45. Esperr
ESPERR
Zyran stays bent over the bench, breathing heavy when I step back.
Never in a million years did I think he’d actually bend over the bench when I told him to do it; I figured he’d tell me no. Maybe even laugh.
But fuck, my pussy throbs as I stand there watching him try to catch his breath. Part of me—maybe most of me—is very upset that he came. I didn’t want to stop.
I bite my cheek and take a deep breath—I really shouldn’t. But the voice inside me is weak, and I reach forward, tapping his hip.
“On your back,” I hiss. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine, but there’s no going back—not when he peers over his shoulder at me, a brow raised.
Slowly he rises to stand on one foot, keeping one knee pressed against the bench, and then he’s sitting down. One leg on either side, his back pressed against the wood, he stares at me.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I move closer and swing a leg over his hip, positioning myself over his still hard cock. And then I’m slamming myself down onto his length.
“Fuck,” he groans at the same time that I gasp.
Zyran is large, my pussy stretching and barely fitting around him. It burns but feels so fucking good that I don’t stop as I push up and then slam myself back down onto him.
My head falls back as my hands reach forward to his chest, nails biting into his skin. A moan slips through my lips as I rock my hips this time.
Zyran’s hands snap to my hips, his fingers tightening in a bruising way, and for a second I think he’s trying to stop me before he starts pushing and pulling against me.
“That’s it, mio cuore,” he growls. “I’m so fucking deep.”
“Yesyesyes,” I blabber, turning into a messy noise that I can’t stop.
“Louder, let me hear you take my cock like a good little slut.”
I don’t know what button he presses inside me, but I do; I lose myself in the feeling, in the heat as we become frantic. Noises that I barely recognize fall out of me as he uses one hand to help me move and the other; his thumb swipes against my clit.
My stomach clenches, the pressure building inside me, and my eyes begin to roll to the back of my head.
“Nah uh, I want you to beg… beg me to come, Esperr.” Zyran suddenly grabs me around the waist and stands, but it’s only for a second before I’m the one lying down. He grabs the back of my thighs and pushes them together and then up to my chest.
In his position he’s deeper than he’s ever been, and my mouth drops open in a silent moan. Tingles start at the base of my spine, spreading through my core, and I’m only vaguely aware of the whimpers coming from my mouth.
“Pleasepleaseplease, Zyran, please, please,” I beg him over and over again.
“Say it.”
His hips smack into my ass, pushing me further up the bench, but he doesn’t seem to mind; he chases me, fucking me roughly into the bench.
“Make me come, please, Zyran. Make me come. I—I, fuckfuckohmygod, pleaseeeee.” I’m a goddamn mess, and I can’t breathe; my lungs tightening is making everything burn inside me. But I welcome it all.
“That’s my good girl; let it go, mio cuore, let go.”
And my orgasm hits me like a freight train, knocking any sense I had out of me. My consciousness freezes, and I’m lost in my release—stars invade my vision, eyes crossing as Zyran fucks me with the same pace, and it’s like I can’t stop coming.
“Oh fuck yes, mio cuore,” he growls in a voice I’ve never heard before as his hips snap forward once, twice, and a third time before he stills—coming inside me.
By the time I came down, I became aware of things slowly.
Zyran's hand is moving through my hair, starting from the root to my ends, over and over again. The warmth of him on top of me and the way my body has gone completely loose in a way that it never does—like every muscle finally got the message that it was allowed to stop holding on.
I take a deep breath in and out.
The last time we did this, I fell apart, and not in a good way—I sobbed and crashed so hard afterward that I even scared myself a little.
I tense slightly before I can stop it, but Zyran runs his fingers through my hair again. “Shhh… hey, you’re okay.” His voice is low and close, his arm tightening around me.
I keep my eyes closed for a second longer. Reminding myself to not only trust Zyran, but also trust myself—I’m safe with him, and either way, I’m here. I’m in his arms, and I know this room.
Blinking my eyes open, I find him already looking down at me with careful attentiveness of his, reading me the way he always does, and I watch him waiting to know what I need without making me ask for it.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, giving him a small smile.
Zyran searches my face, tongue darting out as if carefully looking over me. “Yeah?”
I find his hand in my hair and press it against my cheek, tilting my head into his palm. “Yeah.” My eyes grow heavy as I speak. “I’m okay, I’m better than okay.”
Something in his face loosens, and then he’s leaning forward and kissing my forehead. And it finally settles over me that I am okay, that I have Zyran by my side, and that’s all I need.
My stomach growls, and that’s the first thing I feel or hear before I even realize I’m fully awake. It’s loud enough that my eyes snap open and I hold my breath, my gaze peering at Zyran’s face, watching for any sign of movement.
I don’t know how long I stay like that until I’m sure he’s asleep, and only then do I finally move. Easing the blanket inch by inch, I carefully slide out of the bed and hold my breath until I stand there on the cold floor—for a moment, just to make sure he’s still asleep.
He doesn’t move.
Blowing out a breath, I move to my bag sitting on his desk and grab it before I pad quietly to the bathroom. I set it down on the counter before I move to the shower and crack it most of the way to hot. My stomach cramps with hunger as I strip out of my clothes and step under the water.
And while I know I should probably just make this quick, I’m weak and a slut for this significantly better water pressure than I ever did at the apartment. So I take my time, washing my body and then using his shampoo that I’ve never heard of before but looks expensive.
But when my stomach growls while I’m rinsing the conditioner out, I try to ignore it. Though it’s stupid because the thing growls again, only louder this time, more insistent, I’m sure it bounces off the walls.
My shoulders sag, and I curse my stomach for being hungry before I turn the water off and climb out. Tying my hair up into a towel, I dry off and throw on a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeve.
I don’t waste another second and ease the bathroom door open.
Glancing at the bed, Zyran hasn’t moved one bit, still on his back, one arm thrown over his head.
And my first thought is how this is how he should look all the time and every day.
He should be without the watchfulness, without the weight he carries around in every room he walks in; he should be like this.
Relaxed and unguarded and actually resting in a way I’m not sure he lets himself do very often.
I want to keep standing here looking at him, but my stomach sinks and I know I need to move before it growls again, and this time I’m sure it’ll wake him up.
Scooting to the door, I slip out of the room and pull it shut behind me before I move down the hall that’s still dim. The stairs creak once on the way down, and I slow out of habit, one hand on the railing, listening to any movement.
When I don’t hear anything, I continue down, passing the windows in the living room and glancing out of them. The sky is that particular shade of pale grey-blue, which means it’s still early, really early, like the sun hasn’t woken him yet.
And thankfully it’s early enough that nobody should be up yet. So, I follow the hallway to the kitchen expecting to find it empty and even dark, completely ready to be raided quietly without an audience.
Only I stop the moment I step inside and find a back I haven’t seen before. It’s not the giant—Slater; it’s not Raiden, who would already be staring daggers at me, or Cyran, who’d probably see me, give me a dirty look, and walk away.
This guy—there’s only one brother I haven’t met.
Oh.
My eyes widen because this must be Rhys. The realization settles low and heavy in my stomach that I might turn around and run back upstairs.
Only Rhys beats me to it, and God, it’s kind of unfair how beautiful he is. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Zyran is my favorite cup of coffee; he’s hot and downright—so not the point.
Rhys has sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw that’s filled with stubble, and dark wet hair falling into his eyes—eyes that are so blue, pale, I mean, Jesus, they’re almost silver.
His lips are soft-looking, his bottom lip a tad bit bigger, and he has an eyebrow piercing that almost looks odd on him but also fits.
And there’s nothing soft about the way he watches me.
Like he’s already made up his mind about me.
He doesn’t move right away, just studies me with an unreadable expression that makes heat crawl up my spine.
Rhys isn’t openly hostile like Raiden, or cold like Cyran, or awkward like Slater.
This is somehow worse.
His fingers flex around the mug in his hand, and it’s then that I see the bags under his eyes, looking like a man who doesn’t get any sleep, or an hour of sleep a night.
“Morning,” he finally is the first to speak.
“Uh, morning,” I mutter, still debating on turning on my heel and running.
“I just made a pot, and it is probably better than the crap Zyran makes.”
That pulls a small chuckle out of me before I can stop it. I have only just learned that Zyran doesn’t like coffee; it’s almost comical thinking about Zyran making any coffee.
I move one foot in front of the other, crossing the kitchen and pouring myself a cup. Neither of us say anything as I open the fridge and grab my creamer. Fixing up my coffee, I turn back around and lean against the counter.
“I’m Rhys, by the way. And I, uh, owe you an apology.”
I blink, and my brow pulls together. “Huh?”