Chapter 13 #2
I leaned forward, my mouth replacing my hands.
I kissed the base of his spine, tasting the salt of his skin.
He shuddered, a violent, helpless motion.
I moved lower, my nose brushing against him, inhaling his scent.
It was clean from the shower he'd taken before bed, and yet masculine and impossibly alluring.
He was so rigid, so controlled in every other aspect of his life, but his body betrayed him with this scent of pure want.
My tongue flicked out, a hesitant exploration against the tight fold of him.
Samuel bucked. A strangled sob tore from his throat, muffled by the down pillow. "Eli," he gasped. A warning. A plea. A prayer.
I didn't stop. I pressed my lips to him, my tongue delving deeper, tasting him fully.
He tasted like sin and scripture. Like fear and desperation and a profound, untouched sweetness.
His body went rigid, a bowstring pulled to its breaking point.
His fists twisted in the sheets, the knuckles white.
I held his hips, keeping him steady, my tongue working a slow, insistent rhythm.
I was undoing him. Unravelling the tightly-wound spool of guilt he had carried for years.
The tension in him broke. A low groan rumbled from his chest, and his hips gave a tentative push back against my mouth.
Once. A small, involuntary movement. Then again, more deliberate this time.
He was chasing the feeling. Forgetting to be ashamed.
Forgetting to be afraid. He was just a body, a collection of nerves singing a new, forbidden hymn, and his mind had no choice but to listen.
I licked a slow, wet path up his crack, and he moaned, the sound louder this time, less inhibited.
I reached between his legs, my fingers finding the hard length of him, slick with his own need.
He was so hard. So ready. I wrapped my hand around him, and he cried out, his hips jerking against my mouth.
"Easy," I whispered, my lips moving against his skin. "We have all night."
He was panting, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps into the pillow.
I moved my tongue away, and he made a small, wounded sound of protest. I smiled against his skin.
I reached for the lube I kept in my nightstand drawer, a relic of a life before the mission, a hopeful stealthy purchase I never thought I'd use here.
The cap came off with a quiet click. I squeezed a generous amount onto my fingers, the gel cool against my skin.
I brought my hand back to him. I touched the tip of one finger to his opening, and he jerked away, his whole body going stiff again. The fear was back. Quick and sharp.
"Samuel. Look at me."
He slowly, reluctantly, turned his head. His face was a mess. Flushed bright red, damp with sweat, his lips swollen from biting them. His eyes were wide pools of panic.
"It's just me," I said again, my voice low and even. I held his gaze, willing him to trust me. "I won't hurt you. I'm not going to do anything you don't want."
He stared at me for a long, silent moment. I saw the war in his eyes. The years of conditioning fighting against the raw, undeniable truth of his own body. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
I turned his head back to face the pillow. "Just breathe," I instructed. "Focus on my hand." I moved my other hand to his cock, stroking him in a slow, steady rhythm. He gasped, his hips twitching. "That's it."
I brought my lubricated finger back to him, pressing gently.
He was impossibly tight. A fortress. But I was patient.
I applied a steady, gentle pressure, circling the puckered skin until I felt a minute release.
My finger slipped inside, just the tip. He hissed, his back arching, his nails digging into the mattress.
"Breathe, Samuel," I commanded softly, my mouth next to his ear. I kept stroking him, a steady counterpoint to the new, invasive pressure. "You're okay. You're so good. Just relax for me."
Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, the muscle yielded.
I eased my finger in deeper. He moaned, a low, keening sound that was equal parts pain and pleasure.
I started to move my finger, a gentle, circular motion inside him, and his hips began to move with me, a tentative, searching rhythm.
I added a second finger, stretching him, and he groaned again, louder this time, his whole body trembling.
He was so hot inside. So tight. He clenched around my fingers, a powerful, involuntary squeeze, and I had to stop stroking him for a second, my own breath catching in my throat. I pressed my forehead against his back, feeling the tremor of his body against mine.
"Eli," he choked out. The word was thick with unshed tears and desperation.
"I'm here," I said. I pulled my fingers out slowly, and he whimpered at the loss.
I applied more lube, this time to myself.
I positioned myself behind him, my knees between his, and I rested my hands on his hips.
The head of my cock pressed against him, slick and hot.
He went completely still. I could feel the frantic thunder of his heart all the way through his body.
This was the precipice. The point of no return.
"Samuel," I whispered. "Is this what you want?"
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our breathing in the dark room. Then, he pushed back against me. A firm, undeniable pressure. An answer wordless and absolute.
I entered him. Slowly. It was like pushing through a wall of fire. He was so tight it was almost painful for both of us. He screamed into the pillow, a raw, muffled sound of agony and ecstasy, and his back bowed. I froze, my body half in, half out, and held him.
"I'm sorry," I gasped, my own control fraying. "Did I hurt you?"
He shook his head furiously, his face still buried. "No," he sobbed. "Don't stop. Please, Eli, don't stop."
I held him there for another breath, letting his body adjust to the feel of me, the fullness of me. Then, I withdrew almost completely, and he cried out, a sharp sound of protest. I pushed back in, deeper this time, and he met my thrust with a lift of his hips.
That was all the invitation I needed.
The rhythm we found was frantic, desperate.
It wasn't gentle or slow anymore. It was raw need.
The sounds he made were breaking me, guttural sobs and sharp cries of pleasure that he couldn't hold back.
His shame was burning away in the friction of our bodies.
He was being reborn in sin and sweat and desperation, and I was the midwife.
He was no longer Elder Price, the golden boy.
He was Samuel. And he was mine. He clawed at the sheets, his body arching to meet every one of my thrusts, taking me deeper.
"Please," he begged, turning his head, his eyes wild and unfocused. "Harder. Please."
I drove into him, my own release building, a roaring in my ears.
I gripped his hips, my thumbs pressing into the dimples of his lower back, and I gave him what he asked for.
I gave him everything. My body slammed against his, the sound a wet, percussive beat in the quiet apartment.
He screamed my name, a long, keening sound that was pure, unadulterated release.
His body convulsed around me, his inner muscles clenching and milking me with an unbearable intensity.
That was what broke me. The feeling of him, coming apart around me, sent me over the edge.
I cried out his name, my voice cracking, and emptied myself into him, a hot, liquid rush that felt like a confession.
Like a promise. My body shuddered, and I collapsed on top of him, my face buried in the sweat-soaked curve of his neck, my lungs burning, my body spent.
We laid there for a long time, tangled together, our panting breaths the only sound.
My heart hammered against his back. I could feel the tremors still running through his limbs.
I was heavy, but he made no move to push me off.
Instead, he reached back, his hand finding mine, his fingers lacing through my own.
After a few minutes, I found the strength to move.
I pulled out of him slowly and rolled onto my side, taking him with me.
I pulled the sheet up over our bodies, a cocoon against the world.
He turned in my arms, his face burying itself in my chest. His body was still trembling.
I could feel the wetness of his tears soaking through my t-shirt.
I didn't say anything. There were no words for what had just happened.
I just held him. My hand stroked his hair, my fingers tracing the shape of his skull.
His breathing slowly evened out, the shudders subsiding.
He pressed closer, his arm snaking around my waist, his leg hooking over mine.
He was clinging to me like I was the only solid thing in a world that had just dissolved.
His breath was warm against my skin. The fear of being found out, of Kempton, of a lifetime of consequences, was a distant hum on the horizon. It didn't matter. Not now. All that mattered was the weight of him in my arms, the steady beat of his heart against my ribs.
I felt the last bit of tension leave his body as he slid into the heavy, boneless sleep of true exhaustion.
His mouth fell slightly open against my collarbone.
In the dim orange light, with his face peaceful and his body wrapped around mine, he didn't look like a soldier of God.
He just looked like a boy. A boy who had been starving for something he didn't know he was allowed to want.
I closed my eyes, pulling him tighter. The scent of him, of our spent passion, filled my lungs.
For the first time since I'd set foot in this country, this apartment, I wasn't alone.
I let the darkness take me, my last conscious thought a quiet, fierce certainty.
He was not broken. We were not broken. This was not broken.