Chapter 5 #2
The sweater came off fast, dragged up and over, fabric catching for a second on his shoulders before Xaiden pulled it free.
Cold cave air moved over Dawson’s bare skin and he sucked in a sharp breath, but then Xaiden’s hands were on him, ribs, sides, back, palms warm and rough, and the cold stopped mattering entirely.
Those hands moved slowly after that, not rushed, not uncertain. Mapping. Learning. Sliding over his ribs, up his sides, back down again, pressing, testing, like he was learning how Dawson fit together.
Xaiden pressed him down and followed him to the basalt, bracing his weight on one arm so he did not crush him but still covering him completely. The stone held a deep earth warmth that seeped into Dawson’s spine as Xaiden settled over him, large body blocking most of the green light.
“You’re bright in this light,” Xaiden said quietly. “Like you belong here.”
He started with Dawson’s arm, turning it carefully until the inner skin faced up into the green glow.
He looked at it for a long moment, focused, intent, then bent and pressed his mouth into the inside of Dawson’s elbow.
Not a quick kiss. He lingered there, mouth warm and open against the thin skin, then traced slowly along one visible vein with the flat of his tongue.
Dawson’s fingers spread against the basalt and found ridges to grip. His head fell back.
Xaiden took his time moving down. Ribs. Each one traced with his mouth, then his tongue, slow enough that Dawson could track every inch.
The attention was relentless, patient, like he was determined to make Dawson’s body open one response at a time.
By the time Xaiden reached his hip, Dawson was breathing hard, chest lifting and falling fast, skin flushed and oversensitive everywhere Xaiden had touched.
Xaiden’s mouth closed over the sharp ridge of his hip and he bit down, controlled, enough to make Dawson arch hard off the stone. The sound that came out of him was loud and raw and he did not try to stop it.
Xaiden’s hands slid down then, slower now, giving Dawson time to understand what was coming. His palm moved between Dawson’s thighs, not touching where Dawson needed him yet, just resting there, heavy and warm, letting the weight of his hand be known first.
“Look at me,” Xaiden said quietly.
Dawson forced his eyes open. Xaiden was watching him, not moving his hand yet, waiting. Making sure. Dawson nodded once, sharp.
Only then did Xaiden move.
He did not rush. His hand moved slowly, deliberately, learning what made Dawson’s breath break, what made his hips lift, what made his fingers claw against the stone. Dawson spread his legs without being asked, heels digging into the basalt for leverage, silently asking for more.
Xaiden shifted down between his thighs and looked at him again before he bent his head.
His mouth was hot and slow and thorough, and Dawson’s hands dropped into his hair immediately, holding him there.
Xaiden did not hold him still. He let Dawson guide, let him press and pull and chase what he needed, while Xaiden’s hands kept moving, one on Dawson’s hip, the other sliding back, fingers pressing, testing, learning, then easing in slowly, carefully.
Dawson went rigid for a second at the first stretch, a sharp inhale, but Xaiden did not stop.
He murmured something low against Dawson’s skin, voice rough, and kept moving his mouth, kept Dawson’s body distracted while his fingers worked, slow, patient, giving his body time to open instead of forcing it.
It was a long time. Long enough that Dawson lost track of the tide, the cave, everything except the rhythm Xaiden set.
Mouth. Hands. Pressure. Then easing off.
Then again. Each time a little more, each time Dawson’s body giving instead of resisting, until the tension in his thighs turned into something else entirely and he was the one pushing back, asking without words for more.
“Easy,” Xaiden murmured, but his voice had changed, rougher now, strained. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Dawson laughed once, breathless, and pulled him up by the back of the neck and kissed him hard, messy, no control left in it. “I know,” he said against his mouth. “I know. I know. Please.”
Xaiden’s forehead dropped to his for a second, both of them breathing hard, and then Xaiden shifted between his legs, guiding Dawson’s thigh higher around his hip, giving himself space while still watching Dawson’s face.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.
Dawson shook his head immediately, hands gripping his shoulders. “Don’t go slow because you’re afraid,” he said. “Go slow so I can take it.”
Something in Xaiden’s face changed at that. He reached down between them, slicking his fingers again, making sure, preparing him carefully, one more stretch, one more check, until Dawson was pushing back impatiently, breath coming fast and uneven.
Then Xaiden moved over him and pressed in slowly.
Dawson’s back arched off the basalt immediately, a broken sound pulled out of him as the stretch built, slow and steady and unavoidable. Xaiden stopped partway and held there, breathing hard, giving Dawson time, one hand braced next to his shoulder, the other gripping his hip.
“Look at me,” Xaiden said again, voice tight.
Dawson forced his eyes open. Focused on his face. On the scar along his jaw. On his mouth, open as he breathed. On his eyes, dark and locked on his.
“I’m here,” Xaiden said quietly.
Then he pushed the rest of the way in, slow and deep, and Dawson gasped and clung to him, legs locking around his waist, forehead pressed hard to his shoulder as his body adjusted around him.
They stayed like that for a long moment, not moving, both breathing hard, bodies pressed together, the green light pulsing around them.
Then Xaiden moved.
Not gentle. Slow and heavy, each movement deliberate, deep enough that Dawson lost the ability to think in full sentences.
The pressure built and built, every movement dragging against nerves already lit up from Xaiden’s hands and mouth and careful preparation.
Dawson held on to him and moved back against him, meeting each push, needing more, the friction and pressure turning into something overwhelming and consuming.
“More,” Dawson said, voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
Xaiden’s grip on his hips tightened and the pace shifted, still deep, still heavy, but faster now, the control starting to slip. Dawson said his name over and over, like it was the only word he had left, like if he stopped saying it the moment would end.
When he came it hit hard, sudden and total, like something that had been building for years finally breaking loose all at once.
He clung to Xaiden and buried his face in his neck, breathing hard, body still shaking as Xaiden followed with a low, rough sound against his shoulder, his grip tightening almost painfully for a second before he went still on top of him.
Afterward Dawson lay on the warm basalt with his chest rising and falling, Xaiden’s weight still partly over him, the green ceiling pulsing above. The Compliance Bracelet on his wrist remained dark and silent. No record. No log. The dead zone had done its work.
The bracelet had witnessed something it would never report.
That felt right.
The tide was the only clock. Dawson lay with his head on Xaiden’s chest, listening to the steady rise and fall, one hand still resting on the scar along Xaiden’s palm, thumb moving over it slowly, like he was memorizing it.