Read The Companion Article Now
His cock was already inside me when I realised he hadn’t looked away from my legs in five full minutes.
It should have embarrassed me. That kind of staring used to make me flinch, especially in bed, especially when the lights were on and I had nowhere to hide the parts of me that still didn’t feel like mine.
But he wasn’t just staring. He was reading.
The way his thumbs pressed against the crease behind my knees,
the way he moved as if each shift in my muscle gave him new meaning.
It felt less like a man chasing orgasm and more like he was praying into me.
“Don’t stop,” I whispered. Not because I wanted more rhythm, not yet. Because I wanted the silence to stretch.
I wanted to be held like that just a little longer.
He exhaled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he did something that made my stomach clench with something far louder than arousal.
He pulled out, slowly, until I felt every inch of loss, then kissed the inside of my left calf.
Not my lips, not my throat, not some shorthand for intimacy.
My calf.
The softest part.
The part I’d tried for years to erase in every mirror.
The part I would never have offered up voluntarily.
He kissed it like it was the whole reason he was hard in the first place.
Then the other.
His mouth moved slowly, lips parting, heat dragging across damp skin.
My heel rested on his shoulder now, and I watched his back ripple with each breath as he leaned in and tasted the inside of my knee like it had been waiting for him.
“You’ve got no idea,” he murmured.
“About what?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He lifted my leg slightly and brought his hand beneath it, stroking down until his fingers curved around my ankle like a bracelet.
“No idea what it does to me. Watching your legs shake. Feeling your thighs try to hold on when I push a little deeper.”
He looked up.
“I’ve never wanted to kneel for a pair of calves before.”
My head dropped back against the pillow, heat rushing up my neck.
He grinned a little at that.
Then he did kneel.
Not for show, not performatively.
Just there.
At the foot of the bed.
Holding both legs up now, one palm under each calf, thumbs grazing slow arcs into muscle.
I saw the way his breath caught when I tensed.
The way his cock twitched, unattended and slick.
The way his hands didn’t move as tools but as lovers themselves,
separate beings, reverent, desperate to stay right there.
He fucked me with his eyes first.
They dragged from my ankles to my knees, stopped at the curve where thigh met flesh, then back down again.
No hunger in the greedy sense.
No scanning for symmetry or flaw.
Just awe.
The kind of gaze you use when you’re looking at something you didn’t think would ever be yours.
“Can I…” he asked, voice breaking slightly. “Can I just fuck you like this? Holding you?”
I nodded, unable to speak.
My heart was too loud.
He didn’t rush.
He guided himself back inside me slowly, watching my legs the whole time.
As if they told him more than my moans ever could.
His hands gripped tighter, not to dominate, not to control, but to anchor.
To feel.
To memorise.
Each stroke was slow.
Deep.
Every time I clenched, his fingers curled a little tighter.
I could feel the rhythm of his arousal building through the way his hands moved.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered.
I was.
My thighs trembled under his hold.
I didn’t realise how hard I was holding tension in my belly,
in my shoulders,
in the backs of my knees.
Like I still didn’t believe I could be held without inspection.
He slowed down even more.
His pelvis now flush with mine, hips rolling as he stayed fully inside me,
hands kneading gently at the thickest part of each calf.
“I need you to know,” he said, panting. “I think about your legs all the time.”
I laughed then.
A little too loud.
Reflexive.
He didn’t smile.
“I’m serious. It’s not a fetish. It’s not a line.
It’s the way they hold your weight.
The way they frame you when you come.
The way they wrap around me like scripture I’ll never finish reading.”
Fuck.
I arched up without meaning to.
My calves tensed in his hands and he moaned into the space between us.
“Fuck, do that again.”
I did.
Lifted my hips a little higher, calves flexing.
His grip tightened, his cock shoved deeper, and I saw his eyes glaze for a second.
Like the feeling was too much.
“I’m close,” he muttered. “I don’t want to come yet. I want to stay like this.”
I knew the feeling.
Every stroke wasn’t just friction.
It was a sentence.
I let him fuck me slowly like that for what felt like hours.
No choreography.
No porn angles.
Just legs lifted, thighs parted, body trembling,
and a man who couldn’t stop tracing the lines of my calves like they were written in a language he’d finally started to understand.
His hands never left me.
Not even when he broke.
He stayed inside me as he came, burying his face against the place where thigh met knee, shaking.
Not in shame.
Not in silence.
Just overwhelmed.
Like the act of being inside me while holding my calves like that had short-circuited something vital.
He stayed in that position long after it ended.
Still kneeling, arms wrapped gently under my legs now, resting his cheek against my shin as his cock softened inside me.
“You’re okay?” he asked, voice muffled.
I nodded.
“More than.”
Then, a whisper.
“Thank you for letting me.”
“Letting you what?”
He looked up.
That same awe again.
“Hold the part of you you used to hate.”
My throat tightened.
I blinked once, twice, but the sting remained.
No one had ever named it like that.
Not even me.
He crawled up then, gently lowering my legs back to the bed.
He pressed a kiss to each ankle before letting go, as if releasing a sacred text back onto its altar.
Then he lay beside me, head on my chest, one hand still tracing gentle lines across my thigh.
“You’re here,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a quiet miracle.
I pressed my fingers to the back of his neck, still dizzy.
I was here.
And someone had read the part of me I thought no one would ever want.
Not like a flaw,
not like a punchline,
not like a compromise.
He had read it as the whole damn story.
And now, I could too.
🖤 A Queer Romance That Doesn’t Ask for Permission. It Just Undoes You.
Rowan Thornwells debut novel, His, Theirs, Enough is queer literary erotica for readers who crave intensity, intimacy, and prose that reads like poetry with its mouth open.
You’ll ache for this MMF romance. And you’ll come back for more. Learn More
