Chapter 36 Luke #2
I’m shaking already—legs spread wide, back arched off the bed, every nerve lit up from the slow stretch of his fingers.
He’s been patient, reverent, working me open like he has all the time in the world to make up for the year we lost. When he finally pulls his hand away, I whine at the emptiness, hips lifting instinctively.
“Shh, mi amor,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low. “I’ve got you.”
He slicks himself again—slow strokes of his hand, eyes never leaving mine—then lines up. The blunt pressure at my entrance makes me gasp. He doesn’t push in right away; he rocks there, teasing, letting me feel every inch he’s about to give me.
“Respira, hermoso,” he whispers, thumb stroking my cheek. “Breathe for me. Let me in.”
I nod, exhale shakily, and he starts—slow, agonizingly slow, pushing in inch by inch. The stretch burns sweet, perfect, and I can’t stop the broken sound that spills out of me. His forehead drops to mine, breath mingling, eyes locked so tight it feels like he’s seeing straight into my soul.
“Dios mío,” he groans when he’s halfway in, hips stuttering for the first time. “Estás tan apretado… tan perfecto… mi hermoso nino…”
The Spanish hits me like a spark—soft, reverent, filthy all at once.
I’ve always loved when he loses it enough to slip into it; it means he’s not thinking, just feeling.
Just wanting. And now I know enough to understand what he’s saying, which makes it even better.
My God. You’re so tight. So perfect. My beautiful boy.
Who knew knowing the praise that comes out of his mouth in a different language would hit harder than when he praises me in English?
“Silas—” I gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Te amo,” he breathes against my mouth, pushing deeper. “Te amo tanto… nunca dejé de amarte, mi vida…”
I love you. I love you so much. I never stopped loving you, my love.
I suck in a breath, tears pricking behind my eyes.
He bottoms out with a low, shuddering groan, hips flush to mine, and we both freeze—trembling, breathing the same ragged air. He’s so deep I can feel him everywhere, filling me completely, like he’s trying to crawl inside my skin and stay there.
“I love you,” he says again in English, voice cracking, raw. “I never stopped.”
I cup his face, thumb brushing the damp corner of his eye. “I know. And I love you too.”
He kisses me then—slow, deep, devastating—then starts to move. Deep, measured rolls of his hips that drag against every sensitive spot inside me. I gasp every time he hits it, thighs trembling around his waist.
“Así, bebé,” he murmurs between kisses, voice thick with want. “Tómalo todo… eres tan bueno para mí… mi nino perfecto…”
Like that, baby. Take it all…you are so good to me…my perfect boy.
The praise in two languages undoes me. Every slow thrust is accompanied by soft, broken Spanish—hermoso, precioso, mío—mixed with English whispers of how good I feel, how beautiful I look, how much he’s missed this, missed me.
His hand wraps around my cock, stroking in perfect time with his hips, thumb circling the head on every upstroke.
“Look at you,” he rasps, switching back to English like he needs me to hear it clearly. “Taking Daddy so deep… so fucking perfect… you were made for this, weren’t you? Made for me.”
I can only whimper in response, head thrown back, hips rocking up to meet him. The rhythm builds—still slow, still deliberate, but deeper now, harder. He angles just right and I cry out, clenching around him.
“Sí, sí—ahí, mi amor,” he groans, hips snapping a little harder. “Right there… feel that? Feel how much I need you?”
I’m babbling—his name, Daddy, broken pleas—lost in the heat, the stretch, the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
“Come for me, hermoso,” he pleads, voice fracturing. “Quiero sentirte… quiero que te corras en mi polla… por favor, bebé…”
I want to feel you... I want you to cum on my cock... Please, baby...
The combination—the Spanish, the praise, the desperate edge in his voice—snaps the last thread.
I come quietly, shuddering hard, clenching around him as I spill between us, his name a broken sob on my lips.
He fucks me through it—slow, deep—drawing it out until I’m trembling, oversensitive, boneless.
He follows right after—burying himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, groaning low and wrecked into my neck as he pulses inside me. “Te amo… te amo… mío…”
Mine, yeah that’s probably accurate.
We stay tangled like that for long minutes—sweaty, breathless, hearts still racing in uneven sync.
Silas doesn’t pull out right away. He just holds me, one arm banded around my waist, the other hand stroking slow, soothing circles over my back.
His lips brush my temple again and again, soft, mindless little kisses like he can’t stop.
“I’m never letting you go again,” he whispers, voice hoarse and thick with emotion.
I smile against his skin, fingers tracing lazy, possessive patterns across his back. “Good. Because I’m staying.”
Eventually he shifts, easing out with a careful gentleness that makes me shiver at the loss. I whimper—quiet, involuntary—and he shushes me instantly, voice low and tender.
“I’ve got you, baby. Just stay right there.”
He disappears for a moment. I hear water running in the bathroom, the soft clink of the faucet, then he’s back with a warm, damp washcloth.
He kneels between my legs again—this time careful, reverent—and cleans me up with slow, gentle strokes.
The cloth is perfectly warm, not too hot, and he takes his time: wiping between my thighs, along my stomach where I spilled, even the sensitive skin of my inner thighs where I’m still trembling.
Every pass is deliberate, almost worshipful. He murmurs little things the whole time—half English, half Spanish, soft enough I have to strain to catch them.
“Estás bien, mi amor… tan hermoso todavía… look at you, still flushed for me…”
You're okay, my love… still so beautiful…
When he’s done, he sets the cloth aside, leans down, and presses the softest kiss to the inside of my thigh. Then another to my hip. Another to my stomach. Like he’s sealing every inch he just cleaned.
Finally, he straightens, cups my face in both hands, and kisses me—slow, lingering, tasting like salt and affection.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
He slides an arm under my knees, another around my back, and lifts me as though I weigh nothing. I wrap my arms around his neck on instinct, laughing breathlessly against his shoulder.
“I can walk, you know.”
“I know,” he murmurs, carrying me toward the bathroom anyway. “But I want to take care of you.”
The bathroom is small, familiar—same chipped tile, same slightly crooked mirror.
He sets me on the closed toilet lid while he turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature with the focus of someone who’s done this a thousand times in his head.
When steam starts curling into the air, he tests the water with his hand, nods to himself, then turns back to me.
“Ready?”
I nod.
He helps me stand—steady hands on my hips—then guides me under the spray first. The warm water hits, and I tip my head back, letting it sluice over my face, my shoulders, washing away the last of the sweat and stickiness.
Silas steps in behind me, pulling the curtain closed. He reaches for the body wash—same brand he’s always used, cedar and something faintly spicy—and pours some into his palm. Then his hands are on me again.
He starts at my shoulders, working the soap in slow, firm circles, thumbs digging gently into the knots there until I groan and melt against him.
He moves down my arms, my back, my sides—every touch careful, attentive.
When he reaches my chest, he lingers, soaping over my pecs, my nipples, then lower, washing my stomach, my hips.
“Turn,” he murmurs.
I do.
He washes my back again—slow drags of his palms from shoulders to tailbone—then drops to one knee so he can reach lower. His hands glide over my ass, between my thighs, gentle where I’m still sensitive. He doesn’t linger sexually; this is pure care. Cleansing. Reverent.
“Lift your arms,” he says softly.
I do. He washes under them, along my ribs, then down to my legs. When he’s satisfied, he stands again, turns me so I’m facing him under the spray, and lets the water rinse everything away.
Only then does he start on himself—quick, efficient, like it’s secondary. I reach for the body wash before he can stop me.
“My turn,” I say.
He lets me. I soap his chest, his shoulders, the strong line of his back.
I take my time the way he did—tracing scars, pressing kisses to wet skin.
When I’m done, he pulls me against him, chest to chest, and we just stand there under the water for a long minute, holding each other while the steam wraps around us.
Eventually, he reaches over and shuts off the tap.
He grabs a towel—thick, soft, one I remember from before—and dries me first. Slow pats over my shoulders, my arms, my chest, down my legs.
He kneels again to dry my feet, then stands and wraps the towel around my waist, tucking it secure.
Only then does he dry himself—quick, careless—before pulling on a pair of clean boxers and handing me a soft, worn T-shirt of his and a pair of joggers that I get lost in.
“Yours now,” he says, kissing my forehead.
I pull it on. It smells like him. Like home.
He leads me back to the living room, fingers laced with mine. The couch is waiting, same throw blanket from before folded neatly on the arm. He sits, pulls me down beside him, then tugs me half into his lap so my head rests on his chest.
The remote is in his hand. He scrolls through the streaming menu, pauses on some black-and-white documentary about some war I’ve never heard of.
I groan dramatically.
He chuckles, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine.
“Now,” he says, pressing play anyway, “will you watch that boring documentary with me?”
I tilt my head back to look up at him, grinning despite myself.
“Only if you keep holding me like this the whole time.”
“Deal,” he murmurs, kissing the top of my head. His arm tightens around me, hand splaying protectively over my stomach under the T-shirt. “Wouldn’t let go if you begged me to.”
I settle deeper against him, listening to his heartbeat under my ear, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
The narrator starts droning on about the front line and a sneak attack that happened at night.
I don’t hear a word of it. All I hear is Silas breathing. All I feel is home.