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"Dane—"

"Don't. Move."

I don't move. I hold onto the bench so hard my fingers hurt. He strokes me again. And again. Slow and tight and steady, like he's got all the time in the world, like he's got nowhere to be at six-thirty on a Tuesday, and his eyes never leave my face. He's watching me. He's watching everything I do. Every time my breath catches, every time my stomach clenches, every time I make a noise I can't stop.

It's been a long time since anyone touched me. Since before April. Since before everything.

It doesn't take long.

My thighs start shaking. My balls draw up tight. I feel it coming up from the bottom of my spine like a wave, and I squeeze my eyes shut and I go up on my toes and⁠—

He stops.

He takes his hand away, just like that, and my cock jerks in the cold air, so hard it's slapping against my stomach, and I make a sound like I've been punched.

"No—what⁠—"

"Not yet."

"Are you kidding⁠—"

"Look at me."

I open my eyes. He's right there. His face is an inch from mine. His eyes are dark, all pupil, and there's sweat running down his temple.

"You don't come," he says, "until I say."

I'm shaking. My whole body is shaking. I could do it myself; my hands are right there. He knows that. He's watching me know that.

I keep my hands on the bench.

Something moves in his face, too low and deep to be a smile.

He takes me in his hand again.

He does it twice more. Takes me right up to the edge, so close I'm gasping, my head back, my hips straining against his hand on my chest—and stops. Waits. Watches me come down off it, shaking, my cock flushed dark and leaking all over his knuckles. And then starts again.

The third time, I'm not even thinking anymore. I'm just saying things.

"Please. Please, Dane, please, I can't, I'm gonna⁠—"

"Ask."

"I'm asking⁠—"

"Ask me."

"Can I come?" It comes out ragged. Wrecked. "Please. Can I come, please⁠—"

He puts his mouth right next to my ear.

"Yes," he says.

I come so hard my knees go. I spill all over his fist and up my stomach in long hot pulses, my hips jerking, my whole body clenched around it, and the only reason I'm standing is because his hand is on my chest pinning me back against the bench. I hear myself. I sound like someone I don't know. He strokes me through it, slow, until it's too much and I'm flinching, and then he lets go.

I sag against the bench. I'm gasping like I've done a double shift.

And I look down, and I see him.