Chapter Ten #3
“Uh-uh.” I tap his chin. “Eyes open, sweetheart. You were doing so well for me, don’t stop now.”
He obeys instantly and I tighten my grip around his tail. Another hiss, this one coming with a squirm and an arching of his back.
“Orok,” he whines.
I let my fingers lazily meander down to the arrowed tip and he’s breathing hard, eyes glazed.
“That sensitive?” I ask.
Half his mouth crooks in a self-deprecating smile. “Not really. No. I—you’re touching me.”
I smile. “So you’d react as strongly if I touched you … here?”
My fingers move to his stomach. To the valley between his abs as his belly contracts.
Bel moans. “Yeah. Yes.”
“Hm. And here?”
His jaw. Where his pink curls twist in too-tempting circles, and I brush one aside to touch the hollow below his ear.
The feather of his exhale across my chest points out how close we’re standing now. Close enough that all it takes is shifting my hips, and the head of his cock brushes my thigh.
He gasps, body arching again. I’ve barely touched him.
“Please,” he whispers, hands still on the vanity, still displaying himself for me, mine. “Please, Orok.”
“What do you want?” I twist his curl around my finger and tug, earning a low mewl.
“I want—gods—I want what I said out there. Please, please—”
I run my nose from his shoulder to his neck, inhaling. The faint whiff of apples. The even fainter scent of me. That won’t do.
“And what was that?”
“F-fuck me, I want you to fuck me.” His jaw is slack, words toppling out in a rush.
My smile stretches his skin, tugs what’s already taut, so when I sink my teeth into the juncture of neck and shoulder and suck, he has no choice but to cry out at the sting.
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” I tell him, licking the spot, more filthy promise than apology. “Think you can take me? I don’t want to hurt you.”
I thrust against him, my cock rubbing over his stomach, his body chain adding an extra bite. The abrading pull is so good I grip his hair for leverage and suck at his neck again.
Bel cries out, hands finally leaving the vanity to scramble for purchase on my hips, pulling me closer to him. “I can. I can, I promise.”
“How do you know? No one’s fucked you before, right? How do you know what you can handle?”
“I—I’ve fucked myself. Toys. With toys. I know how to take it. I can take you, I promise, I swear I can. I’ll be so good for you, please.”
“Shh, sweetheart.” I brush his hair behind his ear. Gods, I’m going to need to watch him fuck himself one day. “Toys are a bit different, though. What makes you think you can handle me?”
He blinks up at me, looking so thoroughly put out at the idea that I might not fuck him that I can’t help but grin.
“You know you can handle me,” I answer for him, planting a soft kiss on his cheek, “because you know I’ll take care of you. Don’t you?”
He moans, his hips rocking against my leg even as I press him into the counter. “Yes. Yes.”
“You trust me to do that? To make it good for you?”
“Gods, Orok, yes. Can you—just fuck me.”
“So impatient. I thought you were mine? I thought you wanted to belong to me?”
He whines when I lean into him hard enough that he’s trapped to the vanity, can’t rock his hips, can’t get relief.
“I do. I am. Orok—”
“Hm. I love it when you whine for me.” I nip his ear and he digs his nails into my skin. “But let me take care of you. Let me take care of what’s mine.”
He’s practically in a daze as I guide him to the shower.
The whole room is a steamy sauna by now, and the water is scalding; I adjust it to the perfect temperature and pull him under the spray.
He tries to go onto his toes to kiss me, but I push him down, grab a washcloth from the ledge, and get to work cleaning him with almost clinical efficiency.
I don’t linger or tease him, which seems to be its own kind of tease; he’s a whimpering, fidgeting mess in no time, his arms reaching for me, his legs shifting restlessly.
His cock hasn’t flagged and neither has mine, not with the way he can never seem to stop and feel, always has to be moving, always has to be expelling his emotions in a dance all his own.
I spin him around. His feet slip on the tiles, but I keep him steady until his palms slap the wall.
“Stay,” I tell him, then kick his legs wider.
His head drops between his lifted hands, that body chain perfectly following the ridges of his spine and fanning out across his back. He shivers, even with the warm water spraying down on us both.
“Want to wash you,” he gasps.
I kiss his shoulder blade. “Later, sweetheart. For now…”
There’s one place I haven’t washed yet, and I get to work on it, taking the cloth and dipping it between the globes of his ass.
He moans low in his throat and thrusts back against me, but I’m clinical here, too.
Okay, maybe I spend a little extra time on it, enough that he’s twisting his hips, trying to get away, or get closer, or move in that enthralling way of his.
I want to make him dance. I want him to be so overcome with pleasure it has no choice but to burst out of him in his art.
This is torture for me, too. This is torture and poetry in perfect equilibrium.
The cloth splats on the shower’s floor and I lower to my knees, hold him open, and slide my tongue from his taint to the bulge of his tail.
Bel shouts, the sound echoing off the tiles. “Oh my gods, oh my gods, Orok—”
“Gotta get you ready for me. You okay with that?”
He looks over his shoulder, hands still plastered to the wall, and nods.
“Relax for me,” I tell him, and dive back in.
If he was squirming before, he’s outright flailing now, shifting and wriggling so much I have to band my arm around his hips to hold him in place. His tail thrashes, hitting the wall like a hammering fist; it whips my side and he fumbles an apology, but I grab it as he recoils.
“Touch me,” I say.
He whimpers but complies, too blissed out to think or argue.
His tail curls around my thigh and he groans as I do, the constriction of him on my leg matching the way his hole contracts as my tongue prods at his entrance.
“Fuck, sweetheart, you taste so good.” I nip at him and he might say something, it’s all devolved into mindless babbling. The water’s still pouring down on us, but I can feel his hard cock where I have my arm around his hips, and it’s slick with precum; he must be leaking onto the tiles.
I hold him in place, eating him out with all the desire I’ve been shoring up for weeks, not backing off as his babbling and squirming intensify, as he starts begging, as he swears he’s ready.
His rim loosens and I slip my tongue inside, using my thumb and finger to spread him wide so I can dive even deeper, licking, reaching.
His heat is so intense, a napalm shot straight to my aching dick, his silken walls rippling with every stilted cry he releases; he’s sobbing against the tiles now.
I promised I’d take care of him. It’s my job now. My purpose, my honor, I’m lost to it. So I keep going, adding a finger alongside my tongue, stretching, massaging his tight, tight rim; gods, he’s so tight.
“Orok.” He thrashes, his tail damn near cutting off the circulation in my leg. “Orok, please, I can’t—I’m gonna—Orok—”
“You’re almost ready.” I thrust two fingers in and out of him. “You gonna come on my hand, Bel? Think you can come from this?”
Another deep lick, then a third finger.
“No—yes? I don’t—Orok.”
My name on his lips like that. I want to eat it off his tongue.
He’s taking three fingers easily, but I play a little longer until I add a fourth, keeping him on the edge, this side of too much.
His cries are skittering, up and down and changing pitch, the muscles in his back, ass, and legs rippling and constricting under that body chain in a rhythm I can’t catch.
Standing on damn near useless legs, I switch off the water, fingers still in him, and Bel whips a frantic look at me.
“Please, please,” he mumbles, his lips bruised, eyes unfocused, and he peels one hand off the wall to grope for me.
I take his hand, press a kiss to his palm. “Going to get you to the bed.”
He makes a heartbreaking, panicked sound when I slip my fingers free. Gods, he’s so far gone; I might’ve pushed him too much.
A kiss to his forehead. “It’s all right, sweetheart. Just taking you to bed. You’re doing so good for me. So good. Just a bit longer, okay?”
His answering whimper is all I get, so I grab a towel and quickly dry us both, then lift him and hurry him to the bed.
I hunt lube and a condom out of my suitcase. When I settle over him, his hands immediately anchor around my neck. Some of the focus is back in his eyes, some of the fog lifted, but it rolls away with another beautiful, grinding moan as I rub lubed fingers into his stretched rim.
“Now, now,” he begs. “Now, please, fuck me, now.”
“Shh.” I press kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, easing more lube in, scissoring my fingers.
His head rocks back and forth on the pillow, his wet hair splayed out around his face, and his hips shift in uneven thrusts like he can’t find the tempo.
I keep working him and his expression slants more and more into frustrated, reaching, wanting.
“Not enough,” he says. “Need more, need you.”
I pluck the condom out of the sheets, and at the sound of it opening, Bel’s delirium angles into panic.
“No, no.” He claws his fingers into my neck and blinks big eyes up at me. “You said I’m yours, right? I’m yours, make me yours. I want to feel you, I want you. It’s fine, I’ve never been with anyone else. I trust you. Please, just you, just you.”
My consciousness knows I need a minute to disassociate, because all I can suddenly think is how furiously grateful I am that I’m the one he’s doing this with. If it’d been anyone else he was saying that to, someone with fewer morals, someone who’d take advantage?
I’m overheated, skin slick and sweaty from the shower, but protective anger burns through me.