Gods, sweetheart, you’re so perfect, so beautiful, Tom… His own words echoed in Mal’s ears. It would have been so much better if he could have pretended he hadn’t meant them, that they had been the ravings of a man lost in the temporary madness of climax. Mal had meant every syllable. Tom’s weight lay heavy on his torso, making breathing a challenge — Tom was smaller than Mal, but hardly delicate. Warm breath wafted against the side of Mal’s neck, a little too hot and humid in Mal’s current state of sweaty lassitude. The stickiness of Tom’s release between their stomachs and the slow withdrawal of Mal’s softening c**k were hardly pleasurable sensations. Tom’s hair was tickling Mal’s ear and chin, and Mal’s legs were going to grow stiff if he didn’t rise. It was utterly, completely perfect.
