Chapter Seven #2
Harlow was oblivious, happy to have a playmate who didn't treat him like a burden. He drenched himself as much as Newt, water streaming off his beard and pooling at his feet.
The two of them wrestled over the hose, each trying to outflank the other. The noise they made—shouts, shrieks, laughter—echoed through the yard, up the walls, into my skull.
It was the laughter that finally did me in.
I was halfway through sanding a board when Newt let out a sound so pure, so unguarded, that I nearly snapped the maple in half.
That was it. I was done. Game over.
Mission parameters: changed.
I set the tools down, wiped my hands, and crossed the yard in five deliberate strides. I didn't run. I didn't need to. The moment I was in range, both of them froze.
Newt looked at me, water running in rivulets down his chest, t-shirt stuck to his skin, breath coming fast. His eyes were wild, bright, a challenge written in blue.
Harlow blinked, then smiled, thinking I was there to join in.
I wasn't.
I grabbed Newt by the wrist, ignoring his yelp of surprise, and hauled him close. He struggled, but not to get away—he just wanted to know how far I'd take it.
I took it all the way.
I wrapped one arm around his waist and lifted him, easy, his legs dangling. He twisted, laughing, not expecting me to actually throw him over my shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Knox!" he squawked, voice pitching up an octave. "What are you—"
"Quiet," I said.
He went still, just like that. The trust was immediate, total.
I walked him toward the house, ignoring the way he squirmed, ignoring Harlow's confused stare, ignoring the sound of Ransom hooting from the porch.
As I passed, Ransom raised his beer and gave a slow, mocking salute.
Harlow called out, "Where you taking him?"
"Extraction," I said, not stopping.
Harlow frowned, processing, then nodded. "Okay. Bring him back after?"
I didn't answer.
Inside, the house was cool and dark. I didn't stop in the mudroom, just kept going, up the stairs, down the hall to my bedroom. I didn't put him down until we reached the edge of the bed.
Then I tossed him, hard, onto the mattress.
He bounced, breathless, limbs splayed. He looked up at me, cheeks flushed, water droplets running down his neck to soak the pillow.
"You okay?" I asked, voice stripped down to the bone.
He nodded, but his smile was gone. What was left was hunger.
I shut the door behind me, locked it, and turned.
This was not going to be gentle.
This was not going to be slow.
I crossed the room, boots heavy on the floor, and stared at him until he started to shake. Not with fear. With anticipation.
I was about to ruin him.
And he was going to thank me for it.
The second the door clicked shut, the air changed.
My territory.
He sprawled on the bed, propped up on one elbow, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt painted to his skin. He looked every bit the thing I'd been dreaming about since the first time I saw him alone in a room, afraid and trying not to show it.
Now he wasn't afraid. He was ready.
I made him wait anyway.
I stood over him, arms folded, watched as he tried to guess my next move.
The room still smelled like cedar and gun oil, but under that was something new, something wild.
The walls were bare except for a rifle rack and two cheap prints of fishing cabins.
The desk, the dresser, the headboard—I'd built every piece myself, heavy and indestructible.
There were no pictures, no trophies. I didn't need reminders of the past. I needed something that belonged to me.
And right now, that was him.
Newt shifted on the bed, trying to cover his hard-on with a forearm, then gave up and let it tent the wet fabric instead. His face was flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and wild. There was a splotch of sunburn at his collar, and droplets ran down his neck to his chest.
I ran my eyes over him, slow. Every inch. Every shiver.
Newt trembled, but didn't break eye contact.
"You scared?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No."
"You should be."
He swallowed. "Are you going to—"
"Yes."
He took a breath, and in that second I saw the shift—something hard and desperate underneath the nerves. Newt wanted it as much as I did. Maybe more.
I crossed the room, boots thudding. He watched me, chest rising and falling in little hitches. I stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on my hips. "Take it off," I ordered.
Newt hesitated, fingers curled at the hem of his shirt.
I waited.
He peeled it off, slow. The fabric stuck at his elbows, then slid free. I watched every muscle as he flexed, watched the way the skin bunched at his ribs, the freckles across his chest, the flat, almost hairless belly. His nipples were small and pink, hard from the cold and the nerves.
I wanted to bite them until he screamed.
He let the shirt drop to the floor.
"All of it," I said.
Newt reached for the waistband of his shorts, fingers slick with water, and pushed them down past his knees. His underwear followed, pale blue, soaked and clinging. When he kicked them off, his cock sprang free, already half-hard and leaking at the tip.
He blushed, and I almost laughed. The kid had no idea how good he looked. He shifted, unsure. His cock bobbed against his thigh, balls tight and high from the chill.
I let the silence stretch, the anticipation suffocating. "You want me to touch you?" I said.
Newt nodded, eyes never leaving mine.
"Say it."
His voice was a whisper. "Please."
I let the command hang in the air.
Then I stripped. First the shirt, which came off in one motion.
The scars, the tattoos, the web of veins down my arms—they were all for him now.
I saw his pupils widen, saw his lips part as he stared.
Newt tracked the muscles, the old wounds, the ridges and dips of a body built for war. His cock jerked at the sight.
I unlaced my boots, set them aside, then shucked the pants and underwear at once. My own cock was at full mast, heavy and dark, jutting straight out. I didn't bother to hide it. I wanted him to see.
Newt saw.
His mouth went slack.
Good.
I climbed on the bed, knees bracketing his thighs, hands planted on either side of his ribs.
Newt smelled like sun and sweat and the lingering tang of river water.
I leaned in, lips at his ear. "Last chance to run."
Newt shook his head.
I bit the lobe, then his neck, then moved down to the hollow above his collarbone. He gasped, back arching, hands coming up to grab my arms.
I pinned Newt’s wrists to the bed, easy. His pulse thudded under my fingers. He whimpered, and it went straight to my cock. I ground my hips against his, our cocks sliding together, slick with sweat and precome. He moaned, soft and high, pressing up for more.
I could've made him beg, but I wanted him too much.
I let go of Newt’s wrists and slid a hand down to his balls, rolling them in my palm, then squeezing until he yelped. He was so fucking responsive—every touch made him shiver, every rough edge made him want more.
I ran my thumb along the seam at his taint, then circled his hole, pressing just enough to make him gasp. Newt spread his legs, offering himself up without shame.
I spat in my hand, lubed my fingers, then pushed one inside him, slow but deep. He clenched around me, panting, trying to ride the intrusion instead of fight it.
I added a second finger, scissoring, stretching him wide. He was tight, but not a virgin. He knew what he wanted. I curled my fingers just right and he cried out, the sound echoing off the bare walls.
"Knox, fuck—"
I grinned. "You want more?"
"Please," he said, voice gone to hell.
I could've teased him all night, but I was beyond patience.
I grabbed a condom and some lube out of my nightstand. After quickly gloving up, I spread some lube between his ass cheeks and then lined up, rubbed the head of my cock against his tight entrance, and pressed in, slow but relentless.
He groaned, a long, low note. I went in to the hilt, then stopped, letting him adjust. He was hot and tight, squeezing me so hard it was almost painful.
I pulled out, then slammed back in, hard enough to rock the bed against the wall. Newt arched up, mouth open, gasping. I set a rhythm, slow at first, then faster, each thrust hitting deeper, harder. He dug his nails into my back, raking down my shoulders, marking me.
I wanted every mark Newt could give.
I fucked him, rough and relentless, until he was shaking, tears at the corners of his eyes from the force of it. He never said stop. He never said slow down. He just took it, like it was what he was made for.
I leaned down, teeth at his nipple, bit until he yelped. Newt came hard, shooting across his own chest, cock still clamped in my fist.
I chased him, ramming deep, then pulling out and flipping him onto his stomach in one motion. He moaned, but lifted his ass, waiting for me to finish.
I lined up and shoved in again, fucking him face down, one hand locked around his hip, the other fisted in his hair. He took it, every inch, every thrust. I came with a grunt, buried to the root, the pulse of it almost a pain.
I collapsed on top of him, breathe gone, the room spinning. We lay there a minute, both panting, sweat cooling on our skin until he made a noise, half-laugh, half-sob, then turned to look at me over his shoulder.
"You okay?" I said, voice rough.
He nodded, eyes shining. "Yeah," he said. "Fuck. Yeah."
I pulled out, rolled him onto his back, and wiped the hair from his forehead. He looked ruined. Beautiful.
He grinned, dazed, then curled up against me, small and perfect. I wrapped an arm around his waist, held him tight. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to.
He was mine now.
Everyone would know it.
And for once, I wasn't planning on letting go.