Chapter 4
FOUR
SILAS
Better.
I let the word linger, watching the way it settles into him, the way it almost makes him stand taller despite the flush in his cheeks and the hunger in his eyes. He’s bare now. Not just naked, but exposed in a way that matters. Vulnerable. Willing.
And still holding my gaze like he’s daring me to do something about it.
I should take him to the couch.
That was the plan. Fast, simple, impersonal. Something easy to forget when the door shuts behind him. I’ve had enough reminders lately that distance matters, that lines are there for a reason, and my bedroom is not a space I share. Hell, my apartment isn’t a space I share, but here we are.
When I look at him—bare feet on my carpet, lips parted, breath shallow, waiting—I know I’m going to break that rule just like I broke the rule of bringing him here in the first place.
Fuck.
I tilt my head toward the hallway. “Come.”
He follows, no hesitation. I feel his presence behind me like gravity—pulling, steady, impossible to ignore. My bedroom door is open, and crossing that threshold with him at my heels tightens something in my chest I don’t want to name.
I flick on the bedside lamp. The soft light spills across the room—dark wood floors, charcoal sheets, everything in order. Too personal. Too close.
Still, I don’t stop.
He hovers near the door, uncertainty flickering in his expression, as though he can feel the shift, too. Like maybe he knows this space means something different.
I turn and hold his gaze. “Up on the bed. Center of the mattress.”
His breath hitches, but he moves—climbing up, settling in the middle just like I told him to, legs folding beneath him, hands resting lightly on his thighs.
Good.
Too good.
I step closer, circling the bed slowly, letting the moment stretch until his pulse visibly jumps in his throat. My fingers brush the edge of the mattress as I study him, taking in every angle, every flicker of tension he tries not to show.
One night. That’s all this is.
But the way he looks right now—waiting for me like he was made for it—makes something sharp and possessive dig under my ribs.
This is dangerous.
But I don’t stop.
I perch on the edge of the bed.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. He just watches me with wide eyes and parted lips, the rise and fall of his chest giving away the storm under his skin.
“Lie back,” I say softly, letting my fingers brush his thigh on the way up.
He obeys instantly, body shifting until his spine kisses the mattress, arms loose at his sides, legs laying down the surface, eyes never leaving mine. He’s trying so hard to be still. To behave. And that obedience carves something deep into me.
I climb up beside him, slow and deliberate, bracing one hand beside his shoulder as I lean in. I can smell his skin, feel the way his body is already wound tight, his cock hard between us. He wants this as much as I do.
“Quieto,” I murmur again, watching his lips part around the word even though he doesn’t speak it.
Still.
My hand slides over his chest, fingers splayed across the curve of his ribs, then lower, over the line of his stomach. He shudders, muscles tensing, but doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for me. He waits.
I trace a slow circle around his navel, watching his hips twitch despite his effort.
“Such a good boy,” I say, my voice low, heavy. “So eager to please.”
He makes a sound—soft, broken—but swallows it back.
“Temblar,” I add, fingertips ghosting lower. “It means tremble.”
He does.
My hand closes around him, gentle but firm, and he arches into the touch with a gasp.
“Perfecto. That one,” I murmur, stroking him slowly, “you don’t need translated, do you?”
He shakes his head, teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he exhales a curse. His eyes are glassy, drunk on praise.
“That’s it,” I say as I lower my mouth to his ear again. “Dámelo,” I whisper. “Give it to me.”
He moans, full body clenching with it.
But I don’t let him go yet. I slow my hand, fingers tightening just enough to draw a whimper from his throat.
“Not yet,” I warn. “You don’t come until I say.”
He nods frantically, body twitching under me, desperate to obey even when it costs him. Even when he’s shaking with the effort of it.
“You like praise, don’t you,” I say, though it’s not really a question. “Don’t come and I’ll give you more.”
I release him long enough to grip myself in my hand and then curl my fingers back around him, stroking us both. The feeling is delicious. He’s cut, but that’s not surprising in the least, that’s the American culture for you.
The friction is decadent—slick, tight, hot.
Stroking us both together is messier than I expect, pre-cum leaking from both of us, painting our skin, making each pass glide smoother.
My fist drags from the base to the tip and back again, slow and deliberate, Luke’s cock flush against mine.
The contrast of our skin—his paler, mine darker—only makes it more intense. More real.
Luke gasps, the sound fractured. His hips twitch, like he wants to thrust into my fist but knows better.
“Fuck—please,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
I hum low in my throat. “Please what?”
“Please let me—” His words break on a moan, head falling back against the pillow. “I can’t—I’m trying.”
“You are,” I say, mouth curving with quiet satisfaction. “You’re trying so hard. Such a good boy.”
His entire body shudders.
I tighten my grip, just enough to draw a strangled noise from him, then slow it again, dragging us both right to the edge and holding us there. His cock twitches against mine, the mess between us only growing.
“Say it again,” I murmur, brushing my nose against his cheek. “Beg me.”
Luke turns his head, eyes dazed, lips parted and glossy. “Please, Silas,” he whispers, “please let me come. I’ll be so good, I swear—por favor—”
The Spanish slips out of him, and it nearly undoes me.
“Muy bien,” I whisper. “Tan bonito when you beg.”
He whimpers, desperate and trembling now, and I know he’s close. So close.
I stroke him again, firm and fast this time, the slick glide of our bodies enough to have my own breath catching. My composure stretches thin, but I hold on—for him.
Luke’s thighs tremble beneath my hands, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. He’s close—so close he’s shaking with it—and still he tries to obey. Still, he holds on, desperate for my permission.
“Please,” he gasps again, voice cracking. “Silas, please—I need—fuck, I need it.”
I fist our cocks tighter, stroking with slow, punishing precision, watching his expression break open, flushed and aching. His pupils are blown, lips kiss-bitten and slick.
“Say it again,” I rasp, voice darker now, hips grinding down to match the rhythm of my hand. “Beg me like you mean it.”
His hands twist in the sheets, knuckles white with strain.
“I’m begging,” he chokes out. “I’ll do anything—please, let me come, I can’t—Silas, por favor—I’ll be so good, I’ll take it however you want—just give it to me.”
Dámelo. Dámelo. Dámelo.
The word drums through my skull, pulsing with the pressure building inside both of us.
“Puta madre,” I growl, the words slipping from my lips without thought. “Mírate. Estás hecho para esto.”
He doesn’t understand—maybe later I’ll explain. But not now.
Now I don’t want him thinking. I want him feeling.
“Ahora,” I bite out. “Ven por mí.”
His whole body bows, breath shattering into a cry as he comes with a whimper, cock pulsing hard against mine, spilling over both of us in thick, hot spurts.
I don’t let up—not yet. I stroke him through it, even as he squirms, the oversensitivity painting his face with something between bliss and agony.
And when he slumps beneath me, boneless and panting, I finally slow my hand—then bring my fingers to my mouth, licking the taste of him from my palm with a low, satisfied sound.
Luke watches through heavy-lidded eyes, dazed and wide all at once.
I meet his gaze, holding it as I slide my cum-slick fingers lower, between his legs, dragging them deliberately through the mess of both of us.
There’s no teasing in the motion now.
Only pure intent and possession because, for tonight, he’s all mine.
“No necesito nada más,” I murmur, pushing one slick finger inside him, slow and steady. “Estás listo para mí, hermoso.”
He moans, back arching again, pupils blown all over again.
And I don’t stop.
He’s still trembling beneath me, flushed and wrecked, and yet he opens for me like he was made to. One slick finger becomes two, easing inside with steady pressure. My other hand braces at his hip, grounding him, even as his breath hitches and his thighs fall further apart.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Silas—”
His voice is raw, barely there.
But he doesn’t pull away.
He moans instead, head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted in open surrender.
I curl my fingers just enough to find the spot that makes him jolt, makes his whole body seize with pleasure—and then I keep pressing. Testing. Stretching. Working him open as his hands claw uselessly at the sheets.
“Más,” I mutter under my breath, voice low and reverent. “You need more.”
His legs tremble.
I push deeper.
My fingers curl again, and his mouth drops open in a silent moan that quickly spills into sound when I twist just so.
“Oh my—fuck—I can’t—” he chokes, barely coherent, eyes rolling as his body jerks beneath me. “I—Silas—please—please—”
But I’m too far gone to respond in English.
“Así, mi amor. Tan bueno para mí. Tan increíblemente perfecto.”
That’s right, my love. So good for me. So incredibly perfect. The fact that those words just left my mouth should shove me right out of the moment, but they don’t. Not even a tiny bit.
I lean in, catching his lips in a kiss that’s more teeth and breath than softness. He melts into it, greedy and eager, letting me devour him even as I pull my hand free—slow, careful, aching with restraint.
I reach over and grab a condom from the bedside table and roll it on before I slick myself with the same mess still coating my hand—his release—and line myself up, one hand braced beside his head, the other guiding. Every thought but being inside of him is gone.
His eyes fly open as the tip of me nudges against him, stretching him.
I pause, breath harsh against his cheek.
One last moment of warning.
One last chance to stop.
But Luke wraps his legs around my waist and pulls me closer, lips brushing mine as he whispers, “Do it. I want all of you.”
And I give it to him.
He takes me like he was made for this—like every bratty grin and teasing touch was just a prelude to the moment he lets me in.
The slide is slow, steady, a stretch that makes his breath catch and his back arch. He’s tight—so fucking tight—and I have to grit my teeth, pulse thudding at the base of my spine as I push forward inch by inch, until I’m fully seated inside him.
My forehead drops to his.
We’re both breathing hard, sharing the same ragged air.
“Jesus,” he whispers, almost reverent.
I drag my mouth down the line of his jaw and murmur, “No soy un santo, carino.” I’m not a saint, darling.
His laugh is breathless, strangled, followed by a moan as I roll my hips once, slow and deep as if he might understand my words.
And then again.
He clutches at me like he doesn’t know what to do with the feeling—as if it’s too much and not enough all at once.
“Fuck, Silas… fuck, please—”
I hush him with a kiss, slower this time, drawing his bottom lip between mine and savoring the sound he makes. My hand cradles the back of his neck, the other gripping his hip as I pull back and thrust again—deeper, rougher.
The way he whines wrecks me.
“You feel that?” I ask, voice low against his mouth. “You’re mine right now. All mine.”
He nods, desperate. “Yours—yes—yours, fuck—just don’t stop—”
“Buena obediencia,” I growl. Good obedience.
I start to move in earnest, pace building, every thrust dragging a new sound from his mouth—moans, gasps, babbled praise, and pleas. His legs stay wrapped around me, pulling me deeper, chasing every stroke like he can’t bear the space between us.
There’s sweat between us now. Nails in my back. His body arching into every thrust, greedy for more.
I reach between us and wrap my fingers around him again, stroking in time with each roll of my hips. His back bows off the bed, a full-body tremble running through him.
“I’m—Silas—I can’t—please—please—”
I don’t stop.
I don’t let up.
My mouth finds his again, swallowing the words and replacing them with mine.
“Dámelo,” I command, breathless. “Now.”
And he does.
He breaks apart beneath me—loud and shaking, coming hard between us, his muscles clenching around me so tight I see stars. I follow with a strangled groan, spilling into the condom, burying my face against his throat as I ride the last wave of it out.
For a long moment, we don’t move.
We just breathe, our heartbeats syncing up. Just sweat and skin and the echo of every filthy, perfect sound he made.
Then—finally—I lift my head.
He’s smiling.
Wrecked, flushed, proud of himself.
And I know, in my bones, this shouldn’t have happened in my apartment, and it should stay a one-night thing.
But I also know it won’t.