And again, Gabe goes where he's guided. There's a bed this time, and questions that churn through the moment. Some strange, creeping slowness. And that heat, pulsing under his skin, shifting when Henry touches him. There are moments when he can think clearly and when Gabe feels himself drifting. Aching. And there's a part of him - maybe a selfish part - that just wants to ride it until the end. Let it be good.

He settles on top of Henry, running his hands down the man's chest. Feeling him out, his head tipped back.

Breathe. Let go.

"Riding you, or fucking you?"

Again, it's asked softly. He doesn't fuck other men that often. A small preference, one of the few Gabe keeps for himself. But sometimes he changes it up. Not often. Not easily. But sometimes.