Chapter 9 Phoenix #2
Leander’s chest heaves under mine, his face pale, lips swollen from my kiss. His eyes are wide, wet at the corners, like saying that aloud has broken something inside him.
And just like that, my rage redirects. Not at him. Never at him. At the man who did this. At the ghosts that still haunt him.
I force my hand to soften, to touch instead of restrain. I cup his face, thumb brushing his cheek. “He was wrong.” My voice is ragged, almost unrecognizable. “Every word he said to you was fucking wrong.”
Leander blinks at me, startled by the change. His lips part, but nothing comes out.
I lean closer, pressing my forehead to his. “You hear me? You are not disgusting. You are not broken. You’re—fuck—you’re the most addictive, beautiful thing I’ve ever touched in my life.”
My control snaps in a different way now. Not to torment him, but to give. To make him feel good, to overwrite those memories with something he’ll crave instead of fear.
My hand finally moves where he needs it, no longer withholding. He gasps, body arching up into me like he’s been starved for years instead of minutes.
“That’s it,” I murmur, kissing him hard, swallowing the moan that tears out of him. “That’s mine now. Every sound, every look, every fucking tremble. Mine.”
He clings to me, half-sobs into my mouth, but his hips grind against my touch like his body has been waiting its whole life for this. And maybe it has. Maybe all this time he’s been waiting for someone not just to take from him, but to give back.
So I’ll give. I pull his shirt off, kissing every place the fabric leaves, until he’s naked and panting below me. “Perfect. Just perfect.” I mumble into his skin.
The need for him is already making me shaky. His strong hands flit underneath my shirt, massaging deep into my muscles.
I unbutton my jeans, his hands shoving them down over my ass. I palm myself as I bend down to slide his cock into my mouth.
He cries out, like he’s never been touched before. Then I remember last night when I asked if he’d ever been with a man and he lied to my face. My dick twitches. So I’ll be the first and only person inside him?
My restraint fades. I need him. He’s mine. All mine. Only mine.
I shove his knees to his chest, his tight ass shaped to perfection.
“We can’t—not here.” Leander’s sweet voice tries to reason.
“Yes, here. Because I’ll die if I’m not inside of you right now, Lee.”
Pre-cum drips from his cock onto his stomach. He bites his lip, staring at my straining dick.
I spit in my hand, running the saliva up and down my length.
Leander’s eyes watch greedily, his knees spreading a little wider.
I’d prefer his first time not to be in the back of my SUV and with an appropriate tube of lube, but I can’t be gentle anymore.
Because the only pain I ever want him to think of is the pleasure that comes with it. Never the other.
I push into him. Leander cries out, fresh tears trailing down his cheeks. “Nix.”
I smile at the way he can barely say my name. “Shh, baby. You’re taking me so well.”
“Ah!” Another cry as I push deeper.
“It’ll feel good, I promise. Trust me, baby.” I kiss his good knee before sinking in to the hilt.
Leander groans, his hand twitching towards his cock.
I start to move slowly, not from the desire to be gentle but because Leander is so fucking tight. I almost came from the first slight shift.
“Harder, Nix,” Leander pants.
I groan. “Are you sure?”
“When have you ever been one to ask?” Leander quips.
I grin.
I pull out and slam myself back into him, making him scream. I put my hand over his mouth while the other wraps his leg around my hips. “Quiet, before someone thinks I’m killing you.”
Leander says something muffled by my hand that sounds suspiciously like, “You are killing me.”
“You feel so perfect, Lee. Fuck.” My hips move faster as he loosens for me.
Leander is sobbing now, biting into the flesh of my hand as he makes his filthy little sounds. His hands are tangled in my hair, trying to pull me closer.
I release his mouth, wanting to hear his cries, and start rubbing his dick.
Rough, relentless, but threaded with a care I’ve never offered anyone else. Every time I push him closer, I pull back just enough to make sure he’s still with me, still gasping my name, still clinging instead of retreating.
“Phoenix! It’s too—too much!” He starts to shrink away from me, running from his release.
“You can take it.” I shove his legs over my shoulders to get a better angle.
I should buy a bigger car for future ventures.
I look down at the mess I’ve made of him. Pink cheeks, shirt crumpled on the floor so I can see his sharp abs, large dick swollen and hanging, my borrowed jogger pants and boxers hanging from his ankle. And just like that, I’m bursting just from the sight of him.
My seed makes his hole slick and warm, I pump until he’s fully drained me.
Leander comes shortly after. His cum spraying on his face and chest from the position we are fucking in.
And when he finally breaks, when the pleasure rips through him and he cries out, I hold him through it.
My mouth on his, my hands steady, grounding him, keeping him tethered while his body shatters.
He collapses against the ruined leather seats, shaking, tired and beautiful. And for the first time in my life, the high isn’t from control, the game, or the chase.
It’s from knowing I gave him something good after so much bad.
The air inside the car is suffocating, thick with sweat and sex, fogging the windows so badly the outside world is just a blur of condensation and neon glow. My back is screaming from the cramped space, but the ache feels distant compared to what’s sitting heavy in my chest.
Leander is slumped against the seat, his cheek pressed to the cold window.
His shirt is nowhere near his body, and his chest still bears the red streaks of my fingerprints.
My mouth left its own shine across him, and part of me is feral with satisfaction seeing him marked like that.
Mine. But underneath the satisfaction, there’s something else, sharper, harder to name.
Because I pushed him. I pressed him until he gave me his truth about his father. About the shit he lived through that left shadows in his voice when he said, He’s not dad.
He gave that to me. And now I’m sitting here with it like it’s a live wire sparking in my hands, trying not to break apart from the rage boiling in my gut.
I don’t deserve to touch him again, not after forcing him there. But I do anyway. I lean over, kiss the side of his throat right where my teeth sank into him earlier. He shivers, a faint tremor, his breath hitching even though his body is limp with exhaustion.
“Easy,” I murmur, my voice gravel. My lips drag lower, softer now, brushing over the bruises like I can smooth them away.
I grab a few napkins from the center console and begin cleaning him up. Gently wiping away the mess I made him make.
He doesn’t fight me when I find his shirt and ease it back over his shoulders. Doesn’t lift his arms much, just lets me guide the fabric onto his body like he’s too wrung out to care. My chest burns with something I can’t name—something that feels too much like worship.
“Lift for me.” My tone softens without me meaning it to. He does, obedient even now, letting me pull his joggers up over his hips. My hands linger too long, smoothing the waistband against his skin before I cover him properly.
I kiss each bruise I left as I go—his shoulder, his ribs, the inside of his wrist where I held him down. Press my lips to each one like penance, like apology, like I’m claiming him all over again.
When I finish, his breathing is slower, steadier. His eyes blink open, hazy but watchful. For a second, I think he’s going to pull away, tell me to fuck off, that I went too far. Instead, his voice comes out shredded, soft.
“You’re not gonna use it against me?”
The question slices me open.
I cup his jaw, force his gaze to lock on mine. “What the fuck kind of person do you think I am?” The words snap out harsher than I mean. I soften my grip, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “No, baby. I’m not gonna use it. I’m gonna protect you from it. From him. Even if he’s not around anymore.”
His throat works, like he wants to say more but can’t. Instead, his fingers clutch weakly at my shirt when I lean in. That’s enough.
I kiss his temple once, then pull back and run a hand through my hair.
The car smells like us, like him, and if I stay here too long, I’ll climb on top of him again.
But his body is trembling faintly now, and I know he’s fragile, raw from what he shared.
He needs grounding, not another round of me ripping him open.
“Come on.” My voice is steady again, back to command. I help him out of the back seat and into the front. “We need food.”
He blinks at me, dazed. “Food?”
“Yeah, food. Protein. Grease. Salt. And you need water. Desperately.”
I reach over, buckle his seatbelt before he can think to move. His confusion almost makes me laugh, but I don’t. I just kiss his jaw, quick and rough, before sliding back into the driver’s seat.
The windows clear as I crack them and start the engine. Night air pours in, cool against my overheated skin. The silence between us hums, heavy but not unbearable. He’s still here. Still with me. That’s enough to keep my grip tight on the wheel instead of on his thigh where I want it.
We hit a drive-through ten minutes later, neon buzzing overhead, the smell of fries flooding the car as I pass a bag to him. He doesn’t dig in right away. Just holds it, staring out the windshield like the world out there is safer than looking at me.
I don’t let him avoid me for long.
“Eat,” I order, softer than it sounds. “You’ll feel better.”
He finally pulls a fry out, bites into it slowly, then sets the bag between us. I steal one, smirking when his brow twitches like he wants to protest. The simple, stupid normalcy of it—sharing fast food after fucking in the back of my car—nearly unravels me.
I want this. Every day. Every night. Him in my space, my hands on him, my food in front of him. The thought is dangerous, curling tight in my gut until it’s almost painful.
I don’t even realize I’ve driven us all the way to his apartment complex until he shifts beside me, tension crawling back into his body. The building looms ahead, dark and quiet, and I hate it instantly.
He doesn’t move when I park. Just stares at the steps leading up to his unit.
“Do you need help getting inside?” I murmur.
He turns to me slowly, eyes unreadable. Then he asks, voice low, almost cautious: “Will you… stay? Tonight?”
The words hit me harder than any fight I’ve ever been in. My chest goes tight, breath sharp, because fuck, I want to. I want to stay so badly it feels like a wound.
For a moment, I don’t answer. I just stare at him, at the faint bruises on his neck, at the way his hand curls against the bag of fries like he doesn’t know what else to hold. He asked. He wants me here.
I swallow hard and nod once, sharp. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”
The relief that flickers across his face nearly breaks me.
And just like that, I know I’m in too deep. Because if he asks again tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that, I’ll stay every damn time.