, preventing me from moving.

"Only me."  His thumb swipes across my tip, gathering the precum and using it to slick his way, pace too slow to provide any satisfaction.  "Go on.  Tell me 'bout it."

"What?"

"Do I fuck you?"

"Ezra, that's,"

"Do ya' look pretty when you take it?  Stretched out on my dick?"

The intensity of my reaction startles me, an arch of my back, an unbridled gasp — meeting Ezra's gaze once more in the mirror to find him watching, that attentive, scrutinizing wonder — and I realize, vaguely, past the lust — that he's testing the waters - waiting for me to tuck tail, but,

"... When — when you fuck me," I admit a shaky secret — something I forfeit to keep this rush of good, good, good — and his fingers curl.   He drags his nails down the inside of my thigh, leaving the skin sensitive — and my hand overlaps his, squeezes, voice trembling, "I look so pretty on your dick."

"Goddamn, Milan," Ezra's voice catches, a strained edge to it, as he rocks forward — grip suddenly devastatingly tighter — crowding around me more, tugging at my pajama top, "Christ, get these the fuck off."

My breath hitches, and Ezra groans, feverish, his breath hot against my skin.

"You like that, huh?  That I want you so bad."  He abandons his battle against my shirt — shoves the waistband of my pajamas past the swell of my ass, and his bare length slides against my skin, before he takes hold of it and slaps it down against me, hard and hot, "that I want to fuck you, so fuckin' bad,"

"Jesus —"

"I think you'd really let me," His words are fierce, overwrought, and he presses himself against the cleft of my backside, "wouldn't ya'?" he murmurs, his voice low — so uneven, so jagged that I feel cut,  "If I got my fingers in you, I think you'd beg to be fucked, just like this."

Sparks settle in my chest, dizzying.  My brows gather, and the only response I can manage is a pant into the pillowcase.  Then, suddenly — Ezra's hand leaves me, and the bed shifts. I hear the drawer of his nightstand open.

"On your back."

I turn over, too stimulated to feel embarrassed, pajama bottoms bunched at my thighs and shirt rucked above my chest.  I shove at my pants weakly until I'm able to slip from them, and Ezra exhales, loudly, nose wrinkled as he pushes the blankets off the bed and grabs my ankles.

It feels an awful lot like manhandling.  I shouldn't think that's captivating — my toes shouldn't curl, but they do.  Tan skin works under shadows and over muscle as he pushes the length of my legs up and over one shoulder.

"That's it,"  He breathes, gaze burning — lashes shadowed on his cheekbones,  "... Perfect."

His hand returns then, slick, his palm rolling over me, and I can't help how my body jerks, and he smirks — teeth white, tongue wetting his curled lips.

"... Squeeze your thighs together for me," he says, leaning back. I hear the click of the cap of a bottle, then the bottle snaps shut. One arm wraps around my lower legs, gentle, the other braces behind him, palm on the mattress — and slowly — he rocks forward — the length of him sliding between my lifted thighs, thick and slick. "This okay?"

"Yeah," Dumbfounded, I stare, struck by the sight as he rolls his hips, sharp — the motion smooth, the sound provocative,  "Yes."

My head falls back,  the movement sliding his arousal up against my own — igniting sparks down to the tips of my toes.

"Fuck." Ezra hisses.  His hand drops to the top of my thigh and squeezes, and I clench my teeth.  I reach down, a spark of curiosity as my palm rolls over his tip that slides beneath my balls — then I press harder for the friction it provides — for the way Ezra's chin tilts upwards in a deep-seated groan.

"So fuckin' hot," Ezra pants, his hand joining mine before it slides upwards — curling around the shaft of my length, his fingers slick.   His hand squeezes and then releases, his pace matching the rocking of his hips, the rhythm steady and even.  "Love watchin' your thighs around my cock."

"Oh, hm," I pant, the friction not nearly enough, but his hand doesn't stop. He continues the slow, steady drag of his fingers, "That's,"

"Vulgar?"  He grunts as he twists his hand, his fingers squeezing and releasing, and I cry out, the sound muffled by my hand.

"Yes.  Vulgar.  So good," I gasp, between fingers, and the simple confession seems to break something in him.  His hand tightens, and his hips jerk forward, his movements becoming relentless, and I can't breathe.

"I knew it."

"Ezra, easy on me— or I'll,"  My vision blurs, heat pooling in my abdomen, spreading through me, my hips rocking up into his fist, the pressure and pleasure building, my heart pounding, "easy — or I'm,"

"You gonna cum, baby?"  Ezra whispers, bows over me, pressing me down — down, his lips find mine, his tongue hot and his kiss hungry.  My arms wrap around his shoulders, blunt nails digging into his skin, "C'mon," he pushes, and when I gasp, he swallows the sound, "Show me."

His grip tightens, his hand stroking faster, and it's too much.

My entire body tenses, folded beneath him — pleasure pulsing through me, Ezra's tongue hot and mouth swallowing each desperate moan, his length grinding between my thighs until I'm sent over the edge with a breathless sob.

"Shit," he releases me, fingers digging into my hips to pull me to meet his thrusts, and I gasp, trembling in the aftermath— hypersensitive where we meet, covered in warm spend and a warmer body.  Ezra's hands slide from my hips to my ass, then the mattress shifts, and his weight settles on top of me, the pressure and the heat overwhelming.

"You're so fucked out. Look at me," he demands, my eyes flutter open, and he's shameless in his leer, his lips parted, his breaths short and uneven,  "Goddamn."

I meet his narrowed eyes, lust-struck, and he thrusts harder, his fingers tightening, his lips finding mine. Something like pride swells in the foggy corner of my mind — knowing Ezra is so turned on that the room has filled with deep-seated, quiet noises each time his dick slides between my thighs.

"Ezra," My head tilts back, I arch up against him, and his fingers dig into the meat of my ass. Ezra's fingers tighten, and he groans, the sound a deep rumble.

"Show me — Show me, too," I whisper, and his thrusts become sharper, his grip tight. His hips press me harder into the mattress, still sliding slickly between the juncture of my thighs.

Then he kisses me.

I'm overheating, struggling to return the fierceness of it. I feel overpowered — the sudden surge of lust that comes from that, and I suck at Ez's tongue without warning, separating with an obscene noise,

"Mm.  Shit," Ezra pants, undone, his forehead dropping further, and his mouth finds mine again and again, sloppy and wet, his tongue and teeth and metal — and for some reason, the vulnerable glimpse behind his wall makes me want to watch it crumble further.

"Come on,"  I break the kiss with an inhale, watching the muscles in his back contract beneath my hands,  "Fuck me, Ezra."

He grunts, his hand gripping the back of my neck and pulling me against him, and he rocks deep — hard enough to bruise, and I can feel the warmth of his release between my thighs — on my stomach.

Ezra exhales against my neck, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his hips slowing.  A silence passes, his fingers idly playing with the hair at my nape,

"... Mm, you pissed?"  He asks quietly, and the rasp of his sex-wrung voice has a pulse of heat coursing through me, although I'm too tired to do anything about it.  My legs slide from his shoulder as his arm takes the place of his hand behind my neck, pulling me close to his chest,

"... Why?  The mess?"

He exhales, the noise a soft chuckle.

"Nah.  Forgot to pull your hair."