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My jacket comes off. The shirt. His eyes move over my chest, my arms, the body he's imagined during phone calls, the body his voice has been undressing without knowing it had form. His hand reaches out and his fingers touch my chest, and the touch is different from the kiss. The touch is an investigation. His fingertips move down my chest, over the ridges of my stomach, to the waistband of my jeans. His hand stops.

"I've been thinking about this." His voice drops, unsteady. "Every night. After the calls. Your body. What it would feel like to touch it."

"Touch it."

His hands undo my belt, then the button, then the zipper. My jeans hit the floor. His hand finds me through the fabric of my boxer briefs and his grip tightens and my hips push forward into his palm.

"Get on the bed." My voice is raspy, not on purpose, just because he has that effect on me. The one he told me turns him on, the one he replays at night. His eyes respond before his body does, the pupils dilating, the mouth opening. Then his body follows. He moves to the bed. Sits on the edge and lies back.

His sweatpants come off and I stifle a groan when I see there’s nothing underneath. He's hard, his cock against his stomach, and seeing it in lamplight after only touching it in the dark produces a sound in my chest that I don't recognize. A growl that lives below language. Finally, he is mine.

Mine and only mine.

I take off the rest. His eyes move over me. No fear. No hesitation. He wants me just as badly as I want him, and that’s enough to almost make me dizzy with need. My knee on the mattress, my hands on either side of his head, lowering myself onto him.

Skin to skin. The full length of our bodies in contact. His legs open. My hips settle between his thighs, the thighs that were sore five days ago from this same position, and the alignment is perfect, his cock against mine, the pressure building from the contact.

"Is this what the dream felt like?"

His eyes widen. "Yes." The word is like a drug. "This is what it felt like."

My mouth goes to his neck. His throat. The pulse point below his jaw, the skin thin, the heartbeat visible. His head tips back. His hands go to my shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle. He gasps and I swallow the sound.

My hand reaches for the nightstand. Not the trazodone. The drawer. The lube I put there five nights ago, positioned behind a book, angled so it would read as his own. He doesn't question it. He doesn't look. His eyes are on the ceiling, and his body is arching under mine and the trust is so complete that the lube appearing in my hand is just another fact his body trusts without examination.

My fingers. The first one draws a sound from him that his phone voice never made, a moan that starts low and climbs, his hips lifting off the mattress. The second, his hands leave my shoulders and grip the sheets. Not for his comfort. For the extension of the moment where his body opens, every increment, every degree of the resistance giving way.

"Brantley." My name in his mouth. The name from the phone calls, from the midnight conversations, the name he's been saying for two weeks, except now his body is arching around my fingers and the name has a body attached to it. A face. Brown eyes looking down at him in lamplight.

"Tell me what you want."

"You." His voice cracks on it. "I want you inside me."

The condom from my jacket pocket. One I don’t want to wear because I want to cum deep inside him again, but that’s not an issue I want to press. Not now, especially not while he’s so supple and compliant. His eyes follow my hands. He watches me roll it on and his body responds to the watching, his cock twitching against his stomach, his hips shifting on the mattress, the anticipation written in every muscle. Squirting more lube and coating his ass, I lean back for a moment, just to stare at how fucking perfect he looks.

Splayed out for me.

My cock leaks, remembering the last time it was inside him.

I push into him. Slow. His mouth opens and his muscles tense. His hands grip my arms. His eyes stay open, fixed on mine, brown to brown. The connection from the phone calls is nothing compared to this. The eye contact during entry. The moment where his body takes mine, his face showing every second of it.

All the way in. My hips against his. His legs around my waist. The position is the same as before except everything is different because his eyes are open. He's looking at me. He's choosing this. His body chose it unconsciously in the dark and now his mind is choosing it in the light, and the combination is the thing I've been working toward, the thing the notebook planned, the thing the calls and the coffee shop built.

I move. His body answers. The rhythm builds from slow to steady, his hips meeting mine, his hands on my arms, his head tipped back against the pillow. Every thrust draws a sound from him, and the sounds are building, layering, the moans getting louder, less controlled. The editor's brain is gone. The filter between thought and voice is gone. His body is making sounds that belong to nobody but me.

"Look at me."

His eyes find mine. The tears that were on the rims are falling now. Not from pain. From the collision. The voice from the phone coming out of the face from the coffee shop, the two men he yearned for leaning above him, inside him. The wanting fulfilled, and it’s too much for him at this moment while he’s being fucked to within an inch of his life.

My hand wraps around his cock. The stroke matches the thrust. His back arches. His hands leave my arms and grip the headboard behind him, the knuckles white, the tendons in his forearms visible. The sounds he's making are close to the sound from the phone call, the groan that breaks at the top, but louder now, fuller.

Mine.

I lean down and kiss him, tasting the sound of his pleasure on my tongue before pulling back and looking at how beautifully and utterly destroyed he is.

"Come for me." The same words. The same command. His body recognizes them before his brain does, the response I built over two weeks of midnight calls. His back arches off the mattress. He comes, the spill hitting his stomach, his chest. The groan breaks at the top the way it did on the phone, except my hand is on him, my cock is inside him.

The clench of his body pulls me over. My hips slam forward. I come, frustrated that it’s not inside him, but the pleasure is enough to dull the thought, the orgasm taking my vision for three seconds, my hands gripping the sheets on either side of his head, my mouth finding his neck, the sound I make pressed into his skin.