Chapter 15 Obscured #2
I was cursing in a mix of English and Spanish that I couldn't control. Fuck and sí and no pares tumbling out between ragged breaths while his mouth worked me over like he'd been planning this since the shower.
He pulled off. His lips wet. His eyes on mine.
"Sit up. Higher against the headboard."
I moved. Propped myself against the pillows and the wall behind them.
He turned around. Positioned himself on his hands and knees above me, facing away, and the sight of him—the broad back, the V-taper to his waist, and below it, his big muscular cowboy ass—hit me with a force that wiped every remaining thought from my head.
His hole. Pink against the pale skin that the sun never reached, a contrast with the bronze of his back. I gripped his hips and pulled him backward toward my face.
I buried my tongue as deep as I could in his hole.
The moan that came out of Logan was loud. Guttural. A sound that carried through the walls of my room and into the corridor and I did not give a single fuck who heard it
I licked him from his balls to his hole, circling the rim, pressing in, feeling the muscle give under my tongue. His taste was clean from the shower. His hips rocked against my face. I gripped his ass with both hands, spreading his ass cheeks wider, and pushed my tongue deeper.
"Diego—oh fuck—" His voice was cracked. Wrecked.
He leaned forward and took my cock back into his mouth, and the circuit closed—his mouth on my throbbing dick, my tongue on his perfect pink hole, the wet sounds filling the small room while his body rocked between the two points of contact.
I ate him out until his thighs were shaking against the sides of my head and his moans around my cock were sending vibrations through my entire body.
He suddenly pulled forward. Rose onto his knees, his back still to me. Reached behind himself and found my cock—slick with his spit, hard to the point of aching. He positioned the head against his hole.
"Fuck, you're so fucking big." His voice was wrecked. He started to lower himself. Slow. The pressure built as his body opened around me. His ass took the head, then the shaft, inch by inch.
I smacked his ass. Hard enough to leave a mark. The crack was loud in the room.
"Fuck!" The sound that came out of him was half pain, half something much better. It made him drop faster. The last few inches disappeared inside him in a rush until he was seated fully, his round ass cheeks pressed against my hips, every inch of my cock buried in him.
I grabbed his waist. He looked back over his shoulder at me, and what I saw in his face stopped being playful. It was hunger. Pure, focused.
He started to ride me. Not slow. Not tentative. Hard. His hips rolled in a back-and-forth rhythm that dragged my cock through him—forward until just the head remained, then backward until his ass hit my hips with a smack.
He built speed. The bed protested beneath us, the frame screeching with every thrust.
"That cock is fucking mine," he said over his shoulder, his voice rough and certain. "Mine."
I smacked his ass again. Harder. He groaned at the impact and rode faster.
"Say that again," I commanded him.
"Mine."
The bed screeched louder. His back muscles flexing with every movement, sweat starting to bead along his spine. I watched my cock disappear inside him and reappear, the visual of it driving me toward an edge I didn't want to reach. Not yet.
I grabbed his hips. Pushed him forward off me. He went onto all fours, breathing hard, his back arched, his ass up.
"My turn." I was behind him. My hands on his waist. "You rode long enough, cowboy."
"Then fucking take me." He looked back. The blue eyes dark with lust. "Fuck me."
One thrust. Slow but absolute—all of me back inside him, the full length entering in a single decisive stroke that made his arms buckle.
He gasped. He reached back with one hand, and I caught the wrist. Then the other one.
Pulled both arms behind his lower back and held them there with one hand, the leverage pushing his face into the mattress and arching his back deeper.
I started to fuck him. Long strokes. Full withdrawals, full entries. The pace steady and building, each thrust hitting deep enough to pull sounds from him that he couldn't filter. I smacked his ass again, the cheek reddening under my palm, and he pushed back against me.
"Don't stop—don't you dare fucking stop—" His voice was muffled by the mattress. "Fuck—I've dreamed about this. About being like this with you again."
I heard every word. Filed it somewhere deep. And kept pounding his perfect round glutes while stretching his pink hole.
I pushed him flat, fully prone on the mattress. Planted my feet on the bed, crouching over him, and drove downward. The angle made him scream—not in pain, in the overload of sensation, his cock grinding against the mattress with every thrust, the dual friction working him from both sides.
His head was turned to the left. His eyes rolling. His mouth open. The sounds coming out of him were wrecked and continuous, a rolling series of groans and curses that had stopped forming complete words.
I loved it. The effect I was having on him. The total unraveling of a man who held himself together through four years of ranch work and a war and a kidnapping, coming apart under me.
"I'm close." My voice came out rough. Barely controlled. "Logan—"
"Me too—oh fuck, me too—don't stop, just like that, right fucking there—"
I drove harder. Faster. The rhythm was punishing, the bed slammed against the wall, the slap of my hips against his cheeks filled the room. My orgasm built from the base of my cock—a gathering heat that climbed upward and forward and—
"Fuck!" The word came out elongated, pulled from somewhere deep. I buried myself as deep as I could go and came. The release was massive. Days of tension and combat and sleep and want, all pouring out of me in waves that shook through my entire body.
Underneath me, Logan's voice broke. "Oh fuck—oh fuck—oh f—" The words dissolving into a gasp, then a moan, then the clench of his body around me—his hole tightening in rhythmic pulses that told me he was coming too, hands-free, his cock grinding against the mattress while I filled him.
I collapsed onto his back. My cock still inside him, still hard. My face pressed against the back of his neck. The salt of his sweat on my lips. Our breathing ragged, filling the small room with the sound of two bodies coming back to earth.
I was smiling. Actually smiling—the muscles in my face pulling into an expression I almost didn't recognize because it happened so rarely.
"That was..." Logan's voice was destroyed. He turned his head, trying to look at me. "Diego. That was incredible."
"Mm." I pressed my mouth against the back of his neck. Kissed the skin there. Tasted his saltiness.
"At some point," he murmured, "I want to do that to you."
I nipped his earlobe. "You'll get your chance for sure."
The kitchen smelled like onions mixed with chaos.
Irish was at the center of it, of course, because Irish was always at the center of disarray.
Three burners going, something involving ground beef in a massive pan, Nolan beside him wiping steam from his glasses while he stirred a pot that was either soup or a war crime.
Declan at the counter, chopping. His knife work was getting more natural, less execution-esque, but Irish was still supervising.
"That's a dice, Dec. I asked for a mince. You want to know the difference? The vegetables will tell you, because right now they're looking at me with disappointment."
"They're onions, Sean. They don't have opinions."
"Everything in my kitchen has opinions. The onions especially."
Logan and I took seats at the long table. The common room was full—patched members eating and talking, the morning noise of a compound that was learning to breathe again after holding its breath for a while.
Ana sat at the far end. The woman with the braid, the one Logan had known as Sofía before she'd told him her real name.
She was eating with a focus that spoke to months of insufficient food, her body already showing the first signs of recovery—her arms less thin, her face less drawn.
Beside her, Ernesto, the one the first group of workers we rescued looked to, was having a conversation with one of the prospects in a mix of Spanish and English, his hands moving as he spoke.
And Mateo. At the end of the table, sitting beside Ghost, watching Ghost explain something with his hands while his knee bounced under the table. Mateo's posture had changed since the bunkhouse. Straighter. His eyes on the room instead of the floor.
Tyler's contact had arranged for authorities to come to the compound the day after our return.
The workers had been given choices—green cards if they wanted to stay in the country, flights home if they preferred to leave.
Housing either way, until they decided. Most had chosen to go home.
Some wanted to stay but somewhere else, somewhere without leather and concrete and the smell of gun oil.
But a handful had asked to stay. Here. At the compound. As prospects.
I hadn't expected it. Hawk hadn't either, though his face had barely shown the surprise.
Ana had been the first to ask—standing in front of Hawk with her hands clasped and her chin up and a look in her eyes that said she'd been standing in front of powerful men her whole life.
Ernesto had followed. Then Mateo, who'd walked into Hawk's office with Ghost trailing behind him and stated his case with a clarity that had nothing to do with his age and everything to do with what he'd survived.
Hawk had accepted them. Watched them with those dark eyes that missed nothing, and nodded once, and told them the patch was earned, not given.
Logan pressed his knee against mine under the table. A brief contact. I pressed back.
"They look good," he said quietly, watching Ana and Ernesto.