Chapter 5 Familiar Skin #2
I kicked off my boots. Pulled my shirt over my head.
Then—slowly, because some things deserved ceremony—I unbuttoned my black jeans, hooked my thumbs into the waistband, and slid them down and off.
No underwear. Hadn't bothered after cleaning up.
I tossed the jeans onto the chair and climbed onto the bed on all fours, knees at the edge of the mattress, wearing nothing but my socks and the knowledge of exactly what I looked like from behind.
Dec came through the door three seconds later. He swung it back behind him without looking and crossed the room, but halfway there he stopped.
Because he'd seen me. He was standing just inside the room, one hand still raised from the door, and his eyes were on me. I could feel the weight of his gaze the way I could feel sunlight—physical, warm, pressing against every inch of exposed skin.
I looked back over my shoulder and gave him the grin. The full one. "Like what you see?"
He didn't answer with words. He crossed the room in two strides, and then his hands were on me—both of them, palms flat against my ass, fingers spread wide, gripping the muscle with the reverent firmness of a man who'd been thinking about this for two weeks and was finally allowed to touch.
His thumbs traced inward, parting me slowly, and I heard the sound he made—low, barely audible, a rumble in his chest that wasn't quite a word.
I knew what he was looking at. The months of frustrated recovery had turned my body into something new: every hour on the heavy bag and the squat rack and the boxing ring had built muscle I'd never carried before, and my ass had gotten the bulk of that attention. Round, hard, full enough that Dec’s hands couldn't quite cover both cheeks at once.
And at the center, pink and smooth and freshly cleaned, my hole—pale against the tan that years of Nevada sun had given the rest of me.
I was fair-skinned, red-haired, the kind of Irish-pale that burned before it bronzed, but living in the desert had left a warm golden layer on my arms, my legs, my back.
My ass, though—my ass stayed white. Sheltered from everything except the occasional rooftop sunbathing session at the clubhouse when I was feeling exhibitionist, which was often, but not often enough to even out the contrast. The result was obscene in the best way: tanned skin framing pale cheeks framing a pink hole that Dec was currently staring at like he was about to say grace.
"You gonna look all day, or—"
He spanked me. Hard. His right hand connecting with the right cheek in a single, fluid strike—not a planted slap but a passing one, the palm sweeping across the muscle in a motion that was half impact and half caress, the sound cracking through the quiet bedroom like a gunshot.
The sting bloomed hot and immediate and shot straight to my dick.
"Fuck." I dropped my head between my arms. "Again."
His hand came down on the left cheek this time.
Same fluid motion, same crack. I lifted my head and looked back at him over my shoulder—because I loved watching Dec lose control, lived for it, and right now his control was hanging by a thread.
His other hand had dropped to his jeans, pressing against the outline of himself, the shape of him straining the denim.
His jaw was set in that way it got when the thread was fraying fast.
"You like that ass?" I pushed back, arching my spine, giving him more. "It's been waiting for you. Two weeks, Dec. Two weeks of this ass in your bed and you haven't touched it. That's criminal."
He didn't answer. Instead, he dropped to his knees.
The first touch of his tongue made me forget every word I'd ever learned.
He started at the base of my dick—I was hanging hard, full and heavy between my thighs, and he reached under me and pulled me back carefully, angling the shaft so his tongue could find the underside.
Then he licked. One long, continuous stroke, from the sensitive ridge below the head, along the shaft, over my balls—slow, his tongue flattening to cover more skin, the heat of his mouth making every nerve ending fire simultaneously—then across my taint, the pressure firmer now, more deliberate, and finally, finally, the flat of his tongue landing on my hole.
My entire body shuddered.
"Oh God." The words came out wrecked. "Dec. Fuck."
He ate me like he did everything else: methodical, thorough, devastating.
His tongue circled my rim in slow passes, each one pressing a little harder, a little deeper, finding the tension in the muscle and dissolving it with a patience that made me want to scream.
He alternated between broad, flat strokes that covered everything and pointed, insistent pressure right at the center, pushing into me in a way that was half tongue-fuck and half worship, and I gripped the sheets and pressed back into his face and made sounds that had absolutely no business carrying through four and a half inches of drywall.
"I missed this." My voice was shaking. "Missed your tongue. Missed your fucking mouth, Dec, God—"
He spanked me again without breaking rhythm.
His left arm was wrapped around my hip, holding me steady against his mouth, and his right hand cracked against my left cheek while his tongue drove into me.
The combination—the sting and the wet heat and his arm pinning me in place—made my dick jump and leak onto the sheets below.
"Don't stop. Don't you dare fucking stop."
He buried his face deeper, his hands spreading me wider, his tongue working in and out with a rhythm that was making my thighs shake and my vision blur.
Two weeks of nothing. Two weeks of lying next to this man and being good, and now his mouth was on me and his hands were on me and I could feel every day of those two weeks burning off like fog in the sun.
He pulled back. I groaned at the loss.
Behind me, I heard the sound of fabric—shirt over his head, belt unbuckling, jeans hitting the floor. I looked back and my mouth went dry.
Dec naked. I'd seen it thousands of times and never gotten used to it.
Built like a Greek god who'd been raised in a shipyard—broad through the shoulders, thick through the chest, every muscle carved and defined from years of discipline that made my gym routine look like a hobby.
His skin was bronze, a shade deeper than mine, tanned from the desert and genetics and the glow of a body that had been maintained like a weapon.
The scars mapped his history: the burns on his left arm, the training accident on his shoulder, a knife scar across his side I'd kissed so many times the tissue had probably memorized my lips.
His cock stood thick and heavy, angled up from his body, nine inches of him fully hard, the head flushed red and swollen with two weeks of wanting.
He spat into his palm. Slow, deliberate, letting the saliva pool before wrapping his hand around himself and spreading it along his length.
Then he leaned over me, and I watched—looked back between my arms—as he let a line of spit hang from his mouth.
It stretched, thinned, and dropped onto the head of his dick and the slick surface of my hole in a single warm thread.
Something feral ripped through my chest.
"Get in me." The words came out raw, stripped of charm, stripped of humor, stripped of everything except pure, desperate want. "Now, Dec. I need your dick in me right now."
He pressed the head against me. Held it there. Let me feel the thick, blunt pressure of him nudging my rim without entering, and my whole body trembled with the effort of not pushing back and taking it myself.
"You want it?" His voice was low, rough, barely held together. His free hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise.
"You know I want it. Give it to me."
He pushed in. Slow. The head breached me and I gasped—not pain, not anymore, not after eight years, but the stretch was always there, always shocking, the first moment of his thickness opening me up in a way that made my brain short-circuit.
He kept pushing. Inch by inch, slow and relentless, his free hand gripping my ass cheek hard enough to bruise, spreading me open while he fed himself into me until I felt his hips press flush against my ass and the full length of him was buried deep.
"All of it," he said. Statement, not question.
"All of it," I breathed back.
He pulled out. Slow. The drag of him against my walls making my toes curl and my fingers twist in the sheets. When just the head was still inside me he paused, held it, let me feel the absence—and then drove back in, one long, controlled stroke that bottomed out with a slap of skin against skin.
"You like this dick in your ass?" His voice was wrecked. The Navy composure, the tactical precision, the measured control—cracking. Every stroke cracked it further.
"You know I fucking love it." I was rocking back to meet him, matching his rhythm, taking him deeper with each thrust. "Harder."
He gave me harder. Still long strokes, still controlled, but the force behind them had changed—each one driving me forward on the bed, my arms bracing against the mattress, the headboard beginning to tap the wall in a rhythm that neither of us had the presence of mind to worry about.
The mirror was on the wall to our left. I caught the image—both of us reflected in the glass, his body curved over mine, the muscles of his back flexing with each thrust, his ass clenching as he drove forward.
It looked like porn. It looked like something someone would pay money to watch—the two of us, his bronze skin against my pale, the raw mechanics of his body working mine open with a precision that was somehow both mechanical and desperate.