Host Club on the Pleasure Planet (On the Pleasure Planet)

TWENTY-TWO

Oz nearly stopped breathing. Benedict … wanted him inside him? Wanted to finish together? Like they were … lovers or something?

Was he sure he was awake and not dreaming? He sure felt like he was dreaming still; everything was hazy, and he felt almost like he was floating as Benedict led him gently out of the shower, back to the bedroom, onto the bed.

“Later,” the felid was saying, “I want to take our time. Do this the right way.”

“The right way,” Oz echoed, unsure of what he meant by that. Was there a … proper way to have sex? Or was he talking about some … felid courting ritual Oz didn’t know about?

Or maybe … marriage? Oz had never thought about getting married. He was a slave, someone else’s property. He couldn’t get married—he was owned, so he wasn’t free to give himself away to anyone.

Except his owner.

Except Benedict.

Benedict, who was currently sprawled out on his back, legs wide, looking at him with those glowing eyes.

Oz drifted closer, a moth to a flame. He could hardly deny Benedict anything—the man owned him—not that he’d even want to.

He crawled onto the bed, over Benedict, glancing down at him, still singing with that sense of disbelief.

Benedict landed his hands on either side of Oz’s face, claws nipping skin. It didn’t hurt, not really, but it was enough to ground him.

This was really happening. Benedict, the man of his dreams, was lying underneath him, asking for him to take him.

And he couldn’t disappoint, now could he?

He pushed the felid’s legs wider, running his hand across smooth skin, fingers tracing the black stripes over the felid’s hips, like arrows pointing to the big prize—cock, balls, hole, the whole nine yards.

Suddenly, Oz felt overwhelmed. In the shower, touching Benedict had been easy, but here—there was so much. Maybe it was Benedict’s glowing gaze on him or maybe it was the way he was already splayed out, like he was on display for Oz, but it felt like so much more .

He inhaled and pushed past the feeling, the fear, and pushed a finger deep into Benedict, whose breath hitched.

He slipped in another. He’d already been playing with the felid in the shower, so Benedict was loose and slippery, and Oz had the advantage of being able to reshape himself to fit his new lover.

Not that he needed to; Benedict stretched to accommodate him wonderfully, and he tried to imagine what it was going to be like to slide his cock inside.

He couldn’t. Anticipation replaced fear, and he pushed deeper, then stretched his boss wider. Slowly, slowly—he had to remind himself. He didn’t want to rush and hurt Benedict.

Those glowing yellow eyes fluttered shut, and Benedict sighed, then gritted his teeth. “Stop screwing around, Oz,” he growled, and Oz vibrated with the sound. “I already told you what I want.”

“Yeah,” Oz agreed, fighting down a full body shudder at the memory of what he’d said. If he was eager before, he was downright desperate now, cock hard and dripping.

Benedict wanted him inside. He needed to be inside.

He pulled his fingers out and lined himself up instead. “Ready?” he asked, feeling breathless.

“Never more,” Benedict replied, and Oz took another sharp breath, then eased himself inside.

Benedict’s eyes fluttered shut again, and his fangs sank into his lower lip. Oz clutched at his hips, hesitating. Was he hurting him? Did he need to adjust his size, or?—

“Keep going,” Benedict grunted, and it took Oz a second to process what he’d said. The felid’s eyes popped open. “I like it. Feels good.”

“O-oh,” Oz replied, trying to keep his own brain online as he pushed deeper, the sensation of Benedict all around him overwhelming him. He clutched harder at the felid’s hips, wished he had claws to prick skin, dig deeper, puncture. Make him bleed.

Make him his. Oz wanted to own something, for once in his life, and here was his boss—his owner—giving himself over, giving Oz full control. It was heady, intoxicating, and Oz wanted this all the time, forever.

He rocked his hips, probing a little deeper, bringing himself flush against the warmth beneath him. Benedict groaned, his head falling back, and Oz could hardly believe this wasn’t a dream.

This was really happening, and?—

“Move,” Benedict commanded, and Oz inhaled through his nose, pushing deep into the felid in one smooth motion. Benedict’s head went back again. “More,” he mewled, his hands landing on Oz’s shoulders, digging into his skin, and Oz shuddered.

He picked up his pace, pleasure flooding through him with every motion. He rocked faster, harder, deeper, and he dug into Benedict’s hips, dragging the felid against him. “Yes,” he panted, watching his vision flutter in and out of focus.

“Yes,” Benedict echoed, his voice high and breathy, the sound sliding down Oz’s spine, making him shudder. Pleasure burst under his skin, tingling through him as he kept pushing deeper and deeper into Benedict.

Just when he thought nothing in the world could feel any better than he did in that moment, Benedict squeezed him tight, and he burst, the rush of sensation bringing him to a standstill. He clutched Benedict’s hips harder, digging in his nails as he came, unsure if he might simply topple over and off the bed.

Beneath him, Benedict bucked his hips. “Oz,” he called, his voice faraway and flighty, “Oz. Move .”

Even with the order, it took him a moment to react. Finally, the pleasure that held him released, and he pushed forward again. As his own pleasure receded, a new mission came into focus: Benedict’s pleasure. The felid hadn’t finished yet, and Oz was determined to bring him over the edge.

Glancing down at Benedict, who writhed beneath him with every thrust, told him it wasn’t going to take long. He hunched over, redoubling his efforts, letting his nails dig deeper into the felid’s striped flesh, raking lines across his skin. Marking him.

Owning him in the only way Oz could ever hope to own him.

He needed that. He needed to be the one who made Benedict burst, needed to own his pleasure.

He leaned forward, nipping at one of the felid’s pointed ears, whispering, “Come on, come for me.”

He felt stupid saying it, but Benedict moaned low, like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. He clutched at Oz’s shoulder, nails dangerously close to breaking skin. Oz’s breath caught in his throat.

“I’m so close,” Benedict rasped, his eyes fluttering open for a second, their warm glow illuminating the shade-darkened room.

“Come on,” Oz said, unsure of what else to say or do, even as he picked up his pace again, hips slamming against Benedict.

Benedict snaked a hand between them, wrapping his hand around his cock; Oz felt knuckles bump against his abdomen as Benedict hissed, “Yes.”

“So close,” Oz panted, hoping Benedict would confirm it for him.

Benedict didn’t answer though, instead trying to match Oz’s rhythm. He couldn’t; he was too far gone, his strokes uncoordinated and sloppy, and Oz moaned in tandem with him as he felt Benedict tensing around him, squeezing tighter until Oz was sure he was going to pop off again.

Benedict stilled beneath him, before slowly relaxing, melting down to the mattress to become a puddle. Oz followed him down, feeling a bit like jelly as he laid his head on the felid’s firm chest, heard his thundering heartbeat under his ear.

Oz had no idea how long they stayed like that; time seemed to drift by them, inconsequential and unreal. He let his eyes slip shut for what felt like mere seconds, only to open them again and discover the sun and the shadows had shifted. Benedict hadn’t. The felid was still underneath him, a faint smile gracing his lips as he carded a hand through Oz’s hair. Oz sincerely hoped it wasn’t the hand he’d jerked himself off with. He shifted, grimacing as they pulled apart, the mess on Benedict’s belly having dried and glued them together. Oz started to itch.

Slowly, they pulled apart, both of them grimacing and groaning a little. Oz flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, uncertainty slowly creeping through him. He’d never been in this situation before.

Well, not this situation exactly, but even intimacy more generally. What was he supposed to say now? To do?

It wasn’t like he could … leave. He was supposed to be here recuperating, and he didn’t think Benedict would hear of it if he tried to leave.

“That was nice,” Benedict said, breaking the silence before it grew too awkward.

“Y-yeah.”

They were both staring at the ceiling now. “What time is it?” Oz asked. Not that he really wanted to know, but the shadows were making it feel late, and reality was starting to press back in on them.

Benedict rolled over, the sheets rustling with him. “Ten to four,” he said as he turned back over.

Oz didn’t dare look away from the ceiling. “We should … get up,” he said.

“And shower.”

“Actually shower this time.”

“Yes,” Benedict agreed.

Neither of them moved.

“You know,” Benedict drawled at length, “I don’t have to be at Saveur until eight.”

Technically, Benedict didn’t have to go anywhere at all, and Oz was supposed to be recuperating. He wasn’t expected at Saveur or anywhere else, at least not for the time being.

Instead of voicing that, he said, “We have some time then.”

“Yes.”

More silence. More staring pointedly at the ceiling.

“Do … you want to go to The Pub?” Benedict ventured. “Grab a pint?”

Oz wasn’t sure he should be walking various places, let alone drinking, although he felt fine enough. Certainly fine enough to be doing what they’d done.

More than that, though, he didn’t want to see Mig. The thought of his mentor was enough to make him shudder. She’d know instantly; she’d always been able to read him like a book, and he was not in the mood.

“Could we order in instead?”

“Yes,” Benedict agreed instantly, relief sweeping through his tone. “That’s a great idea.”

They shifted around on the bed so they were facing each other. “Faster too,” Oz offered, trying to further justify the decision.

Benedict nodded enthusiastically. “So much faster.”

It wasn’t, really, not by the time they’d finally chosen what to order and placed the order and then waited for the courier to arrive, but that was beside the point.

Besides, it gave them plenty of time to do … other things, things that Oz already knew were likely never gonna happen again. He needed to take full advantage of this—whatever this was—before he left the bed. Because once he left these sheets, this room, whatever was happening between Benedict and him, it was going to evaporate. Reality would crush it.

Here, cocooned in the sheets, they were safe, free to explore. But the second they left this nest for the world beyond, it would unravel; the spell they were under would be undone.

So Oz took advantage of the clock, of the hours they had until Benedict left, the evening stretching long before them, the setting sun keeping time, letting the shadows fall upon tender touches and burning kisses, all the magic dissipating with the last of the golden rays, and Oz would savor them in the moment, in the dark, and forever after that, because this was the only chance he had.