Thirty-Eight #2
The first press of his cock against me is almost too much.
The broad hot stretch burns in the best way.
My breathing comes in sharp gasps as he pushes in, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving mine.
The only sounds are our ragged gasps, the creak of the bed, and the wet slide of his cock sinking deeper inside me.
When he is there, fully seated, his hips flush against my ass, his cock pulsing inside me, I wrap my legs around his waist, and my arms around his shoulders, holding him close.
“Fuck,” he groans, his voice muffled. “You feel—so—”
“I know,” I breathe, as I shift my hips, making him gasp.
He takes his time thrusting inside me slowly at first. Like he understands exactly what I asked for.
“You feel that?” he asks, his voice practically a growl.
“Feel how deep I am?” His hips roll just a little, and I dig my nails into his back.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t ever forget me, Arseny. ”
“Do it.” I moan against his lips. His restraint snaps, his grip on my hips tightens, his fingers dig in as he pulls back and slams back into me hard. “Mmph— fuck, Caiden.” I cry out, my cock throbbing with every brutal thrust.
He sets a punishing rhythm, his body slapping against mine and his breathing ragged in my ear.
I wrap my hand around my cock, jerking fast, dripping in my hand.
Pleasure coils tight in my gut, my balls draw up and my body trembles on the edge.
My free hand grips his throat, and I pull his mouth to mine.
He moans into it as his cock slams into me harder.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he breathes against my lips.
“Caiden—”
“Skazhi eto, pozhaluysta.” Say it, please.
“Tvoy.” Yours. I whisper. His teeth sink into my shoulder and that is it. The orgasm rips through me violently, my cock pulses in my grip, cum spills over my fingers, and my body clenches around him.
He groans into my neck as his thrusts turn erratic, his grip bruising as he chases the edge, then follows me over it, his cock buried deep inside me as he comes.
After, we lie tangled in the sheets, our bodies still pressed close like separation isn’t an option. Caiden’s arm is slung over my waist, his thumb tracing idle patterns into my skin. For a while, neither of us speaks. “I don’t think I’m going to sleep,” he says eventually.
I huff a weak laugh. “Me neither.”
He shifts closer, his forehead pressing to my shoulder. “It’s not fair.” he whispers.
I turn my head enough to kiss his hair. “You always say the worst things when I’m defenceless.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Means I’m doing it right.” We lie there until the world starts creeping back in, the clock becomes too loud, and the morning presses in against the walls.
Dawn hasn’t reached the windows yet, but it’s close.
I can feel it in my bones. The decision settles in me early, like a bullet I’ve already chosen to swallow.
If I follow him to the door and watch him straighten his jacket, shoulder his bag, turn once more like he might forget something, I won’t survive it intact. So, I decide to stay where I am.
Caiden sits on the edge of the bed, his boots on now, his laces loose. It’s proof that time didn’t stop just because I wanted it to.
I lean against the wall with my arms crossed, pretending this is casual and I haven’t memorised the shape of his back in the last six hours. Pretending my chest doesn’t feel like it’s collapsing inward, like a building being taken down quietly so no one panics.
He glances over his shoulder and looks into my eyes.
There it is. That look. The one that says ‘this is it’ without saying anything at all.
“Hey,” he says softly. I nod, because I can’t trust my voice yet. He stands and steps toward me. His hand comes up, hesitates, then cups the side of my neck. I lean into it before I can stop myself. “Don’t come,” he says quietly. That nearly breaks me.
“Wasn’t planning to,” I manage. My voice sounding shaky, as if I’ve been holding it back all night.
He exhales, his forehead pressing briefly to my shoulder.
Then he pulls back enough to look at me properly.
“Wait,” I say. I turn and grab the book on the small table by the bed.
I pick it up, my thumb worrying the spine like it might betray me if I hesitate too long, and I hold it out to him.
“What’s this?” he asks, though his voice is already careful.
“You’ve seen it before,” I say. “At the cabin.”
“Your poetry book?”
“My copy,” I correct. “I took it that weekend. You didn’t think I brought it for decoration, did you?” He takes it slowly and runs his thumb over the cover.
“You’re sure?” he asks. I shrug, forcing the lightness where there isn’t any.
“I know where to find another.” That’s a lie. We both know it, but he doesn’t call me on it. I step closer and tap the edge of the book with my finger. “Page seventy.”
His eyes lift to mine. “Seventy.”
“My favourite,” I add. Something shifts in his expression. The humour drains out, it’s replaced by something softer. He nods once, like he’s storing it away somewhere important. Then he rolls it up and slides it into his back pocket.
He puts his arms around my neck and holds me. “Say it again,” he says.
“I love you,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral.
His eyes close for a second. “I love you too,” he says back. Hearing it here, not tangled in sheets, or half-laughing, and distracted by touch, it hurts, like a hammer to my chest, trying to split me open.
My hands come up, and I grip his jacket like I might be able to anchor him here by force.
I kiss him, one last time. I’m not trying to steal time anymore.
I’m just... marking the memory. He kisses me back like he understands exactly what I’m doing.
When we pull apart, I rest my forehead against his.
“You’re going to be fine,” he says, even though we both know that’s not what either of us is worried about.
I snort quietly. “You’re terrible at lying.”
“Yeah, I know,” he admits. That does it. I force myself to breathe through it. If I let myself say everything I’m thinking, I’ll promise something I can’t give. So, I don’t.
“Don’t be stupid,” I say instead.
“I make no guarantees,” he says, smiling. He steps back slowly, and for a second, neither of us moves. Then he turns toward the door. “Goodbye, Arseny.”
“No, no goodbyes. Skoro uvidimsya, detka.” See you soon, baby. That gets a smile out of him. A real one. It’s the one I’m going to replay permanently.
He turns, and the door opens. The cold air slips in, and I don’t move until I’m sure he’s gone. Only then do I slide down the wall and sit on the floor, my head tipped back, my eyes burning, my chest aching like it’s been hollowed out and left exposed to the cold.
I tell myself I won’t cry, I fight it so fucking hard.
It isn’t until my eyes burn and I feel the tears streaming down my face that I realise I’ve failed.
I breathe slowly through the silent, shaking sobs.
And I let it hurt.