14. Cole #3
He's shaking. Both hands fisted in the sheets.
"Cazzo," he breathes. "Cole, cazzo, your mouth—"
I pull off, wrap my hand around the base, and hold him there.
"Cole. Don't stop," he says.
"Ask me."
His jaw clenches. I stroke him once, slow, my thumb pressing the sixth barbell. His hips jerk off the bed.
"Ask me, D."
"Fuck you."
I do it again. Slower. Grip loose. Just enough contact to keep him on the edge. His hand finds my wrist and tries to tighten my grip. I slip free.
"Ti prego."
The Italian comes first, ripped out of him before the English catches up.
"Please. Cole. Ti prego, per favore, please—"
The language breaks apart in his mouth. Italian and English tangle together the way they only tangle when his control is gone.
My grip tightens when his English gives out.
I take him back in my mouth, deep and fast, my hand and my mouth working together. His hand slams against the headboard. His hips drive up, and I let them. His other hand grips my hair, pulling.
I pull off.
"No—" His voice breaks. "Cole, what the fuck—"
"I want you inside me when you come."
"Dio—"
His hands grab my hips and flip me. My back hits the mattress, his mouth on my neck.
He bites. Hard. His hand reaches for the nightstand drawer, yanks it open, finds the lube by touch without lifting his mouth from my skin.
I hear the cap click. Lube slicks over his fingers.
His teeth release my neck, and his mouth drags lower, across my collarbone, while his slicked fingers press between my legs, two of them pushing into me.
I gasp and arch into it.
He adds a third finger and curls them. The ceiling blurs white at the edges.
"You could have just asked," he says against my throat.
"I don't ask."
He pulls his fingers out and reaches for the condom. His hands are steady, precise, controlled. Even now. Even with his Italian cracking through.
"Turn over."
"I want to see your face."
He holds my gaze. He rolls the condom on, slicks himself, positions, and pushes in.
The piercings.
Every time.
Ridge after ridge drags through me. He seats himself fully, the top piercing pressing deep enough to make my back arch off the bed.
"Move," I grit out.
He drives in hard. Draws back slow. Every barbell dragging. I grab his shoulders, nails digging in. He builds a rhythm, deliberate, then faster, the piercings hitting deep on every stroke.
"Harder."
He goes harder. The bed frame hits the wall.
Maya is one room away. The headboard is loud enough to reach her. His breathing will, too. She can hear what I sound like underneath him.
I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him deeper. The angle shifts, the top piercing grinding against the spot that makes me lose language.
"Fuck, right there, don't stop—"
"Sei mio," he says through his teeth. You're mine.
His hips drive. His hands are flat on either side of my head. Tattoos shift under his skin. The headboard hits the wall. Again. Again.
"Sei mio, Cole. Mio."
I reach between us. He knocks my hand away and replaces it with his, stroking me in time with his thrusts.
"Look at me," he says.
I look at him.
His face is above mine, his jaw tight, his eyes dark and open and finally here.
With me.
That does it.
I come with his hand on my cock and his cock inside me, every piercing dragging hard through the center of me.
I spill across his hand, clenching around him, and his rhythm breaks.
He drives in one last time, deep enough that my breath tears out of me.
His forehead drops to mine, and I feel him pulse inside me.
"Cole—cazzo—Cole."
He stays inside me. Forehead to forehead. His thumb traces my cheekbone. Slow.
"You made me say please," he whispers. "In two languages."
"Someone had to."
He pulls out slowly, holds the base of the condom, strips it off and ties it. He leans over the edge of the bed and drops it in the trash without looking. Then he rolls onto his back beside me. His hand finds mine. Laces our fingers.
"You know," he says, his voice rough.
"I know."
"I should have told you."
"Yeah."
Silence.
His thumb traces my knuckle.
"What are you going to do?" he says.
I stare at the ceiling. "I don't know, D."
His hand tightens around mine. I close my eyes. Dante's hand in mine. Maya behind her door.
The house settles. I listen for movement from the spare room. A shift on the mattress. A creak in the floor. I hear it. Small. The sound of someone who was lying still and just moved.
She was awake. She heard.
I lie in the dark and let that sit under my skin. Maybe she's angry. Maybe she's jealous. Maybe she's under the covers with her thighs pressed tight the way mine were pressed together at dinner while I watched them spar across the table.
Tomorrow morning she'll be in the kitchen, having heard everything.
My phone lights up on the nightstand. I reach for it with the hand Dante isn't holding. Maya. One line.
The walls in this house are thin.
Dante shifts beside me. His eyes are open. He saw the screen light up.
"Who is it?" he asks.
I turn the phone so he can read it.
His hand tightens around mine.