"Z-ade!"
Rai's voice didn't just rise; it fractured, the sharp edge of his pride snapping clean in half against the humid weight of the bedroom.
The sound was too loud, scraping against the walls of the small space like a physical pressure.
"I know. A little more," Zade had grunted, his response less an encouragement and more a heavy, rhythmic command driven by the hard, blunt reality of his own momentum.
He hadn't let Rai move. With his large palms anchoring Rai's wrists flat against the rumpled sheet, Zade had kept their lower bodies locked in a slow, agonizingly precise alignment.
Their lengths rubbed together with every heavy shift of Zade's hips, a deliberate, unhurried torment that had Rai's fingers twitching uselessly against the mattress, his instincts screaming for him to reach down, to grasp himself, to hurry the process along because the buildup was becoming genuinely painful.
