#doollee

He’s touching you. Teeth that pull at your ear as he mouths words against your skin. Hands that find you. Hold you. Keep you close as he moves. You find his shoulders and you have to. Hold. Keep. Don’t let go.

Couldn’t think you could, honestly, really. Like a burn, right here, at the thought that if you pull your hands away, Ricardo would disappear for good. A fear that churns your stomach and rolls in your mind, even as his only word, the single one, is you. Mara. Whispered like a prayer against your shoulder, and you’d never taken him for a religious man.

But the reverence stuns you. Could you say you are treated like glass, when his nails catch on your shoulders and he leaves lines down your back? Mara. Mara, Mara, Mara. Like Ricardo can think of nothing else, and you are wonder and awe and lost in the fires. 

Palm flat against your stomach, under the hoodie you had borrowed. Ricardo looks up at you, and you catch a glimpse of something you shouldn’t. Except you do, of course you do, and it’s real. You kiss him, because the words are caught in the back of your throat, and his lips are soft. 

Kiss in time to the song around you, dig your fingers into his upper arms. Have to take a moment to breathe, get the world to stop spinning. Even as Ricardo lowers his palm further, closer, fingers brushing along your skin. It’s just you and his hoodie and the shirt he has up under his armpits, his pants pushed to his knees.

Ricardo has a firm hold. With how he grips your cock, so sure in himself. If only because the song picks up again, restart, and it’s your name again. Woven into the beat. In time to how he moves his hand, strokes you. Maybe you would’ve said something — instead, you lean forward, press your lips against his. 

Reach around. Deep breath. Try to ignore the way he thumbs the tip as you ease him in. Whatever tease he had in him, it didn’t last much longer. Not as he forms an ‘o’, eyes fluttering, just a little. You wish you could read his mind. You curl your fingers into his shirt.

Bite your lip, move so slightly. Enough to hear his voice hitch and you speak before you think. “Sing.”

“What?”

Shift your hips, and oh hell, oh fuck. “The song stopped.”

If he was going to argue, the words died on his tongue. Ricardo’s head rolls back, and you mouth at the column of his throat. Soft words, feel them on your lips as you kiss. How they hitch and fall as you move in time with the way he keeps the song alive. His hand doesn’t leave your cock. 

When he kisses you, you can hear the song. Feel it, etched into you. Might not hit the pitch or tone, but Ricardo’s hips stutter to meet yours, and you are fingers wound into his hair. Holding him close. Words breathed against your cheek, right there, curve of a smile as the catch of your name hits, flows.