Chapter 23 #2
Mine. The word pounded in my head louder than thunder.
He bit me, tried to turn the kiss mean, but I shoved the taste back down his throat, using my whole body to pin him in place. Mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue, spit and cum and rainwater blending until I didn’t know where I ended and he began. It was sick. Filthy. The hottest thing I’d ever known.
I licked him clean, licked the mess off his lips and chin, tasted myself and him and metallic rain. I’d never get tired of it. Never stop needing more.
“Porra, Rafael.” He choked, shuddered, licked the last drops from my lips like Communion wine. “You’re obsessed.”
He had no idea.
I spun him around and pressed his chest against the wall, pinning him there with my weight. His hands came up automatically, palms flat against weathered wood, bracing himself.
"Don't move," I said against the back of his neck. It wasn't a command but a plea. "Please don't move. Just let me fuck you like this."
"I won't." His voice shook. "I won't, I promise."
My fingers found his ass and went straight for his hole, expecting at least a little resistance. Maybe he’d wince or try to tense up for show. But there was none of that. He was already loose and slick, like someone had stretched him out good and proper before I’d even touched him.
He must’ve fucked himself.
God. The thought hit me like a surge of static. I shoved two fingers in up to the knuckle, and he just groaned, pushing back on them like he was starving for more. I curled them inside him, slow and punishing, then reached around to fist his hair and yank his head back hard.
"Did you open yourself up for me?" I hissed in his ear.
He shuddered. "After breakfast. I couldn't wait. You were arguing with Jasper. I went to the bathroom, sat on the sink, and fucked myself with my fingers until I came thinking about you."
I growled, bit the edge of his jaw, and drove my fingers in deeper before I forced a third with no effort at all. He choked on a gasp, hands scrambling for purchase on rain-slick wood.
"How many fingers does it take to feel like I’m inside you?" My cock shoved hard against the fly of my jeans.
He didn't answer. Just pressed his forehead to the siding and moaned while I fucked my fingers inside him, pulse racing in my ears. I twisted my wrist and felt him twitch around them. Still loose. Still desperate and open. Nothing would satisfy him except me.
"You like that?" I leaned into the curve of his ear, cold rain dripping off my jaw onto his collarbone. "Does that feel as good as my cock?"
He shook his head.
I twisted my fingers hard, angled deep. He made a wrecked sound. "Answer me."
"No," he gasped. "It's not the same. Fuck, nothing is as good as you. Please, I need you inside me. Please, Rafael, I'll do anything, just fuck me, I'm begging you, por favor."
That was all I needed.
I wrenched my jeans open and lined myself up before shoving in roughly. The heat of him, the shock of slick pressure, nearly took me out. I had to brace myself against the back of his neck. His body sucked me in like he was starving for it.
"Beg for it," I hissed.
Lorenzo's whole body shuddered against the wall. "Please." The word came out broken, desperate. "Please, Rafael, I need it. I need you to fuck me. I've been thinking about it all morning, all week, since New Orleans—" His voice cracked. "Please, I'll do anything, just move, please—"
I pulled out almost completely, then slammed back in.
The force of it drove him up onto his toes, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.
I set a brutal pace; no finesse, no technique, just raw need driving me forward.
Each thrust punched gasps and moans and broken Portuguese out of him that got lost in the storm.
"Is this what you wanted?" I growled in his ear. "Me losing control? Me fucking you like an animal?"
"Yes—" The word dissolved into a whine as I changed the angle and found that spot inside him that made his whole body jerk. "Oh God, there, right there—"
His cock hung between his legs, still soft from his recent orgasm, but every time I hit his prostate, a bead of cum leaked from the tip.
The sight made something primal roar to life in my chest. I wanted to milk him dry, wring every last drop from his oversensitive body until he was sobbing from it.
I reached around and wrapped my hand around his soft cock, squeezing just hard enough to make him whimper. The oversensitivity had to be torture, but he pushed into my grip anyway, desperate even through the pain.
The storm beat down on us, cold and relentless, but all I felt was his body clenching around me, my blood pounding in my ears, the friction building to something inevitable. My rhythm faltered, became erratic. Close. So close.
"Lorenzo—" His name came out strangled. My hips snapped forward one last time, and I came so hard my vision whited out, pulse after pulse emptying deep inside him.
When it was over, I leaned against his back, barely keeping us upright. Cold rain hammered my shoulders, but I was burning up. I couldn't move. Didn't want to. His chest rose and fell, and mine followed. Our breathing synced, found the same ragged rhythm.
When the aftershocks finally faded, I gripped myself at the base and pulled out, slow, and the drag of it punched a hiss from both our throats.
The thick, hot mess of my release immediately began to spill out, running down the inside of his thighs. I spread him wider with my thumbs, watching it flow. His entrance was swollen, reddened, unmistakably used. I pressed gently, and more of my release leaked out.
It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.
"Stop." Lorenzo squirmed away. "We need to go back inside before one of us catches our death out in this rain."
I helped him pull his jeans back on, my hands gentler now. He winced as the denim slid over sensitive skin. I tucked myself away, and we stumbled toward the cabin door together, both of us unsteady on our feet.
Inside, the silence felt deafening after the downpour.
Jasper stood by the door, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He took one look at us—soaked, covered in mud and blood, reeking of sex—and snorted.
He didn't say a word. Just grabbed two towels from the stack beside him and threw them at our heads.
Then he turned, walked to his makeshift desk in the corner, and sat down in front of his laptop.
Headphones went on. A moment later, industrial music blared loud enough that I could hear the distorted beats even from across the room.
Water dripped from our clothes onto the floor. Lorenzo turned to face me, towel hanging forgotten in his grip. The split in his lip had opened again, blood mixing with rainwater on his chin.
"So," he said, that familiar dangerous smile creeping back despite how wrecked he looked. "Was that everything you fantasized about?"
I reached out and cupped his jaw, careful of the injury. "That was better than any fantasy."
His smile widened, but I could see the tremor in his hands as he lifted the towel to wipe his face. "Good. Because I want to do it again."
"You're injured," I reminded him, using my own towel on my hair.
"I'm always injured," he said, though his fingers shook where they gripped the damp fabric. "Comes with the job. Doesn't mean I'm going to stop living."
Living.
The word settled into my chest like a second heartbeat.
Lorenzo didn't mean surviving. He meant this—rain and mud and blood and fucking against walls in storms. He meant taking what he wanted when he wanted it, consequences be damned.
He meant choosing to feel everything, even when it hurt, especially when it hurt.
And I realized with sudden, terrifying clarity: that was what we'd have. Not peace. Not safety. Not the quiet domesticity I'd once imagined a life with someone might look like.
Just living. Raw and messy and probably short, stolen in moments between missions and injuries and all the violence that defined us both.
And I wanted it. God help me, I wanted every brutal, beautiful moment of it.