Chapter 31 #2
He sinks in slow. Inch by inch. The fullness is overwhelming — the pressure, the heat, the ache of my body making room for him.
My thighs shake against his sides. My nails leave crescents in his biceps.
And still he goes slow, feeding himself into me until his hips are flush against my ass and I can feel every throbbing inch of him buried inside me, so deep it’s intense, almost too much. I like it that way.
“God—” My head falls back against the pillow. “I feel you everywhere.”
“Good.” He drops his forehead to mine, his breath coming fast and hot against my lips. His arms are trembling with the effort of holding still. I can feel him pulsing inside me, his cock so hard it twitches, and the small involuntary movement sends sparks up my spine.
He thrusts inside me. Slow, deep, rolling his hips in a way that pulls sensation from the base of my spine to the crown of my head.
My back arches off the bed. My nails dig into his shoulders.
The ceiling slopes low above us and the streetlight carves shadows across his face and his eyes are open, locked on mine, and the intensity of it sends heat flooding through my chest.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he says. Low. Rough. “Stay with me.”
I keep them open. It costs me something — every instinct wants to shut them, hide, disappear into the dark behind my lids where no one can see what I’m feeling.
But he asked. And his hips roll again, deep enough to pull a moan out of me, and I watch his face change when he hears it — his jaw tightening, his nostrils flaring, the flicker of something fierce and desperate in his eyes.
He’s afraid too.
I can see it now. In the way his hands grip my thighs — too hard, hard enough to bruise, like he’s holding onto something that might be taken from him. In the way his rhythm stays deliberate when his body wants to go faster — he’s savoring this, taking his time, feeling every second of it.
“Sasha.” I grab his face. Pull him down until our foreheads touch. “I’m right here.”
His breath shakes. His hips stutter — the first break in his control all night — and the sound he makes is small and wrecked and completely unperformed.
“I know,” he whispers. “I know you are.”
He doesn’t move for a second. Just breathes. His hips still, his cock buried deep, and I feel every beat of his pulse inside me. Then his mouth finds mine — slow, open, tasting like need — and when his hips roll again, the rhythm is different. Deeper. Like he’s stopped holding anything back.
His pace builds. Each thrust pulls a sound from one of us — sometimes him, sometimes me, sometimes both at once.
He hooks his hand under my thigh, lifts, changes the angle, and the next stroke finds the place that empties my head of everything except white heat and the shape of his name.
I hear myself saying it — Sasha, Sasha, there — and his eyes darken and he does it again, and again, and again, until the words dissolve into sounds that aren’t words anymore.
My hand finds the back of his neck. I pull him down until his mouth is at my ear, and the sounds he’s making — my name, fragments of Russian I don’t understand, his breath catching on syllables that break apart before they become words — fill the small room.
The air is freezing on my sweat-damp skin — the old windows letting the cold in, the radiator long since gone quiet — but everywhere his body presses against mine is burning.
His chest. His thighs. The hot exhale against my neck.
The cold makes the heat sharper, makes every point of contact feel like the only warm place in the world.
I wrap my arms around his back and hold on. Lock my ankles behind him. Press every inch of my body against every inch of his, because he’s here, he’s here, inside me and around me and everywhere, and I want to hang onto this moment, to him, forever.
“Don’t let go,” I hear myself say. “Don’t—”
“I won’t.” His voice cracks. “I won’t let go.”
The bed creaks. The house is quiet around us.
His hand finds mine on the pillow above my head — laces our fingers together, pins my wrist gently, and the weight of his palm against mine is enough.
I hold on. Tighten my legs around his waist, pull him deeper, and he groans my name like it hurts, and I think — I don’t care if my roommates might be back home already by now.
Let them hear. I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.
It builds from the base of my spine. Slow, inevitable, a tightening that pulls every muscle taut.
My cock is aching between us, hard and untouched, pressed between his stomach and mine, and every thrust drags friction across the head that pushes me closer.
I can feel myself leaking against his abs, slick and hot, and he feels it too — groans at the wet heat between our bodies.
“I can’t hold—” My voice breaks. “Sasha, I’m—”
“Let go.” He drives deep, hits the spot that empties my head of everything, and holds there. “I want to feel you.”
I come so hard my back arches off the mattress. My cock pulses between our stomachs, spilling hot across his skin and mine, and I can feel myself clenching around him in waves — tight, rhythmic, involuntary — and every contraction pulls a sound from him that gets more desperate.
“Aaron—” His rhythm breaks. His hips slam forward one last time, burying himself deep, and his whole body goes rigid — every muscle locked, his back bowing, the cords in his neck standing out — and I feel him come inside me.
The throb. The heat. The broken, shattered sound he presses into my neck as his hips jerk through the aftershocks.
I hold him through it. Both arms. Full weight. Every inch of contact I can manage.
We lie there. The sweat cools on our skin. The radiator clanks. His breathing evens out against my shoulder, and I card my fingers through his hair — damp now, darker, curling at the ends.
He shifts. Rolls onto his side, taking me with him so we’re facing each other on the narrow bed, legs tangled, his arm heavy across my waist. His eyes are half-closed, drowsy, and there’s nothing performed about the way he’s looking at me.
“Stay,” I whisper.
The word comes out before I can stop it, and my whole body tenses — bracing for the answer, for the reasons he can’t, for the careful logic of why this is impossible. My hand tightens on his waist. I can feel my own heartbeat in my fingertips, pressing against his skin.
Staying means morning. Morning means my roommates coming home, Brett’s 6 AM coffee, Red’s voice carrying through every wall in this house. It means Sasha in my kitchen. In my space. Undeniable.
His thumb traces my lower lip. “You sure?”
“No.” I lean into his hand. “Stay anyway.”
He pulls me closer. Tucks my head under his chin. His heartbeat is steady against my temple — slower now, calming — and his arm tightens around me, pulling until there’s nowhere left to pull, until we’re as close as two people can be without being inside each other again.
His mouth presses against my hair. He breathes in. Holds it.
I close my eyes. His arm is heavy. His chest is warm. His stubble scratches my forehead. First time in this bed. First time in this room.
The two doors at the bottom and top of the stairs are both closed. The house is silent. The radiator clanks once, twice, and settles.
Tonight, the room doesn’t feel like a place I hide.
It feels like a place I live.