4. Dante #2
I tug the waistband down and wrap my hand around him bare, slow from base to tip.
He's hot and already leaking against my palm, and for a second my lungs forget how to work.
His cock is thick, the skin soft, the head slick with pre-come.
I twist slightly at the head, the way I learned sophomore year in the back seat of my car.
It pulls the air out of him, just like it did the first time I figured out the exact rotation that makes his hips lift off whatever surface he's lying on.
It still works: his chest jerks up and his hips thrust into my grip, helpless and hungry.
"Hold still."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
"You try harder. You're the one—" His voice fractures when I tighten my grip, a raw, choked sound. "Okay. Okay. Holding still."
My other hand presses against his hip, holding him flat against the mattress. I know the bone under my palm the way I know the boards along the far side of the rink, by touch, by years of contact, the scar below his hip from a skate blade junior year sitting under my thumb like a secret.
He could shove back, but the hand not twisted in the sheets comes up between us instead and finds my wrist, the one holding his hip down. His fingers close around it, his thumb pressing lightly against my pulse. The touch isn't restraining.
I look down at his hand. He doesn't move it. In six years, he's held my wrist before, but never like this, never with this quiet, relentless focus. My pulse kicks harder under his thumb, betraying me, and the heat in my gut coils tighter.
I bend over him, my mouth moving across his collarbone, down his chest, over the ridge of his stomach.
The muscle contracts a half-second before my lips arrive because his body has learned to anticipate the path.
He's warm, salt and soap on my tongue. I shift my weight back, knees moving down the mattress, mouth tracking with them, dragging open kisses across his abs and the cut of his hip.
His fingers slide into my hair, threading through, tugging lightly.
When I take the head of his cock into my mouth, the briny taste of pre-come hits my tongue a moment before the raw, shattered sound he makes tears through the quiet room.
It's the sound he only makes in dark rooms with the door closed, the one that took me two years to earn and that I'd know in a crowd of thousands.
The hand from his wrist comes up and grips his thigh, holding it wide against the mattress while I move.
His fingers tighten in my hair, not guiding, only holding on, his hips lifting into my mouth with a rhythm that's his, not mine.
I let him. I let him set the pace until my own control starts to fray, my jaw aching, my cock throbbing with each suck.
"D. I'm close."
I pull back, breath warm against his wet skin. "Turn over."
He does, shifting beneath me until he's face down, his arms braced against the mattress, the long line of his back visible in the pale glow from the window.
I slide my palm down his spine, slowly, and the shudder that runs through him lands in my own bones.
He's hot under my hand, his muscles tense.
I spread his cheeks, my thumb brushing over the tight entrance of him, and he shivers, rocking back slightly.
"You're mine," I say, my voice rough, the words scraping my throat.
A second passes, thick and waiting.
"Yeah," he says, raw and stripped.
"Say it back."
"Yours. Always yours. Now fuck me."
I lean over him, chest against his back, my mouth close to his ear. "That's new."
"It's always been true. You never asked."
I rise off his back, shifting onto one knee beside him so I can reach across, and open the nightstand drawer.
The foil packet crinkles in the quiet room.
I tear it open with my teeth and roll the condom down over my cock.
The latex is cool and tight, but the sensation is secondary to the familiar, heavy presence of my Jacob's ladder beneath it.
As I smooth the condom down, my fingers trace each ridge through the thin latex, hard and unyielding under the skin.
I remember the low, punched-out sound Cole made the first time he felt them with his tongue, the way his eyes had gone dark with want.
Lube on my fingers, I press one against him, circling, then working in slowly.
His body tightens around my finger, a clenching heat that makes my own cock jump, then relaxes with a low groan.
I add another, stretching him, the intimate grip of his ass tight around my fingers.
When I line myself up and ease into him, the first barbell catches at his rim.
His entire body clamps down, a brutal heat that whites out my vision for a second, from the tightness and from that first steel ridge pressing into him.
He lets out a shaky, bitten-off moan, his hips moving back minutely, asking for it.
I sink deeper, slowly, and each barbell drags against his inner walls in a deliberate progression.
Each barbell catches through the condom, then slides in, the drag of each one pulling a sound from both of us.
His breath hitches with each, a quick inhale as the next stretches him slightly wider, a different texture from the smooth shaft.
By the time I'm buried to the hilt, his body is trembling around me, each ridge marked by a fresh clench around my cock.
He's so quiet the ragged pull of air through his throat is the only sound.
"Feel them?" I murmur against his shoulder blade, my own voice strained.
He nods, his face pressed into the pillow. "All of them."
I hold still, forehead resting at the back of his neck, letting him adjust to the full, studded length of me. His hand reaches back along his side and finds my hip where it presses close against his, fingers digging in, pulling me closer.
"Move," he says, voice low and wrecked. "Now."