Chapter Seven #2
I clenched my jaw, trying not to make a sound. He pinched harder, and the jolt made my cock twitch.
“Yeah,” he said, satisfied. “You really like it.”
He released my hands, but I didn’t try to move.
He braced himself on one forearm, head bent low, and flicked his tongue over the sensitive skin.
Licked, sucked, then grazed it with his teeth.
The wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of stubble, the pain-pleasure of it all—my vision went white at the edges.
The other nipple got the same treatment. He bit down, not enough to break skin but enough to make me yelp, and then soothed the ache with his tongue. When he glanced up, his eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the brown until only a ring remained. He looked wild, almost feral.
He kissed his way down my torso, pausing to tongue the line of my abs, then dipped lower to mouth at the head of my cock.
He didn’t suck me off this time, just teased, licked at the slit, smeared the leaking precum down the shaft with his fist. He squeezed the base, then the balls, rolling them in his palm until I thought I’d lose my mind.
He let go, leaned back, and for a second I thought he might be done. But instead he reached to the floor and picked up his jeans, rummaging in the pocket. He pulled out a small black bottle, the label half rubbed off.
I stared, blood roaring in my ears. “You came prepared.”
He shrugged, casual. “I’m a Boy Scout. I’m always prepared.”
He uncapped the lube, squirted a generous amount onto his fingers, then worked it between his hands like a mechanic greasing up for a particularly tricky repair. The sight of it made my pulse spike. I’d never done this, not even once. The thought was both electric and terrifying.
He noticed my hesitation and softened, just a fraction. “You trust me?”
I nodded, because I did, and that was maybe the most fucked-up part of all.
He slicked his fingers again, then set his left hand on my hip to steady me. His right hand trailed down between my legs, fingers grazing my balls, then lower, pausing at the tight ring of muscle. He circled it, slow and gentle, not pushing, just marking his territory.
“Relax for me,” he said, voice gone low. “Let me in.”
I tried. I really did. But the first pressure of his finger against my ass made me tense all over. He waited, rubbing slow circles on the inside of my thigh until I started to let go.
When he pressed in, the burn was sharp, then deep. He worked his way past the resistance, moving slow, never forcing it. The intrusion was strange, uncomfortable, but the more he stroked inside me, the more the pain faded into something else.
He curled his finger, just a bit, and I flinched. “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Right there.”
He added more lube, then a second finger. The stretch was real, but he took his time, working me open in tiny increments, coaxing me to relax with whispered words and the occasional pinch to my hip or thigh. He kept his eyes on my face, reading every reaction, adjusting his movements to match.
By the time he worked the third finger in, I was panting.
Sweat pooled at the small of my back. My legs shook, and I couldn’t stop grinding down, wanting more.
When he finally crooked all three fingers and brushed my prostate, I saw lightning behind my eyelids.
My cock jerked, leaking hard onto my belly.
He fucked me with his fingers, slow at first, then faster, then with an urgency that made me think he was barely holding back. I couldn’t keep quiet. Every time he curled his fingers just right, I groaned, then tried to swallow it down, then failed again.
He looked smug as hell. “Never took you for a moaner, Floyd.”
I glared at him, but it was ruined by the next bolt of pleasure. “You keep running your mouth, I’m gonna—”
He withdrew his fingers, wiped them on the sheet, then leaned in close, lips brushing my ear. “You’re gonna what?”
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t need one. He bit my earlobe, then kissed me, slow and deep, and I tasted myself on his tongue.
He pulled back, eyes sharp and dark. “You want it?” he asked, and the world collapsed into that one question.
I nodded. Desperate. “Yes. Please.”
He laughed, soft and almost kind. “Good boy.”
He rolled a condom on with one hand, never breaking eye contact. He stroked himself once, then lined up at my entrance. The head of his cock pressed against me, bigger than his fingers, hotter. He didn’t push in yet—just held, waited, letting the anticipation build.
I wanted to say something, but all that came out was a guttural “fuck.”
He grinned, wolfish. “That’s the idea.”
And then he pushed.
The stretch was intense, a white-hot burn that made me see stars. He went slow, excruciatingly slow, working his way in an inch at a time, stopping to let me adjust, then pushing again. By the time he bottomed out, I was gripping his shoulders so hard I thought I might leave nail marks.
He held still, letting me breathe, then kissed my forehead. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, voice barely a whisper. “Just—go.”
He started moving, small thrusts at first, then longer, deeper, faster. Every stroke sent electricity up my spine, ignited every nerve in my body. He fucked me like he meant to break me open and pour himself inside.
He braced one hand on my hip, the other flat on my chest, pinning me in place. His tattoos rippled with every movement, and I found myself mesmerized by the pattern, the animal motion of it.
He kept his eyes on mine the whole time, reading me, pushing me to the limit and then holding me right there.
When he curled his hips just right and drove against my prostate, I lost it.
My cock pulsed, untouched, and I came in thick spurts across my belly, shuddering so hard I nearly bit through my tongue.
He followed, seconds later, grinding deep and groaning into my neck, his whole body tensing as he filled the condom.
We stayed like that, locked together, until the world came back into focus. My heart hammered in my chest. My body hummed with the aftershocks.
He pulled out slow, stripped off the condom, and tied it off, tossing it into the trash can by the bed. He lay next to me, arm thrown across my chest, heavy and warm.
Neither of us spoke. There was nothing left to say.
I stared at the ceiling, at the patterns of shadow and light, and wondered how the fuck I was supposed to go back to my old life after this.
Ransom reached for my hand, laced our fingers together, and squeezed.
I squeezed back.
I could have lived in the quiet of that moment forever, fingers entwined, my body wrecked and my heart beating out a code I was terrified to translate. But the peace didn’t last.
Ransom kept hold of my hand, but his other crept down, gripped my thigh, and pulled my leg up to his hip. The implication was clear: round two was not optional.
He rolled onto his knees, hauling me up with him.
I let him manhandle me, too tired to protest, but my cock was already swelling again.
The air was thick with sweat and the faint, sharp smell of lube and latex.
He stroked himself a few times, then pressed the head against my ass, rubbing slow and deliberate.
He held me open with both hands, thumbs digging into the flesh at the curve of my ass. “Want it?” he asked, the words more like a threat than a question.
I didn’t just want it; I was desperate. The stretch, the burn, the feeling of being filled and used. I’d never known I could need anything like this. My mouth moved before my brain could catch up.
“Please,” I said, and it didn’t sound like me at all. “I need you. Now.”
He grinned, a flash of teeth, and lined himself up. This time he didn’t bother to go slow. He drove in with one long, relentless stroke, pushing past every line I’d ever drawn for myself.
The fullness was overwhelming. He was bigger than I remembered, or maybe I’d just never let myself feel it all before.
My body tried to clench around him, but he fucked right through the resistance, each thrust punching a sharp gasp out of my lungs.
He leaned over me, one hand flat on the bed by my head, the other gripping my hip so tight I knew there’d be fingerprints.
“Look at me,” he said, voice hoarse.
I forced my eyes open, found his face inches from mine, sweat darkening his hair, jaw clenched with effort. His arms bracketed me, tattooed and thick, muscles flexing as he pounded into me. I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to.
He fucked me with a purpose, not just for his own pleasure but to prove a point: that I could be broken, that I could want this, that I’d let him take me apart and put me back together in whatever shape he chose.
He changed angles, bracing both hands on my hips, pulling me up so his cock hit deeper, harder, driving right against my prostate. The first time he nailed it, my back arched clean off the mattress and I yelled, shameless, the sound bouncing off the walls.
He did it again. And again. Each time, the pleasure built until I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but clutch at the sheets and ride the wave.
“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “I want to see you come for me.”
I wrapped a fist around my cock, already slick and weeping.
The friction, combined with the brutal pace of his thrusts, was too much.
I stroked once, twice, and then the world fractured.
I came in thick, hot pulses, striping my stomach and his hand and the rumpled bed beneath us.
The orgasm ripped through me so hard I thought I might pass out.
He held me through it, fucking me right through the climax, never slowing down.
The aftershocks made my whole body tremble.
He was relentless, driving into me until I could feel him swell inside the condom.
He fucked in deep, once, twice, then shuddered all over and emptied himself with a low, guttural sound that sounded a lot like my name.
He collapsed over me, his weight crushing me into the bed, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay right there, ruined and full and pinned under the only man who’d ever made me want to give up control.
The sweat cooled on our bodies, turning sticky. I could hear our breathing, loud and irregular, like the world had narrowed to just our lungs and the pounding in my ears.
He rolled off, but didn’t go far. He pulled me to him, spooned me up against his chest, arms wrapped tight. His heartbeat thudded in my back.
For a long time, there was nothing but the dark, and the sound of us, and the smell of sex and skin and surrender.
I should have been ashamed. I should have been terrified that I’d just let a man half the town called a degenerate own me so completely. But all I felt was peace. Not the brittle, fragile kind I’d pieced together with rules and routines, but the real thing: quiet, heavy, solid as a rock.
Ransom’s hand found mine under the sheets. He squeezed it, once, then again, like a promise.
I didn’t let go.
It was the first night in years I didn’t dream about the job, or the ex, or the slow grind of years closing in.
All I dreamed about was the warmth of a body pressed to mine, the grip of a hand in the dark, the sound of someone breathing, alive and real, in the space I’d spent so long insulating against the world.
I woke with Ransom’s arm flung across my chest, his mouth half-open, his leg tangled between mine like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
The clock said 3:24. Outside, the world was silent.
In here, the only movement was the steady rise and fall of Ransom’s back, and the shiver that ran down my arms every time he exhaled against my neck.
I lay there and cataloged every new sensation: the slick mess between my thighs, the dull ache at the base of my spine, the bite marks on my neck and chest, the strange, satisfied looseness in my limbs.
My skin was a roadmap of everything he’d done to me, and every nerve ending buzzed with the knowledge that it could happen again, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe never. I wanted it again.
That was the worst part.
Ransom’s hand drifted in his sleep, fingers tracing shapes on my ribs, then my belly, then curling tight like he meant to hold me together.
It sent a scatter of goosebumps up my sides.
I tried to suppress it, but he shifted closer, mumbled something I couldn’t catch, and nuzzled my jaw before relaxing into unconsciousness again.
I should have rolled away, re-established the distance, put a pillow between us and rebuilt the boundaries I’d spent years making airtight. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to.
Instead, I brought my own hand up and touched the line of his arm, careful, like I might spook him.
The skin was hot, the tattoos rough and raised under my fingertips.
I traced the river valley on his bicep, followed the ink up to his shoulder, memorized the way it curved and split like a map of everywhere I’d ever wanted to go but never let myself.
I glanced around the room, expecting to see chaos, but the space was still itself: furniture lined up perfect, clothes folded in their baskets, boots squared to the wall.
Only the bed was ruined—covers thrown off, sheets twisted, the mattress half pulled from the frame.
The mess didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would.
I lay back and watched the ceiling. The fan blades were still.
I could feel every beat of Ransom’s pulse in the wrist draped over my heart.
The urge to get up and fix something was powerful, but it couldn’t compete with the deeper urge to stay right here, to see what it would feel like to wake up with him still holding on.
I’d spent my life building routines and rules, thinking that if I contained everything, nothing could hurt me.
But in one night, Ransom had made a liar out of me.
He’d shown me that surrender was a kind of freedom, that letting someone else set the pace didn’t mean losing yourself.
Sometimes it meant finding something you didn’t know you wanted.
I watched him sleep. I watched the slow dawn begin to lighten the window, the faint promise of morning. I should have been thinking about the fallout, about what this meant, about how to hide it from a town that chewed up secrets and spat them out for fun.
But all I could think about was his hand on my skin, and how I already missed it when he shifted away. I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. I lay awake, and waited for him to wake up and tell me what came next.