Chapter Sixteen #2
Antonio tasted even better with want on his lips, his body solid and firm in Declan’s hands. He struggled against Declan’s hold, big hands pushing hard against slim shoulders. Enough to send Declan stumbling back a few steps, and the both of them laughing.
“Yeah,” and the bond sang, rich with blood and ink in the desert sun, a wild, joyous heartbeat, “try.”
Declan dragged him back in, held him there, tight, close. Let his nails dig in, felt thick material threaten to give under them and the answering hungry twitch of Antonio’s cock.
“Your strength is ridiculously sexy.” Declan groaned, ragged, while Antonio tried to push at him, cheeks flushed and hot. “Me? I was born with mine. You bloody worked for it.”
And there was the door to the bedroom, there to press Antonio against. Declan plastered as near as he could, soft fabric and firm muscle under his teeth.
“Kills time,” Antonio gasped out, one hand tugging, sharp, at Declan’s buttons, the other braced on the door. “Makes people think twice before starting shit.”
Declan bet it did. He might have even said as much, if Antonio hadn’t found the door handle, the solid weight of his body giving way. Declan near lost his footing, nails catching on Antonio’s jeans with the trajectory change, splitting the denim.
“You’re an asshole.” Declan grinned as he said it, each breath serrated at the edges. Said it as he slid to his knees, eyes bright, and pushed Antonio down onto the floor.
Gravity and limbs and Antonio, bucking under him, just as breathless.
“Absolutely.” Antonio dragged Declan down, pulled him in while fumbling with his shirt buttons. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”
Laughing words from seeking lips, and Declan kissed him back. Drank his laughter, sipped it from his smiling mouth. Easy to sprawl atop him, amusement thrumming between them like he’d not known during sex before, solid muscle and eager fingers.
“Encourage you horribly, I’m afraid. Cheeky fucker.
” Declan curled his fingers under a knee, pushed until Antonio spread them enough for Declan to settle between his thighs.
He tangled the other in Antonio’s soft hair, thin fingers curled tight to keep the man pinned to the ground.
There, where Declan could kiss him again, black on faded red, made darker with every urgent pass of teeth. “I like it.”
I like you. And the bond gone bright, like sparks on old metal, each urgent kiss leaving him wanting more. He rocked closer, pressed into the cradle of Antonio’s hips and left them both gasping.
“Encourage me by letting me get you out of this damn shirt.” Words almost lost in the harsh rasp of Antonio’s breaths.
Declan obliged him, let those clever, work-rough fingers unbutton his shirt, because this was what he craved: Antonio, demanding, reaching for more.
Wanting Declan, proving it with every groan and the press of strong thighs, thick with muscle, to Declan’s hips.
Big, warm hands on too-pale skin, seeking to touch Declan as if he were truly everything Antonio said he was.
“Encourage you by saying, ‘touch my nipples, Antonio.’ And ‘use your nails.’ ” Declan licked the snarling hiss from Antonio’s lips, arched against him.
“Christ, Murderpunk.” Antonio, stars bless him, used his nails. Declan shook with it. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
So long as Antonio thought so, Declan felt no urge to argue. No, he busied himself with once more getting a proper handful of Antonio’s ass. Enough that he could jerk the man up, firm, hip-to-hip with a pleased hiss.
“Didn’t know I liked that, before you.” Declan’s hips hitched, pleasure bright and sweet. “Perhaps I’ll let you wrestle my shirt off, after. Or maybe pin your gorgeous fucking arms and see if you enjoy it too. Fucking perfect, Antonio. And amazingly hot.”
Like deserts. Like leather long against skin. Like blood. Like the way he growled, a blaze of lust scorching their landscape, eyes blown dark.
“Perhaps,” Antonio grated out, grinning. “Pushy bastard.”
Pushy bastard, yes, but said the way Declan said asshole.
Left Declan grinning back, then gasping, quick and sharp.
Fair play, dirty pool, Antonio grinding up as he tugged at Declan’s nipple, traced a nail around the other.
Friction and the sharp shiver of pleasure, at each pull, that edged touch.
Declan’s hands clenched reflexively, and more of Antonio’s jeans gave.
Warm skin, then, where the fabric had given way. The weighted curve of Antonio’s ass, and Declan’s fingers spread, nails careful. Antonio didn’t even complain about the split of his jeans, only groaned while Declan hissed his pleasure.
Too many clothes, still. Easy, to slip his hand from Antonio’s hair and pluck at his collar.
That, too, started to part. Exposed more skin for Declan’s lips, teeth, tongue, to nip and suck and muffle moans against as Antonio gave like for like.
Predators teeth for a rougher tug at his nipple.
Drag of raptor claws, and a harder press of nails in turn, testing each other.
“Tell you a secret, Murderpunk?” Heated words, desperate as their hands.
“You may tell me anything you want,” Declan murmured, the loudest he could without his voice shaking, dragging a nail down Antonio’s sleeve to free an arm. “Unless it’s mourning the dearth of lubricated flowers. I’ll think you possessed in truth.”
A short, wild thing of beauty, Antonio’s laugh. Made all the more so by his return mutter, lacking heat. “Fucking sex flowers.”
“Bloody lilacs.” he agreed, and stole another kiss. Each groan and arch hit like good liquor, Antonio’s pleasure sinking in, shot through his veins, that tension and mutual need.
Secrets. They had to stop kissing, if he was to hear of secrets.
He kissed the hollow of Antonio’s throat next, instead, so Antonio could speak. It didn’t take nearly as long as he thought it might, for Antonio to speak again.
“When you came out of the shadows that first night? Thought you looked like a damned wet dream.” Antonio’s words were a hoarse, wanting whisper.
The way secrets were meant to be told. “You want to know how much I like it, getting my hands on you? You’re my fantasy, Murderpunk. Fell for you like a fucking suicide.”
Voids and starshine. The words alone enough to have him shuddering. Paired with the roll of Declan’s nipple between Antonio’s fingers and an ungentle tug at the other, they nearly undid him.
Antonio had wanted him from the first.
“I tried so hard to not want you.” Seams split down the side of Antonio’s shirt, followed by a thin pink line along tan skin.
“Serrated, morbid, considerate, bloody sharp. Covered in ink and iron, and still picked to write in violet. You had me done for by the time we decided which drugs we hated and didn’t shag against a tree. ”
“Still leave me feeling high.” Antonio’s answer just on the edge of a growl. Like that because of Declan. He could feel it. “Can’t blame the bond, though.”
Declan sighed his own agreement, wordless, anything he might have said stolen by Antonio’s fingers, tangled in his hair, and the subsequent urgent kiss. Voids, he nearly lost himself to it, Antonio’s taste, the way he held on, shuddering and breathless, squeezing Declan’s hips between his thighs.
“Got an ask.” Antonio kissed the words onto Declan’s lips, whispered and raw and eager. “Want you to fuck me. Been… more than awhile. Think I was sixteen.” His thighs tightened further. Were Declan not fae, he’d wear the bruises. “Want to feel you like that. All of you.”
Whispered words that tore through him like a scream. Lust and reckless want past even that, offered to Declan as an ask.
He stole another smiling kiss, Antonio’s fingers twisted tight and ready in his hair. The world became molten, the only thing that mattered was them and them and them.
“I’m not daft enough to say ‘no’ to fucking you.” Not when he shook with desire, every breath unsteady, and kissed Antonio harder. Hungrier. “All of me, Antonio. Though we may need to be a wee bit creative.”
Fucking Antonio meant more planning than Declan was used to. He couldn’t simply glamour away long, curved nails when taking a Hollow to bed. Though pins and needles would be preferable to the more organic alternative.
So, he bit affectionate kisses against lips full and red already, loosing one of Antonio’s hands from his hair, fingers laced together, savoring the heady affection from even that simple touch.
“Wanna hear ‘bout creative,” Antonio said, that smirk of his widening. “Like listening to you talk. You go all Irish when you’re turned on.”
Declan laughed, easing back so he’d not be gnawing his words into the man’s lips. “Like that, do ye?”
“Fucking leprechaun.” Said with affection and keen, scorched heat.
“Leprechauns can’t pull off the lipstick, so I say.
Green’s not me color, either.” The thick of it in his voice, just to hear Antonio’s snicker.
Kept snickering too, until his knuckles hit the floor, pinned palm up and Declan grinning.
“Bit’a logistics, mate. Got three ideas.
First, can cut me nails, just a wee bit. Grow back soon enough.”
“You’re not cutting your nails. Like your nails.”
Antonio tugged against his hold, his breath hitching when Declan didn’t let go. Pulled again, sharp and hard. Testing. Shuddering, the whole of him, when their hands didn’t budge.
“Two left, then.” Declan reached between them, over the straining denim of what remained of Antonio’s jeans, pressed slow and firm over his hard cock.
Let the street fall from his voice, too focused on Antonio’s head tipped back again, his low groan.
“There’s fucking yourself open whilst I watch. Or…”
A shift of his palm, the curl of fingers, ever so careful with his nails where they were. The nails Antonio didn’t wish him to cut, even as they tore through the denim beside his fly.
“Or?”