Chapter 20 #2
The relief that surges through me is electric. I press a kiss to his damp shoulder blade. “That’s my Little Sin,” I breathe, and start the slow push again—millimeter by millimeter, pausing every time he twitches, praising every deep breath he wrings out.
When the swell of my knuckles finally pops past that last stubborn ring of muscle, he lets out a raw keen that ricochets off the bedroom walls.
I curl my fingers just enough to hunt for his sweet spot, rubbing with gentle pressure, while my other hand strokes his hip, grounding him in pleasure, not pain. His whole frame arches, thighs spreading wider like he wants to take my forearm too.
“Color?” I demand, soaking my briefs from just watching him take it.
“Green,” he whines. “So fucking green.”
I flex my wrist, shallow thrust, out an inch then back in, letting him ride the wave. Each motion glides slick, obscene wet sounds filling the air. His knees start to shake again—not from fear, but overload.
His bead-covered cock drags against the sheet, leaving a wet trail over the rosary, and he’s chanting “fuck, fuck, fuck” like a hymn.
I start to withdraw almost completely, then thrust back in, moving in a slow rhythmic pulse that makes him flutter and clench.
Each drive is torture-sweet, my wrist twisting to angle against his prostate.
He’s shaking, drool spotting the duvet, eyes squeezed shut; overwhelmed, but afloat on the burn.
“Turn around and touch yourself,” I order when I remove my hand for a moment. He fumbles, fists his cock, and the keening sound he makes when he realizes how close he is punches straight through my ribs.
“You feel that? That’s my entire fucking fist, baby,” I growl, and he moans a wrecked agreement.
His hand jerks faster; his spine arches into a bow so deep I’m afraid he’ll snap.
“When you’re this loose, I can slide in without lube and you’ll milk me like you were made for it.
You’ve been dreaming about it, haven’t you? ”
He nods frantically, words gone. Tears bead at the corners of his eyes; he’s wound so tight on denial and need it’s a miracle he hasn’t blown. “Dominic—fuck—please, let me—”
“Look at me.”
He tries, eyes glassy, lashes wet. When our gazes lock, I see the surrender, and it’s fucking beautiful.
Sweat beads on his forehead and drool slicks the corner of his mouth; every breath comes out on a broken little hitch that throbs straight down my spine.
I keep my fist snug inside him, palm twisting just enough to grind that swollen spot again.
“This is fucking mine, you understand?”
“Yes—all yours,” he chokes, thighs quaking. He tightens the rosary one notch higher on his cock, the beads biting into tender skin. The crucifix presses under his fist every time he strokes. It’s obscene, perfect, and so fucking us that I want to carve the sight into stone.
“I’m going to pull out again,” I warn, sliding free slow enough that every ridge of my knuckles drags against hypersensitive flesh.
He whimpers, whole body following the retreat like gravity lost its hold.
The second my hand slips free, his hole pulses open, slick, needy, and shining under the lamplight.
I hook a finger in the rosary, yank hard enough to send a white-hot jolt through him, then shove my fist in again—deep, slow punches that shove the air from his lungs. The crucifix rattles softly against my fist every time his cock bounces.
He’s seconds from the edge, I can see it: jaw slack, eyes glassy, hand pumping too fast. “You gonna come for me, baby?”
He sobs, then nods, moans dissolving into a litany. “Full… deeper… yours… oh God, yes, Daddy, please—”
“Give me your cum, Little Sin,” I growl. “Desecrate that cross.”
He lets go. A raw, wrecked sound rips from his chest as his orgasm hits, thick pulses striping his skin in uneven strokes while the rosary strains around the swell. I ride out his climax with shallow twists until the tremors ebb, watching him shudder with the aftershock.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our ragged breathing. I ease out carefully, then tug the cum-covered rosary free and toss it onto the nightstand. He hisses at the sting, but when I palm his hip he melts under the touch, boneless and safe.
“Color?” I murmur against the bite mark blooming on his skin.
A shaky exhale. “Still green.”
Pride fists tight in my chest. I press a kiss over the crescent of teeth marks, then soothe his overstretched rim with gentle strokes of my lube-slick fingers. He flinches, overstimulated, but doesn’t pull away.
His breathing is ragged and eyes half-mast, ignoring the wet mess on the sheets when he curls against me. I kiss the corner of his mouth. “You did so fucking good, Little Sin.”
He offers a shaky smile, fingers tracing the scar on my ribs. “Thought I’d break,” he whispers.
I huff a laugh, pressing my forehead to his. “You did break, but in all the right places. I’ll put you back together later.”
He nods against me, then stiffens when he feels my cock still hard between us. “You didn’t…”
I shake my head and stroke his cheek, thumb smearing sweat. “This wasn’t about me; it was about getting you ready. We’ll go slow for now.”
He exhales, and laughter shakes from his bones. “Fisting me is going slow in your books?”
I pull on his lower lip, then release. “It’s as slow as my patience allows.”
We stay tangled for a while, his breathing evening out, my heartbeat settling from gallop to steady pound.
Eventually, I ease him back, arrange pillows, and fetch warm cloths to wipe him clean—gentle where moments ago I was merciless.
He watches me with that soft baffled awe, as if he can’t reconcile the killer on the field with the man who now smooths a washcloth over tender skin.
I toss the cloth aside and slide in behind him, spooning; one arm slung heavy over his waist.
“My good boy,” I murmur against his nape. “Never letting you go.”
He blushes so deeply that it stains his throat, and curls closer, heart still racing.
I stroke his back slowly, letting him pretend this calm is mercy instead of the prelude to darker lessons.
I watch the way his lashes flutter, the way he leans into every pass of my hand, and I think about the next drill, the next stretch, the next time he washes himself clean so that I can dirty him again.
I think about how easy it is to own a soul that’s convinced it’s already damned.
And I smile.