Chapter 15 Nothing Left to Hide #7
Just looking at him. Taking my time. The full picture of Troy on all fours in my bed, wearing lace and silk and nothing else, back arched and waiting, his cock hanging heavy between his thighs still flushed and slick from my hand.
“Lower,” I said. “Arch your back more.”
His spine dropped further. A small sound escaped him that wasn't a word.
I poured more lube into my palm and stroked again, slower this time, squeezing from base to tip, watching the pre-come that welled at the head catch the light. The wet sounds of my own hand filled the bedroom and I heard Troy's breathing change in response. Heard it go shallow and quick.
“You have any idea what you look like right now.”
He turned his face back toward me over his shoulder. Eyes dark. Jaw tight. The specific expression of a man exercising genuine self-control. “Declan. Please.”
“Please what.” I moved off the bed. Stood behind him. Kept stroking, slow and deliberate, close enough that he could hear every slick sound. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His hands fisted in the sheet. “I want you inside me.”
“Want me to breed you.” The words came out rough. “Say it.”
A pause. One breath. Two.
“I want you to breed me.” His voice had nothing guarded left in it. “Please. Declan, please.”
I ran my free hand up the back of his thigh, palm dragging against the stocking, fingers curling over his hip.
Poured more lube directly, felt him shiver violently at the cold before the warmth of my fingers replaced it, two of them pressing in easily now, working him open with slow thorough strokes while my other hand kept its own rhythm.
His head dropped between his shoulders.
I pressed my cock against him without pushing in. Just the pressure of it, slick and insistent against the soft give of him, and his whole body shuddered forward and back simultaneously, trying to take more than I was offering.
I held his hip and kept him exactly where he was.
I pushed in.
Not all at once. The first inch was slow and deliberate and destroyed every remaining coherent thought I had left.
He was tight. Impossibly, overwhelmingly tight, hot like a furnace around the head of my cock, his body gripping and yielding simultaneously in a way that dragged a sound out of me that I didn't recognize as my own voice.
Troy's head dropped forward. A long shaking exhale pressed into the sheets.
I pushed deeper and I felt him stretch around every inch of the way. My hands gripped both his hips through the lace, fingers digging into muscle, and I watched my cock disappear inside him and my vision went briefly white at the edges.
“Declan—” Broken off. Not a sentence. Just my name, fragmented, pressed into the sheet.
“I've got you,” I said. The same words from earlier. A completely different weight behind them now.
I seated myself fully.
The sound that came out of me when I bottomed out was not something I'd made before in my life.
Low and rough and pulled from somewhere structural.
The heat of him surrounding me completely, the tight grip of him at the base, his whole body shaking slightly with the effort of accommodating all of it.
I stayed still. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel every single detail of where we were.
His ass pressed flush to my hips. The lace band of his stockings under my palms. The city light catching the sheer fabric along the length of his legs.
My stepson. On all fours in my bed with me buried inside him and nowhere left to hide from what this was.
Then I pulled back and drove forward.
Troy's arms buckled. He caught himself, pressed his forearms flat to the mattress, and pushed back to meet the second thrust with a sound that was shameless and loud and entirely beyond caring who heard it.
I stopped being gentle about it.
Set a rhythm that had nothing measured in it, hips snapping forward, the slap of skin filling the bedroom, his sounds on every thrust turning into something continuous that went straight to my spine and made me harder than I'd been in my life.
The lace underwear was still pulled aside, the elastic catching against my cock on each stroke, and the friction of it against the hot grip of him was something I had no category for.
“So tight,” I said, rough and low, barely words at all. “Every time I push into you, fuck, Troy, you're—”
He moaned. Not a word. Just a long open sound that rose in pitch when my angle shifted.
I found that angle again deliberately. Kept it. Watched his back arch further, watched his hands fist and release in the sheets, watched the stockings tremble with the force of each thrust, and felt something deeply animal take over the last remaining rational part of my brain.
My hand came down on his ass. Hard. Felt the heat immediately, felt him clench around me in response, and the sensation of that tight rhythmic grip on my cock pulled a groan out of me that was embarrassingly honest.
“Mine,” I said. The word came out without asking permission. “You understand me. Mine.”
“Yes.” No hesitation at all. “Yours.”
I drove in harder. Felt him take every bit of it, felt his body open and grip and pull me deeper, and the sounds we were making together in that dark bedroom were nothing like anything that had ever happened in this house before. Raw and wet and loud and real.
I kept going.
The rhythm had found its own logic by now, hips snapping forward with a force that drove Troy's forearms deeper into the mattress, his whole body rocking with each thrust, the headboard beginning its own percussion against the wall.
His sounds had lost all shape. Just continuous broken noise, vowels and breath and the occasional fragment of my name that came out higher each time I hit the right angle.
I gripped the lace at his hips and pulled him back onto every stroke.
Felt the thin fabric bunch under my fists. Felt the stockings against my thighs when I pressed fully in. The obscene slap of skin on skin. The slick heat of him gripping my cock with every withdrawal like his body was trying to keep me there, like letting go was something it refused to consider.
“You feel that,” I said, rough, and thrust in deep and stayed there a half second. Felt him clench. Felt the full-body shudder that rolled through him. “Feel how deep I am.”
“Hhhnn—yes—yes, don't stop—”
I pulled back and drove forward again and his response was immediate and loud and I did it again, harder, setting a pace now that was past measured and past controlled, just want, just six weeks of compressed wanting finally given somewhere to go.
My hand came down on his ass twice in quick succession, felt him clench both times, felt the resultant grip on my cock and almost lost the thread entirely.
“Turn over. I want to see you.”
He looked back at me over his shoulder. Sweat-damp and wrecked and flushed from chest to jaw. “What—”
“Turn over. I want to watch your face.”
Something moved in his expression that wasn't quite readable. Then he moved, and I pulled back enough to let him, and he rolled beneath me and settled on his back with his legs falling open and his chest heaving and his eyes finding mine immediately in the dark.
I looked at him for one full second.
Then I grabbed his hips and pulled him forward and pressed back inside.
His head went back. The sound he made was long and open and completely undignified and the most honest thing I'd ever heard from him.
“Sit up,” he said. Breathless. “Sit back.”
I understood what he wanted. Shifted my weight back onto my heels, pulling him with me, and Troy moved with the adjustment and got his knees either side of my thighs and sat upright in my lap with my cock still buried inside him and the full city light catching every line of him.
The sight hit me like something physical.
Troy above me, lace stockings framing his thighs, the scraps of black underwear still crooked across his hips, his hands coming to rest on my chest as he found his balance.
The bruising across his ribs. The tattoos I'd been looking at sideways for six weeks.
The lean defined lines of his stomach, the cut of his shoulders, and his eyes on mine with an expression that had nothing hidden left in it.
He rolled his hips.
The sensation pulled a sound from me that came from the floor of my chest.
He did it again. Finding his rhythm, adjusting the angle, and when he found the right one his jaw went slack and his hands tightened against my chest and he started to move properly. Rising and dropping, each descent taking me completely, each lift dragging against every nerve ending I had.
“Look at you, Troy.”
He looked down at me and his expression did something complicated and then he flexed.
Not performatively. Just the natural flex of a man using his body, the muscle of his thighs and stomach engaging with each roll of his hips, and the sight of it made my hands grip his thighs hard enough to leave marks.
I spit on my hand.
Wrapped it around his cock and stroked in time with his movement.
The sound he made at the first stroke was sharp and high and he bucked forward into my fist, lost his rhythm for a half second, then found it again, working against both my hand and my cock simultaneously, chasing everything at once.
“There,” I said low. “That's it.”
His head dropped back. The long line of his throat exposed, jaw tight, moving above me with an abandon I hadn't seen on him before. Every careful wall gone. Just him. Just this. Just the raw reality of what we were doing in the dark.
He leaned down and spit onto my chest.
I pulled him down by the back of the neck and kissed him hard and he groaned into my mouth and his hips kept moving, relentless, and my fist kept working his cock between us and I felt him getting closer in the way his whole body was starting to tighten, thighs shaking against my hips, sounds going higher and less controlled.
“I'm—” He pulled back from the kiss, forehead dropping to mine. “Declan, I'm close—”
“I know.” My grip on his cock tightened. Felt myself getting there too, felt the heat building at the base of my spine, the tightening in my thighs. “Together. Come on.”
“Hhnn—oh god—together, don't stop—don't—”
He clenched around me so hard my vision went white.
I came with my face pressed into his neck and his name on my lips and my fist still working him through it, felt him spill over my hand and across my stomach in long pulses, felt him shaking apart above me while I buried myself as deep as I could go and came undone inside him.
We stayed locked together. Both shaking. Both breathing like we'd surfaced from somewhere very deep.
His forehead pressed to mine.
Neither of us said anything for a long time.