Afterglow

"Fuck—don't stop—" The plea came out ragged, half-choked, as if the words had to fight their way past the tension coiled tight in his gut. Their hips stuttered together, slick with exertion, every movement frantic and uncoordinated now, past the point of control. Heat pooled low, unbearable, seconds from spilling over.

A shudder ripped through Jamie first, his back arching off the mattress as his grip went white-knuckled on Tommy's shoulder. The sound that tore loose was raw, unfiltered—something between a groan and a sob—as his cum streaked across his own stomach in thick pulses. The sight alone dragged Tommy over the edge a few moments later, his teeth sinking into Jamie's sweat-slicked collarbone to muffle the cry.

Collapsing together was inevitable, gravity and exhaustion winning out. Limbs tangled like they'd forgotten how to separate, chests heaving against each other in unsteady sync. The fan's breeze hit their overheated skin now like a blessing, cooling the sweat beading along spines and hairlines as they rode out the aftershocks, drifting into restless sleep, cum matting and drying in the hairs on Jamie's chest.