His chest is almost uncomfortably hot against my back but the warmth is too delicious to pull away from. He holds me loosely, an arm draped over my hip, tickling the pale slice of stomach between my shirt and my pajama pants with his fingers, soft pets not meant to disturb, but to lull. I exhale and arch back into him, my forehead under his chin as his hand climbs to my breast and crushes it gently, the nipple taking the brunt of it with a sharp tweak. He asks me quietly what it is that I want. I exhale again as I tell him, my eyes closed to savour his touch, that he knows what I want, that we want the same things. His response is to turn me, swiftly, not unkindly, onto my front and spread my legs, handling my cheeks and cunt greedily. He eats my ass and fingers me, always over me or behind me, wrapping me in pleasure, and he finds his own pleasure deep inside me, leaving me slick and clenching when he tells me to keep it all in. He’s still hard and he fills me again, and a third time, until all my holes are sloppy with him, wrecked and spent. When I finally come it’s a rush of fire of and stars behind my eyelids, split by his fist; unravelled. We are spent as we return to our starting positions, his hot chest on my back, my hair tangled in his beard, nestled like soup spoons, already on the brink of sleep.