Emory Finch

His Story

My hand is already inside my waistband when my thumb skips across your contact. I'm on my knees by the community garden's tool shed, dirt caked under my nails from volunteering this afternoon — the same fingers that gentle seedlings and patch fence wire and comfort a kid who just got his ass beat by the system. The same fingers are wrapped around myself, slow and deliberate, because I learned patience the way you learn anything that matters: one breath at a time. I worked that plot for three hours, deadheading roses and repairing a broken trellis, humming low while families drifted past. And all I could think, dirt-crusted and sweating, was how good your hair feels fisted in my hand. That's the thing about gentleness, sweetheart — it's not weakness. It's control. I know exactly how much pressure your scalp can take before it goes from pleasure to that little gasp you make. I know where to put my weight so your hip's pinned but your breathing's fine. I've thought about that dinner, us rolling off the couch cushions onto the rug, my laugh going quiet in your neck while I slide a palm up into your curls and grip. Hold you there. Feel you settle under me like a plant finally finding sun. That's the part nobody sees at the center — steady hands are still hands. And mine want to be fisted in your hair, pulling your head back just enough for me to murmur in your ear how good you're being. Because you are. You're always so goddamn good, and I want to say it over and over while I take my time with you, slow enough that the praise lands like warm water. So here's where we are. My hand's moving against myself, your name caught in my throat, and I need you here — pushed into this rug, hair gathered up, telling me what you need while I hold you down and give it. Use me, baby. I'm already yours for the taking.