Chapter 27 #5
The stretch went deeper than the first two, and he held there, three knuckles seated, his other hand smoothing up and down the back of my thigh in long reassuring strokes while my body worked through the fullness of it.
His mouth came back and pressed against the stretched skin where his fingers disappeared into me, kissing there, licking around the edges, and the attention of it, the specific worshipful greed of it, made my eyes sting.
“Rook—”
“I know.” His voice was a low rumble against my skin. “I've got you.”
He began to move.
Three fingers working in slow deep pumps, curling on every pull, and the wet filthy sound of his hand moving inside me filled the whole room.
His tongue dragged up the seam of me between pumps.
His free hand came up and squeezed one cheek and then spread me wider, opening me further for his mouth and his fingers both.
He worked me like that until my legs were shaking. He curled his fingers one more time and I made a sound that was almost a sob and he pulled out slow and I felt the absence of him like a physical thing.
“Stay,” he said.
His footsteps moved across the carpet behind me. I heard the drawer of the nightstand open and close, and then the soft click of the lube cap, and the sound of him slicking himself with slow unhurried strokes that I could hear through the quiet of the room.
Coach had Jace pressed fully against the glass now, chest to the pane, palms flat, the full length of Jace's body laid out against the window from cheek to thigh.
Coach stood behind him, broad and unhurried, and I watched him line himself up and press in slow with the steady authority of a man who had done this exact thing a hundred times before.
Jace's mouth opened wide against the window.
The glass fogged around his face in a wide cloud. Coach drove in all the way and held, his hands at Jace's hips, and the sight of them pressed together like that with the lit room behind them made something in my chest pull tight.
Rook came back to me.
His cock slicked and hot against the back of my thigh, his hand flat between my shoulder blades, pressing me deeper into the window.
His other hand came down and pulled the lace aside again, holding it out of the way with two fingers, and I felt the blunt slick head of him press against my entrance.
He didn't push in.
He rocked his hips forward just enough to nudge, teasing, letting me feel the shape and the size and the weight of what was coming without giving it to me yet.
His chest pressed against my back, hair dragging across my shoulder blades, and his mouth came to rest at the curve where my neck met my shoulder.
“Feel that?” Low and rough against my ear.
“Yes—”
“Tell me what you want.”
“You.” The word came out cracked. “Please. Rook, please—”
“Please what.” He rocked against me again, the head of him sliding slick against my hole without pressing in, and I made a sound against the glass that was barely a word.
“Please fuck me.”
“Yeah?” His hand slid down from my shoulder blade to grip my hip, thumb digging into the crease, holding me steady against the window. “You want me to breed this tight little hole, Soren? That what you want?”
The words went through me like heat.
“Yes. God. Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Breed me.” My voice came out wrecked against the glass. “Please, Rook, breed me, I want all of it—”
He pressed in.
The slow thick slide of him opening me went on and on and on, inch by inch, his hand tight at my hip and his breathing gone ragged against my ear, and by the time he was fully seated my forehead was pressed so hard against the pane I could feel my own pulse against the glass.
He held there. Let me feel all of him. Let my body work around the fullness of him and settle into it.
“Fuck.” He breathed against my neck. “You take me so well.”
Rook pulled back slow and drove forward.
The first full thrust pressed me into the window hard enough that the glass gave a faint groan against the frame, and I cried out against the pane and my breath fogged a huge wet patch and he did it again.
“Yeah.” Low and fierce against my ear. “There we go.”
He found a rhythm and built it. Each thrust landing with the full weight of his hips behind it, and I could feel the slick slide of him working deep in long steady pulls.
His hand moved from my hip up the side of my ribs and spread wide across my chest, holding me against him, pulling me back onto him with every drive forward.
His other hand came up and braced flat against the glass beside my face.
“You feel that?” He was panting now, rhythm picking up. “Feel me filling you up?”
“Yes—fuck—yes—”
“Gonna fill you up so good.” His mouth at my ear, voice wrecked and low. “Gonna breed you right here against this window. Let him watch.”
Coach's pace had picked up. He had one hand now at the back of Jace's neck, holding him pressed to the glass, the other still at Jace's hip, and he was driving into him hard enough that I could see Jace's whole body move with every thrust. Jace's cock was visible in the reflection on the glass in front of him, flushed and hard and leaking in a long strand down to the floor, completely untouched.
Coach's eyes found Rook's and held for one beat before his mouth came down on Jace's throat.
Rook drove in harder.
“Mine,” he growled against my neck. “Every fucking inch of you. Mine.”
“Yours.” I was sobbing it now into the window. “Yours. Yours. Yours.”
Every drive of his hips pressed my chest flat against the cold pane and pulled back just far enough to make me chase him, and the glass was wet around my whole face now.
Coach was fucking Jace hard. Both of them pressed to the glass on their end, Coach's hand wrapped around the front of Jace's throat now, tipping his head back against his shoulder, driving into him in long punishing strokes that made the whole pane visibly shake on their end.
Rook's hand moved from my chest down my stomach.
He wrapped his fingers around me through the soaked lace and stroked once, hard, and the friction of the wet fabric against my skin plus the rhythm of him inside me was enough to make my knees start to give. He held me up with his other arm around my waist and kept going.
“Not yet,” he said against my ear. “Hold it.”
“Rook—” I was barely forming words now. “I can't—”
“You can. Wait for me.”
Coach's rhythm had gone ragged. I watched his jaw clench, watched his hand tighten at Jace's throat, watched Jace's whole body seize as Coach drove in deep and held.
Rook saw it too.
“Now,” he growled, and his hand tightened on my cock through the lace and he drove in deeper and the rhythm broke into something harder and faster and more desperate. “Come for me. Now, Soren. Come on my cock.”
I came.
It tore out of me with a sound I didn't recognize as my own, and I spilled into the lace in long hot pulses, and my whole body clenched down around Rook inside me and that was what pushed him over.
His hips stuttered and he pressed in as deep as he could go and his mouth found the back of my neck and he bit down as he emptied into me, hot and thick and endless, pulse after pulse filling me up while he held me pinned to the glass with his whole body shaking against my back.
I saw that Jace was coming too, untouched, painting the window in long white streaks that I could see even through the fog on my own side.
The four of us, suspended in the same long moment.
Rook held there, buried deep, his forehead pressed to the back of my neck, and for a long time neither of us moved. Just breathed. The room slowly filtered back in around us. The cool of the glass, the sound of the ocean somewhere past the houses, the faint ticking of something in the walls.
When Coach pulled back from Jace, he held Jace's weight against his chest for a moment, and then he looked up one last time.
A single nod. Acknowledgment. Thanks. Something.
Then he closed the curtain.
Rook let out a soft laugh against my neck.
“Fucking hell,” he breathed.
“Yeah.”
He eased out of me slowly and I felt the warm slick of him running down my thigh and onto the inside of the stocking, and he turned me around in his arms with careful hands and caught me against his chest as my knees gave up entirely.
He held me there for a moment, both arms wrapped tight around my back, his mouth pressed to my temple.
Then he lowered me.
Down to my feet first, and then, with his hands guiding me, back against the glass with my spine to the window. My legs were still shaking. He steadied me with one hand at my hip and dropped to his knees in front of me.
He looked up at me with his mouth already parted.
“Rook—”
“Shh.” His fingers hooked into the waistband of the ruined lace thong and drew it down my legs, careful around the stockings, and I stepped out of it and let him toss it aside.
His hands ran up the backs of my thighs, warm and reassuring, and then he leaned in and kissed the flat of my stomach above my softening cock. “Let me.”
He took me into his mouth.
Soft, unhurried, the heat of his tongue working slow over the oversensitive length of me, and I gasped against the glass and my hand came down into his hair without meaning to.
He hummed low around me and kept going, coaxing, patient, his palms spread wide across the fronts of my thighs to hold me steady.
It took longer the second time. He worked me with full focus, and I watched him from above with my head tipped back against the window and my hand loose in his hair, and slowly, by degrees, my body came back for him.
When I got hard again in his mouth, he made a small satisfied sound and settled in.