9 Eric #2
Frantic to bury the words that keep splitting my chest wide and exposing every buried piece I’ve refused to let breathe.
“Fuck you,” I snarl again and snap my hips faster while he chokes and sputters around me, spit dripping thick down his chin. “Do you hear me? I fucking hate you.”
The lie burns worse than the truth.
Tears well in his eyes and slide down his face as I fuck his mouth without mercy, and the vision of him so wrecked beneath me only confuses me worse. Half of me wants to destroy him further, but the other half is desperate to cradle every broken part and make it right.
He takes it all. Every harsh pull on his scalp, every deep thrust that makes his throat spasm around me.
“I hate you,” I force out again, but the words fracture and come out as cracked, barely-there whispers. My palm rises to slap him and softens mid-air, stroking over his heated cheek instead. The touch lingers too long to pretend it’s still anger.
Those somber eyes hold mine. They're quiet and knowing, heavy with promises I never asked for and questions I can’t face. A tide of nameless feelings crashes through me even as I fight to push them away.
I’ll take it all for you.
My skin is too tight for my body, tension roiling under the surface and begging to be released. His voice rings in my head on repeat, a broken fucking record getting louder with each repetition.
I’ll take it all for you.
“Shut up!” My used-up vocal cords burn with the shout, both of my hands now wrapped in his hair.
He moans low around my cock and the vibration travels straight through me as his tongue drags slow and deliberate along the underside, stripping away the last scraps of my control until I’m nothing but sensation and need.
Unbidden tears blur my vision while he pushes me relentlessly toward the edge.
My voice cracks as one final, desperate command spills out. “Stop making me feel like this,” I rasp.
I drive into him with long, punishing punches of my hips. Once, then again, and on the third thrust everything shatters.
Fractured cries tear from my throat as my cock jerks in the tight heat of his mouth, pulses of cum flooding straight down his throat in thick, endless streams.
Nothing has ever felt this good.
“Dmitri, please,” I gasp, his name escaping uninvited yet perfectly natural on my tongue.
I tug him forward, burying myself deeper until his nose presses flush against me and I can feel every flutter of his throat working to take it all.
My cock throbs inside him, spilling the final drops while he drains me dry.
When I finally release my grip he pulls back with a ragged, shuddering inhale, filling his lungs as he rests his forehead against my hip.
His fingertips dig into my thighs with bruising force and he moans low in his chest, hips jerking forward in helpless spasms. I know without looking that he’s coming.
Whimpers of my name rasp from his abused throat as he spills into his boxers, voice strained and wrecked from everything I’ve forced down it.
I can’t stop myself from glancing down to watch the milky warmth seep through the fabric and trail down his thigh with each final pulse until he sags against me, spent and trembling.
His hands drift along my thighs in slow, absent strokes while his head stays pressed to my hip, disheveled hair falling forward to hide his face from view. Waves of emotion surge through me, bitter guilt and sharp regret tangling with an ache so deep it feels carved into my bones.
Every cell in my body reaches for him, and craves the way he quiets the endless storm in my head.
I hate how perfectly he fits there.
How he’s the only thing that ever has.
Our breathing gradually slows until the room feels too quiet, too exposed, and Dmitri rises to his feet and takes my chin in his grip. His eyes brim with too much—too much longing, too much understanding, too much everything—as they lock laser-sharp on mine.
“Don’t,” I plead and twist my head away, breaking free from his fingers.
“Eric…”
Panic clamps down hard on my ribs and squeezes until my lungs refuse to fill as he leans closer, closing the space I’ve just clawed open. My palms slam against his chest and shove him back with all the strength left in my shaking arms.
He could resist and overpower me easily, but his body softens instead, yielding to the distance I demand even though it costs him.
“I can’t fucking do this, Dmitri.”
My hands tremble violently as I fumble to tuck myself back into my jeans and drag the zipper up, unable to lift my eyes to meet the quiet scrutiny burning in his. The adrenaline that carried me drains away in a sickening rush, leaving me unsteady and scattered as I lunge toward the door.
A hand closes around my wrist, gentle but insistent, and I freeze mid-step without turning. “Please stop running,” Dmitri whispers.
“I can’t,” I croak and shake free of his hold, forcing my legs to carry me forward before the urge to turn back overwhelms me. Before I do the stupidest thing possible.
Like stay.