19. Chapter 19 #3
He holds still, both fingers buried to the last knuckle, and waits.
Waits until Indrie’s breathing evens. Waits until the tension in his body softens from resistance into anticipation, until the clench around Eskil’s fingers eases into something hungrier.
Then he begins to move again, slowly, scissoring, opening him up with a patience that borders on torture.
Indrie can feel every increment of it — the stretch and give, the slick slide of tallow, the way Eskil’s fingers spread inside him and then draw together, working him open with care.
And then he curls his fingers and finds the place inside Indrie that dissolves his vision and arches his back and tears a broken moan out of his throat.
“Oh,” Indrie gasps, fingers digging into Eskil’s shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
Pleasure lances through him, white-hot and shocking, radiating out from that single spot until his thighs shake and his cock twitches untouched against his stomach, a bead of fluid spilling over the head. “Oh, that’s– I can’t.”
Eskil works that spot with every stroke.
The pad of his fingers dragging over it again and again until Indrie is shaking in his arms, hard and leaking against his own stomach, making sounds he cannot control and does not try to.
His hips rock helplessly, fucking himself down onto those fingers, and the wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet of the study.
“More,” Indrie breathes, and the word surprises both of them. He flushes deeper, heat crawling down his throat and across his chest, and does not take it back. “Please, Eskil.”
“Fuck, sweetheart, you're so greedy,” Eskil groans, and adds a third finger. The stretch burns and Indrie hisses through his teeth and presses back against his hand anyway, wanting more, desperate for it in a way that would have embarrassed him an hour ago and does not now. He can feel himself opening. He can feel the way his body is learning the shape of Eskil’s hand.
Eskil works him deep and deliberate, hitting that angle on every stroke, and Indrie is panting into his neck, mouth open against the salt-damp skin, and he can feel himself getting close from nothing but this.
His cock is flushed dark, dripping steadily onto his stomach, and he has not been touched there at all.
“Eskil, I need– I want–” He cannot form the sentence. His face is blazing and the words will not come, so he reaches down between them and wraps his trembling fingers around Eskil’s cock.
The sound Eskil makes is guttural, wrenched out of somewhere deep.
His hips buck forward into Indrie’s grip and his fingers still inside him, and for a suspended moment neither of them breathes.
He is thick and heavy in Indrie’s hand, fever-hot and slick at the head, the vein along the underside pulsing against Indrie’s palm.
He is bigger than the three fingers already inside him.
Indrie strokes him once, experimental, thumb smearing the wetness at the tip, and watches Eskil’s jaw clench hard enough that the muscle stands out.
“Inside me,” Indrie says, and his voice is steadier than he expects. He tightens his grip, just slightly, and feels Eskil’s cock jump in his hand. “Please, Eskil. I want to feel you.”
Eskil withdraws his fingers and Indrie makes a sound of protest at the emptiness, bereft and instinctive, that would mortify him under any other circumstances.
He feels open and slick and unused, clenching around nothing, and the loss of it is almost worse than the stretch had been.
Eskil works more tallow between his palms and slicks himself thoroughly, fist stroking down his own length until he is gleaming with it, the head of him flushed dark and wet.
Indrie watches from the desk with his legs spread and his chest heaving, watching Eskil’s hand move over himself, watching the way his cock looks in his own grip, thick and ready, and something in Indrie’s stomach drops with want.
Eskil’s hands find his thighs. Large hands, rough with calluses, wrapping easily around the lean muscle.
He grips and pulls, dragging Indrie to the very edge of the desk so that the only thing keeping him from sliding off is Eskil’s hold on him.
The wood is hard against the small of his back.
His ass hangs just off the edge, exposed, and he can feel the cool air of the room against the slick, opened place between his legs.
“Hold on to me,” Eskil says.
Indrie wraps his arms around his neck. Eskil hooks one arm under Indrie’s thigh and lifts, tilting his hips up, spreading him, and positions himself.
The hard press of him is hot and insistent against Indrie’s entrance and Indrie feels the pressure build and his breath catches and he tenses, his body trying to close against something it cannot possibly refuse.
“Breathe,” Eskil says, forehead against Indrie’s. His voice is strained with the effort of holding still, a tremor running through the arm that holds Indrie’s thigh. “Breathe for me, sweetheart.”
Indrie breathes. Exhales. Forces the tightness out of his shoulders, out of his jaw, out of the place where Eskil is waiting. And Eskil pushes in.
The first inch is a shock, thick and burning and relentless.
The head of him breaches the rim and Indrie gasps, nails digging into Eskil’s shoulders, the stretch so much more than fingers that for a moment he cannot think at all.
He is being opened around something that does not yield, that only presses deeper, and the burn of it radiates out through his hips and down his thighs.
Eskil pauses, jaw tight, breathing ragged, holding himself still with a control Indrie can see costs him dearly — the tremor in his arms, the sweat standing out on his throat, the way his hips want to drive forward and do not.
He waits until Indrie nods, a small jerky motion, and presses in further.
It is slow. Agonizingly, exquisitely slow.
Eskil feeds himself into Indrie inch by inch, watching his face, stopping every time his expression tightens, resuming only when it eases.
Indrie can feel every increment of it — the thick slide, the way his body has to stretch and stretch and stretch to take him, the slick heat of the tallow easing the way even as the burn remains, bright and constant.
He can feel the ridge of the head dragging along his inner walls.
He can feel himself opening around the shaft, taking more, taking all of it.
By the time Eskil is fully seated they are both trembling.
Indrie’s legs are wrapped around his waist, ankles locked at the base of his spine, and he can feel Eskil’s heartbeat inside him, thick and heavy and real, pulsing against the deepest part of him.
He is so full he can barely breathe. There is no space left in him that is not Eskil.
“Gods,” Indrie whispers, and his voice is wrecked. “You’re so– You feel–”
He cannot finish. There are no words in either language for it.
Full and stretched and split open and held and claimed in a way that is not ownership but something he chose.
Eskil is inside him to the hilt, hips flush against the backs of Indrie’s thighs, and looking at him and shaking with the effort of holding still, and Indrie understands, suddenly and completely, that this man is ruined for anybody else and so is he.
Eskil pulls back slightly, half an inch, a test, and the drag of it makes Indrie’s mouth fall open.
Then he pushes back in, slow and deep, filling him again to the root, and Indrie’s cry is soundless, all air and shock.
The drag and press of him is overwhelming — the thick slide out, the thick press in, the way every inch of him drags over that place inside that makes Indrie’s vision white out.
When Eskil does it again Indrie’s fingers scrabble at his shoulders for purchase, leaving red crescents in the skin.
“Harder,” Indrie manages, and it is barely a voice, more breath than sound. He clenches around Eskil deliberately, just once, and watches his face fracture. “I can take it.”
Something shifts in Eskil’s expression. The restraint fractures. His grip on Indrie’s thigh tightens hard enough to bruise and he thrusts forward, deep and firm and deliberate, burying himself to the hilt in one stroke, and Indrie cries out, the sound raw and startled and desperate.
“Like that?” Eskil’s voice scrapes against every nerve Indrie has. He does it again, harder, the impact of his hips against Indrie’s ass sharp and wet. “Tell me.”
“Yes,” Indrie gasps. “Yes, like — oh — like that, please—”
Eskil finds a rhythm. Long deep strokes that lift Indrie against the desk with each thrust, the wood creaking beneath them, books and papers shifting at the edges of his awareness.
Each drive of Eskil’s hips seats him fully, the head of him pressing against something deep and overwhelming, and each withdrawal drags along every sensitive inch of him until Indrie is shaking apart.
He braces one hand on the desk beside Indrie’s hip and grips his thigh with the other, hitching his leg higher, folding him open, and the new angle changes everything.
Eskil’s cock drives directly into that spot inside him, over and over, relentless and precise, and a sound tears out of Indrie’s throat, raw and keening and entirely without shame.
He fucks into him harder, and Indrie sobs, and Eskil presses his mouth to his ear.