Chapter 2 Two 14 #4
“You must have some–ah–ideas,” Conan said. Shit, Lam looked good above him, backlit by the moonlight, the perfectly coiffed hair and sneering tilt to his lips. “The–the knife’s not just for show.”
Lam smiled with all his teeth and dropped back down, groaning as he did so. His neck was so long and pale in the moonlight, it was begging for a hand around it.
“It’s not,” Lam said, “but usually–fuck–usually you have to earn three strikes before you're out.”
That perked his interest. “Oh yeah? Have I earned any strikes?”
“You’d know,” Lam said meaningfully, and the knife tapped against his skin.
Interesting.
“Have any of your partners ever… gotten the home run?” He asked cheekily.
Lam went to snort, but it came out more like a soft sigh as he kept moving. Conan had never been someone’s cock toy like this, and the experience was enlightening.
“No,” Lam said. His free hand dropped down on Conan’s chest to brace himself as he started to move faster. Conan could hear the sound of it, the slick fuck between them. He was so hard, so close already it was alarming.
“I could be the first,” Conan said, and he liked the sound of that. The threat of the knife was wildly arousing, but so was the idea of being something unique to this man. Unusual.
The first.
“Mmm,” Lam said thoughtfully as he kept up the sinuous movement. “Wouldn’t that be interesting?”
He said it like it was the highest form of praise. Interesting. Conan had never wanted to be anything so badly.
On the next drop, he made a gamble. He pushed up with just his hips, meeting Lam halfway, driving his cock that much deeper. It was a hiccup of sound, a gasp, and for a second the blade left Conan’s throat.
He was distracted for only a heartbeat, then Lam’s eyes refocused, pinning him down.
“Wouldn’t want you to have to do all of the work,” Conan said. Then he dropped his hips as Lam moved up again.
The rhythm moved from something slick and seductive to a clashing. To a molten teetering of knifepoint. Lam didn’t stick the knife in him, but Conan could taste it in the air. He almost wanted to push, to get him to lash out just to see what Lam would do.
But he didn’t want to be disappointing.
Conan was breathing hard now, his jaw clenched to hold himself back. His body was singing with the need to come, his fists curled and uncurled where they laid against the stone.
“Fuck, you’re–you’re something else–” Conan grit.
Conan had kissed nearly all of the men he’d taken to bed, had wooed them to softness and then fucked them to exhaustion, but he’d never felt an ache like this.
When Lam leaned forward, his hand slipping from Conan’s chest to the stone beside his head, the breath in his lungs caught.
For a second he thought Lam might kiss him.
Wanted Lam to kiss him. Bite him. Destroy him.
But Lam just looked at him. His eyes roved his face like a fine toothed comb, looking for… what?
“I almost believe you,” Lam said. His voice was breathy now, softer.
What would he sound like when he came? Conan’s jaw ached from how tight it was.
“Believe me?” It was getting difficult to stay with the conversation.
“That you’re enjoying this.”
Conan panted, his throat dry. “May god strike me down if he finds me a liar.”
Lam’s lips parted, hot breath tickled over Conan’s face. “Am I God now?” He asked, his eyes crinkled with amusement. Conan felt his heart trip.
“The nearest thing I’ve–I’ve ever seen,” The words came out too quick, too rough.
He was trying to keep it together as they moved relentlessly against each other.
Lam was hot and tight around him, and every other thrust had soft little sounds falling out of his mouth.
Conan wanted to eat them, wanted to swallow this man whole.
And wanted to be consumed in return.
“You're close,” Lam said. Conan gasped in acknowledgment. “Don’t come yet. I’m not finished with you.”
“Fuck,” Conan cursed. “Hard not to when you say shit like that.”
The knife slid up away from Conan’s throat and landed against the plane of his cheek. The desire in it was palpable.
“You can,” Conan said through pants, hips still moving, driving over and over into Lam as he fought against the burning, tumbling need to come. “If you want–”
Lam made a sound of deep predatorial desire. Conan’s muscles clenched trying to keep himself from coming.
“You want it…?” Lam asked. The question was filled to the brim with lust.
“Do it,” Conan demanded. He suddenly needed to see it, see what Lam would do. How much he would enjoy it.
“This is not a strike,” Lam mumbled, so low the words weren’t even for Conan. The knife dipped into the apple of his cheek and made a quick flick down to the edge of his jaw.
The blade was so sharp that he didn’t even feel it. He watched Lam’s blown out eyes as he made the cut, like it was something holy. He licked his lips and Conan didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so erotic in his whole life.
Pain bloomed and hot, wet blood welled from the cut. Lam moaned and tightened around Conan’s cock, movement gone frantic. He looked possessed.
It was excruciating not to move his hands to respond to all that naked lust. Conan wanted to reach for it, take it in hand. Show Lam what else he could do.
“Do it,” he said instead. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for now, other than he wanted Lam to have whatever he wanted. Whatever he needed. Conan was teetering on the edge of destruction, and he welcomed it.
Lam leaned forward, and Conan didn’t even breathe. That pink tongue dipped out and then pressed to the searing pain of the cut. He licked against the bristle of Conan’s jaw, dragging the pain out, lapping the blood like a delicacy.
Conan’s whole body shuddered, drawn tight and overwrought.
Distantly he registered the clatter of the knife falling to the cobblestone. Lam’s hands cupping his face as he leaned in to taste more of the welling blood.
It triggered something in Conan, and suddenly he was moving, his arms coming down around Lam as his body thrust up, rolling them over in one messy move.
Lam gasped, started to struggle, but then Conan was driving into him, fucking him rough and deep. The side of his face was still pressed to Lam’s mouth and Conan felt teeth bite into him, too painful to be a love bite.
But he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. He drove himself into Lam over and over again, feeling hands claw him, teeth against his jaw, before one of Lam’s hands found the knife again and it sliced across his shoulder.
He didn’t stop as the pain shot through him, launching him to the teetering edge.
It triggered Lam too. He moaned lost and ruined, and his tearing violence became clutching, became an arching and throbbing beneath Conan.
It was pure relief to make it. Conan rut messily into him, his own orgasm slamming into him.
It tore through him and he kept going through the length of it, feeling all the hot wetness between them, the blistering cold against his back.
Everything was competing sensations–the pulsing hot pain of his injuries and the bliss of pure pleasure. He reveled in it.
When it faded, Conan couldn’t even move off of the other man. He collapsed, dropping his head against the stone next to Lam’s. His muscles ached from the tension, and his head was blurry from the high.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he mumbled into Lam’s ear.
The man laughed, high like bells again.
Then, “You cut me,” Conan said when his brain came back online. He wasn’t angry, but it needed to be said because the pain on his shoulder was seeping in now. He couldn’t tell how bad it was, other than his shirt and jacket were soaked with blood.
“I thought that you–but you weren’t.” Lam said softly, wonderingly. “Sorry.”
The apology was awkward, like something he was used to saying.
“I’m not mad,” Conan said, to be clear. “But do I need to like… go to the hospital right now? I can’t tell.” That would suck, because he didn’t have fuckall to pay for something like that.
For some reason, that made Lam laugh again. Then a hand pat up his side to the wound and fingers wiggled into the cut through his clothing. The knife had been wicked sharp, slicing through his winter jacket and his shirt to his skin like it was nothing.
He hissed when fingers found the cut, pressing right into the wound.
Lam touched it exploratively. “We should make you a tourniquet, but I don’t think you’re going to bleed out. I can suture you.”
Conan huffed, and then forced himself to push up on the strength of his other arm even though he was feeling so blissfully good he wanted nothing more than to lay in it for minutes. Hours. Days.
His arms were still bound, and underneath Lam now, so it was awkward, but he managed to make enough space between them to see Lam’s face.
Lam brought his hand up, the one that had just been touching Conan’s cut. In the dark the blood was black on his fingers. Conan watched as Lam brought the fingers to his mouth and painted the blood across his tongue, eyes fluttering closed in a hum of pleasure as he tasted it.
“Fuck,” Conan said as another ripple of arousal shot through him. There was definitely something wrong with him that he was finding this so fucking hot.
But the same kind of thing was wrong with Lam, because his eyes flickered open and met Conan’s, and he smiled around the bloodied fingers.
He was so goddamn pretty.
“So,” Conan said, his gaze heavy, the electric magnetism snapping back to life between them, “How about that bed and shower?”
One of Lam’s brows lifted in interest. He pulled the fingers out of his mouth slowly, and they gleamed in the moonlight. Conan almost bent down to take them into his own mouth.
“Is that all you want?” Lam asked.
“And your phone number.” Conan had just had a mind shattering orgasm, but he still felt desperation snapping at his heels. He didn’t want to lose this man, lose whatever it was that had just cracked open between them, festering and seductive.
Lam touched a wet pointer finger to the cut on Conan’s cheek. “You know I kill people.”
“I’ve put a few men down too,” Conan confessed, “not for the same reasons you do, but it’s not a dealbreaker for me. You’re going to have to uncuff me, that a dealbreaker for you?”
It was flattering that this time Lam didn’t even have to think about it. He smiled, all teeth, like a predator.
“It’s not.”