Chapter 3 #3
Bastian undoes his sash. The red fabric falls away. He pushes his pants down and Emery's breath catches.
He is big. Thick and long and hard and the sight of him does something to Emery's brain that short-circuits every remaining rational thought.
He is dark, flushed darker at the head, and a bead of moisture catches the lamplight as he frees himself fully and Emery's body clenches with a want so visceral it borders on painful.
You have a job. You have a knife on the floor and a target kneeling between your legs and you need to act.
Bastian reaches for something on the bedside table, a small glass bottle of oil. He pours it across his fingers and the amber liquid catches the light and Emery watches his hand and swallows hard and does not move for the knife.
"Turn over," Bastian says. His voice is low and rough and the command in it sends a shiver down Emery's spine. But then he pauses, hearing himself, and his slicked hand settles on Emery's knee instead of between his legs. "Or don't. Whichever you prefer."
Emery stares at him. The option. The choice, offered so simply, treating Emery's preference as a thing that matters, treating this as something other than a bought transaction in a brothel room.
He has never been given the option. He has been turned over, pushed down, positioned according to someone else's convenience. He has never been asked.
"This way," Emery says. His voice is barely audible. "I want to see you."
Something moves through Bastian's expression, not triumph, not satisfaction, something quieter. He nods, once, and his oil-slicked fingers trail down the inside of Emery's thigh.
The first finger presses in slowly. Emery is still loose from his orgasm, still trembling with residual sensation, and the stretch is easy.
Bastian is careful. He works the finger in to the knuckle and then crooks it, searching, and when he finds the spot he is looking for Emery's spine arches off the bed and a sound punches out of him that is more animal than human.
"Gorgeous," Bastian murmurs. The satisfaction in his voice is quiet and vast. He strokes the spot again and Emery writhes and grabs the sheets and his spent cock twitches and begins to fill again.
The second finger joins the first. The stretch burns for a moment and then Bastian's free hand wraps around Emery's cock, stroking in time with the fingers inside him, and the burn dissolves into something that is not pleasure or pain but both at once.
He is hard again, impossibly, already, achingly hard, and Bastian is working him open with a patience that makes Emery want to scream.
"More," Emery hears himself say. His voice is ragged. "I can take more."
A third finger. Emery's mouth falls open.
The stretch is significant now, the fullness bordering on too much, and Bastian watches his face while he fucks him open with his hand and the attention is scalding.
Emery cannot look away from his eyes, the black of them, the way they track every shift of expression, every hitch of breath, cataloging Emery's responses with the same precision he brings to everything else.
Bastian withdraws his fingers. The loss is so acute Emery makes a sound of protest that would humiliate him if he had any capacity left for humiliation.
Bastian slicks himself with oil, his hand stroking the length of his cock, and Emery watches and his mouth waters and he spreads his legs wider without being asked.
Bastian settles between his thighs. The head of his cock presses against Emery, hot and blunt, and Emery forces himself to breathe. Bastian's eyes find his. One hand grips Emery's hip. The other braces beside his head. He pushes in.
Slowly, so slowly, inch by inch, letting Emery's body adjust, pausing when Emery tenses, pressing forward when he exhales.
The stretch is immense. Emery's eyes sting and his fingers claw at the sheets and a broken sound escapes him when Bastian slides past the resistance and sinks deeper, deeper, until he is fully seated and their hips are flush and Emery can feel him everywhere, filling him so completely that there is no room left for anything else.
This is not real, Emery tells himself. His eyes are closed. His chest is heaving. The fullness inside him is overwhelming and his cock is trapped between their stomachs, leaking against his own skin. This is a transaction. He is a mark. You are going to kill him.
Bastian begins to move.
He fucks him slowly. That is the word for it: slowly.
With a deliberateness that makes each stroke a complete thought, a full sentence, beginning with the drag of withdrawal that lights up every nerve inside Emery and ending with the deep, rolling thrust that punches the air from his lungs.
He fucks him with the intimacy of decades, not minutes.
He knows the map of Emery's body, every ridge and valley, every place that makes him gasp and shake and lose the ability to form words.
He finds the angle. The angle that sends white light cascading through Emery's vision every time Bastian's hips drive forward.
Emery cries out and his legs come up, wrapping around Bastian's waist, pulling him deeper, and Bastian groans, low and rough and hungry.
The sound of it reverberates through Emery's chest and he can feel it in his bones, not the destructive force of a Vesper's weapon but something else entirely, something that makes his body open and his resistance crumble and his hands reach for Bastian's face.
He cups Bastian's jaw. Pulls him down. Kisses him while Bastian fucks into him with those slow, shattering strokes, and the kiss is messy and graceless and nothing Emery has ever experienced.
Bastian's hand comes up and covers one of Emery's where it grips his jaw, holding it there, and the tenderness of the gesture is so incongruous with the cock splitting him open that Emery's mind fractures along a fault line he did not know existed.
He pushes at Bastian's shoulders. Bastian pauses immediately, but Emery does not want him to stop. He pushes again, harder, and rolls his hips, and understanding dawns on Bastian's face. He pulls out, the drag making Emery hiss, and rolls onto his back.
Emery climbs on top of him.
He cannot look away from the glint in Bastian's eyes.
The black of them is molten now, liquid and depthless, and they track Emery's movements with a hunger that makes his skin prickle.
Emery straddles his hips and reaches behind himself and takes Bastian's cock in his hand and guides it to his entrance. He sinks down.
The sound they make together fills the room.
Emery's is high and cracked. Bastian's is low and shattered.
The angle is different now, deeper, and Emery can feel every inch of him as he seats himself fully.
His thighs are trembling. His hands brace on Bastian's chest, fingertips pressing into the tattooed skin, and he begins to move.
Bastian's hands find his hips. His grip is strong, guiding but not controlling, letting Emery set the pace.
Emery rolls his hips, lifting and dropping, finding the rhythm that makes the heat in his core climb fastest. He rides him and does not think about anything except the fullness inside him and the pressure building at the base of his spine and the way Bastian is looking up at him and seeing something impossible.
"You're so beautiful," Bastian says, and his voice is wrecked, rough and broken at the edges. His hands tighten on Emery's hips. He begins to thrust upward, meeting Emery's rhythm, driving into him with strong, controlled movements that hit the spot inside him with merciless accuracy.
Emery cannot hold himself up. He falls forward, hands slipping on Bastian's chest, and Bastian catches him.
Sits up beneath him, wrapping one arm around the small of his back, so Emery is in his lap with his knees braced on either side of Bastian's hips.
The position is impossibly intimate. Their chests press together.
Emery's cock is trapped between their stomachs, slick with pre-come, and each thrust drives friction across it that makes his vision swim.
Bastian fucks up into him with strong, deep, mesmerizing movements that take Emery's breath each time.
His mouth is on Emery's neck, open and hot, and the vibration of his breathing against Emery's pulse point makes the hair on his arms stand up.
Emery clings to him. His arms are around Bastian's neck and his fingers are buried in white hair and he is making sounds he has never made before, broken and desperate and utterly undone.
The orgasm builds in him with a force that is almost frightening.
He can feel it gathering, coiling tight at the base of his spine and spreading outward, and Bastian's hand slides between them and wraps around his cock and strokes him in time with his thrusts and Emery buries his face in Bastian's shoulder and comes apart.
It is not the same as the first one. The first one was a white-hot burst, sudden and overwhelming.
This one is a slow, rolling wave that starts deep inside him and radiates outward until his entire body is shaking with it.
He spills between them, coating Bastian's hand and his own stomach, and the clench of his body pulls a sound from Bastian that is almost a growl.
Bastian's thrusts stutter, quicken, lose their precision, and then he drives up one last time, hard and deep, and Emery feels the heat of him release, feels the pulse of it inside him, and the sound Bastian makes against his throat is the most intimate thing Emery has ever heard.
They stay tangled together, breathing hard, Emery in Bastian's lap with Bastian's arms wrapped around his waist and his face pressed into the curve of Emery's neck.
The silence is thick and warm and Emery's brain is trying to reassemble itself from the wreckage of the last hour and failing comprehensively.
Bastian kisses him.