Tender gangster

Embrace me

Among all the nights spent together, there are some special ones like this. When Porsche needs special intimacy.

Embrace me.

His long body is curled up and, like a magnet, is pulled to yours.

In fact, it's not unusual for you to just fall asleep after cuddling with each other for more than an hour. It's just that all these new responsibilities of the head of the minor family, pressing on Porsche's shoulders, are much easier to bear after such a hugging recharge.

Besides, the weather is too hot for rough sex, so that along it and after tightly stick together with hot sweaty bodies. And even an air conditioner running at full power would not be able to help get the desired coolness.

But you can't refuse to embrace him.

And even if every time you desperately want to be closer to each other, you remember that for you it has always been and will be in the first place.

I like it when you're happy, Porsche.

His happiness is your happiness.

And as Vegas correctly pointed out, Porsche is your heart. The most precious and intimate thing that you are ready to cherish as the apple of your eye.

Kinn...

You are sure that the foggy voice pronouncing your name sounds unconsciously: Porsche is dozing with his cheek pressed to your chest, but then a purring follows:

Pat me... Kinn.

You grin with your head tilted to one side. You know exactly what he wants. This is one of the favorite endearments of both — to allow the one completely relax while the other slowly strokes the shoulders, the blades, the hollow line of the spine. And you also love to linger on the dimples at the bottom of his back, alternately slipping into them with the pads of your fingers. And, finally, allow yourself to stroke the beautiful bulge of the buttocks. Without any intention of getting between them. Now you have a different goal. You give not excitement to the body, but peace and relief to the heart.

Porsche's eyes are still closed, and you're nuzzling the soft hair on the back of his neck. For some reason, this is where Porsche smells most of himself. Tart. With an admixture of shampoo fragrances. But still — his personal smell. Your fiery Porsche.

It's hard to explain how two such different people once reached out to each other, but at this moment the only thing you can imagine is how Porsche wraps around you, enveloping you with calmness and love.

For a moment, Porsche frees himself from your embrace, rolling to the edge of the bed, but then, as if pushing off from this edge, with a sleepy smile, he returns to bury it in your neck.

"You smell so good," Porsche murmurs, reaching out to cup your cheek.

You exhale, and Porsche raises his head, repeats the maneuver with his other hand and pulls you in for a kiss. You let him lead, gently continuing to stroke his back. Porsche throws his leg over your leg, your bodies are too close for just hugging. He kisses you slowly and firmly, with his eyes closed. And despite the heat and the sweat pouring over the skin, you give in.

Instinct does not betray: Porsche was not going to seduce you for sex.

He just snuggles up to you with all his strength once more, and then he seems to calm down, sleep takes over sex in the twilight of the sweet night.

"Let's go to sleep," a final yawn, and the head is back on your chest.

The sleep pressing on the eyelids seems to pull both of you under thick water, as if covering consciousness with a dark heavy wave. You kiss your beloved — now also a gangster — on the temple, you bury your whole right hand in his hair and fall into the sweetest oblivion.