Chapter Eight #2
Ryker stops behind me. Before I can brace myself for his touch, he grabs me by the back of the neck. His grip is unyielding but not painful, his fingers threading into my hair. He hauls me up to my feet with a grunt of effort and pushes me toward the bed.
“Face down,” he commands, giving me a final shove toward the mattress. “Arms above your head.”
I scramble onto the dark sheets, doing what he says.
I flatten my chest against the bedding, stretching my arms out above me.
My hands grip the edges of a pillow. He climbs onto the bed behind me, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of my legs.
He arranges me how he wants me, grabbing my hips and hiking my ass up, shifting my lower half into a better angle for him.
I let myself be moved, submitting to his hands as they position me.
I don’t fight him, don’t tense up. Ash told me to just surrender to it, and there’s a weird, dizzying relief in just letting Ryker take control.
Ryker palms my ass, his calloused fingers squeezing my flesh as he pulls my cheeks apart. The cool air hits my hole, making me shiver.
A wet, slapping sound reaches my ears, followed by the warm, shocking sensation of Ryker spitting onto my hole.
I flinch, a startled gasp leaving my lungs. It’s so dirty, so unapologetic, that my brain stalls for a second. But before I can come back down, Ryker’s fingers push in.
His saliva is the only barrier as he forces two fingers past my ring roughly.
He works me open without ceremony, refusing to ease his way inside like Ash did.
I groan, my face mashing into the mattress as the sharp sting of invasion rockets up my spine.
But then he curls those fingers, hooking them inside me, and the discomfort bleeds into a flood of raw pleasure.
I tremble, my hips jerking. Ryker’s free hand slams down flat on my lower back, holding me down. “Hold still,” he growls, pressing my stomach flush against the mattress.
He withdraws his fingers slightly, only to plunge them back in deeper.
He reaches for the nightstand, a plastic bottle clicking open, and a moment later a trickle of cold lube hits my skin.
He works it in, his fingers moving faster now, aggressively.
He adds a third finger, stretching my hole until I feel like I’m splitting apart.
I moan into the pillow, a long, embarrassing whine slipping from my throat.
He’s stretching me, prepping me, his palm keeping my lower back to the bed so I can’t squirm away from the ache or the pleasure.
My cock rubs against the sheets with every thrust of his hand, slicking the fabric beneath me with pre-cum.
He pushes his fingers deeper, finding my prostate and pressing down hard.
I mewl into the pillow, my body locking up as a rush of heat floods my veins.
He keeps stretching me, twisting his wrist, making sure every inch of me is coated and pliant, forcing me to accept his size with nothing but his bare hands and his dominance.
The pressure vanishes as Ryker withdraws his hand, leaving me hollow and gasping into the duvet. The sudden absence of his fingers makes my hips hitch forward, searching for the feeling without meaning to. Ryker chuckles, the sound making the hairs on my arms stand up.
I hear the rustle of fabric, the loud clink of a belt buckle hitting the floor.
I turn my head just enough to watch him shuck off his pants.
He kicks them aside, standing naked for a split second before climbing back onto the mattress.
He doesn’t hover over me or try to pin me down again.
Instead, he leans back against the headboard, propping his shoulders up on a couple of pillows.
He stretches his legs out. The ink covering his arms and chest seems to shift under the dim bedside lamp, wrapping around hard muscle.
“Get up,” Ryker says, his voice a low rumble. “Straddle me.”
My chest heaves. I push myself up onto my knees, my limbs feeling like lead.
I crawl up the length of the bed, feeling every inch of my bare skin exposed to the cool air and his unblinking stare.
I swing one leg over his waist and settle on my knees on either side of his hips.
I’m perched above him, hovering over his groin, so fucking vulnerable I feel like a bug under a microscope.
I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I let them hover awkwardly near my waist. Ryker doesn’t reach for me.
He just lies there, his arms resting on the mattress, watching me with those piercing blue eyes.
“Stroke it,” he murmurs. His gaze drops to my cock, which is dripping precum onto his stomach.
I swallow, my throat clicking. “What?” I ask breathlessly.
“You heard me,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wrap your hand around your cock, Jaxon. Show me how you touch yourself.”
My face burns. Growing up the way I did, touching yourself was a sin you confessed to the bishop, a source of endless shame.
Now I’m sitting naked on top of another man, and he’s ordering me to do it for an audience.
I reach down with a trembling hand, my fingers slipping around my own shaft.
It’s slippery with my own mess, aching for some kind of pressure.
I stroke up and down, feeling the rush of blood beneath my skin, but it’s weird doing this while he just watches.
He doesn’t offer a hand to guide me or take over.
He stares, watching the movement of my fist sliding over my skin, his chest rising and falling.
“Good,” Ryker rumbles, his eyes darkening to a shade resembling a bruised sky. “Now use your other hand.”
I pause, my pulse hammering in my ears. “My other hand?” I echo stupidly.
“Reach back,” he orders, his voice dropping into that commanding octave that makes my stomach swoop. “Put your fingers in your hole. Let me watch you stretch yourself out.”
A fresh wave of heat floods my cheeks, so hot I feel feverish.
This is so dirty. Doing this by myself, for his entertainment, feels dirtier than anything we did last night.
But the dark thrill curling in my gut forces my hand to move.
I reach behind my back, my fingers finding the slick mess Ryker left behind from his spit and the lube he dumped on me earlier.
I take a shallow breath and press my middle and index fingers past my ring.
I gasp, my back arching as I sink them in.
The angle is awkward, straddling him like this, forcing me to lean back slightly and expose myself more, but I push them as deep as they can go.
“Yeah, like that,” he encourages, though it sounds more like an order. “Keep stroking your cock. Work yourself open.”
I move both my hands, one pumping my shaft while the other curls inside my hole.
My breath comes in short, ragged pants. The sensation is overwhelming.
I’m fucking myself while he watches, the visual of his tattooed chest beneath me mixing with the crude pleasure pooling in my groin.
My hips start to stutter, grinding down toward him, trying to earn a release that’s building fast. Every time I curl my fingers inside myself, my prostate aches, shooting sparks of pleasure up my spine.
Ryker watches the flush spread down my chest, watches my mouth fall open as I moan.
“Get yourself off,” he commands, his voice getting more raspy. “But before you come, I want three fingers in there. Push another one in, Jaxon.”
I whine, shaking my head slightly, sweat stinging my eyes. “I don’t know if I can,” I pant, my hand pumping my cock faster. I’m getting too close, my balls drawing up tight.
“Do it,” he snaps.
I bite my lip, rearranging my hand behind my back. I force a third finger inside, pushing past the tight muscle. The stretch is a sharp, burning ache that tips me over the edge. I whimper, my hips locking up as my body surrenders to the climax.
The orgasm barrels through me, hot and blinding.
I groan, my hand gripping my cock tight as I spurt hot cum across Ryker’s stomach and chest. It lands in messy splatters over his abs, sticking to his pale skin.
I gasp for air, my head dropping forward, my fingers slipping out of my hole as I slump down slightly.
I brace my hands on his ribs to keep from collapsing onto him.
My chest heaves, sweat cooling on the back of my neck.
I feel dizzy, wrung out, the aftershocks rolling through my thighs.
Ryker looks down at the mess I made of him, then looks up at me. A sharp, satisfied grin breaks across his handsome face.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, his chest rising and falling beneath my hands. “You made a mess on me, kid.”
I blink, still trying to catch my breath, my mind foggy. “Sorry,” I mumble, my voice cracking.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. He reaches up, his fingers brushing the side of my face, tracing my jawline. “Clean it up.”
I stare at him, my brain struggling.
“Lick it off,” he clarifies, tapping his own stomach where a puddle of my cum rests over a shaded tattoo of a compass.
My face goes hot all over again. I look at the mess, then at his expectant face.
There’s no way out of it, and honestly, a sick part of me doesn’t want to say no.
I lower my head, my hair falling over my forehead.
I press my tongue to his skin. The taste of my own cum is salty, mixed with the faint taste of his sweat.
I drag my tongue up the center of his stomach, licking the white streaks off his hard muscle.
It’s degrading and yet I can’t stop. I lick a path over his ribs, cleaning up the drops that splashed higher.
The texture of his skin, the raised lines of his tattoos, the heat coming off him, it’s intoxicating.
I drag my tongue over a dark rose inked below his collarbone, licking him clean.