9. Marked #2
Canyon pulled off with a wet gasp. "Turn around," he commanded, and the authority was back, the vampire's voice, the frequency that Jace felt in his bones.
He obeyed, bracing his hands on the long dining table, the wood cool against his palms, his cock jutting below him, slick and aching.
Canyon spread him from behind, hands on his ass, pulling the cheeks apart with a possessiveness that was deliberate and exhibitionary, as if preparing Jace for display.
Then Canyon's mouth was there, hot and wet and shockingly intimate, his tongue pressing flat against Jace's hole, lapping in broad strokes that made every muscle in Jace's body go liquid.
The sensation was indescribable, wet heat against the most sensitive, most hidden part of his body, the vulnerability of the act amplified by the setting, the great hall, the fire, the skulls watching.
Canyon ate him with the same focused devotion he'd applied to his cock, probing, circling, pressing the tip of his tongue inside the tight ring of muscle, the intrusion sending sparks through Jace's nervous system that lit up pathways he hadn't known existed.
"Oh god, Canyon, your tongue—" Jace was making sounds he'd never heard himself make, raw and guttural, the sounds of a man being taken apart at the molecular level.
Canyon's tongue pushed deeper, the muscle strong and agile, and his hand reached between Jace's legs to wrap around his leaking cock, stroking in time with the thrusts of his tongue, the dual assault building a pressure in Jace's core that felt tectonic.
"Yes," Jace breathed, and the word was consent and surrender and demand all at once.
"I've never—" Jace's face burned against the cool wood of the table. "Not this. Not with anyone. I've been... practicing. At home. In the shower. Getting ready for something I didn't have a name for yet."
The sound Canyon made was low and molten, half growl, half prayer. "Then let me show you what the practice was for."
Canyon reached for something—a glass bottle from a shelf Jace hadn't noticed, oil that was warm and botanical-scented, which he poured generously over his cock and between Jace's cheeks.
His fingers worked first, one, then two, stretching with patient, deliberate strokes, crooking to find the prostate and pressing against it with a precision that made Jace's vision white out in flashes.
The preparation was thorough—Canyon was not going to take him unprepared, was not going to let the hunger override the care, and by the time a third finger joined, Jace was loose and open and begging with a desperation that had abandoned all pretense of composure.
Canyon entered him slowly. The stretch was immense, the head alone was wider than anything Jace had taken, a blunt, hot pressure that demanded his body yield and yield again, opening around the girth in increments that burned and ached and then, as the head cleared the ring of muscle, bloomed into a fullness so complete it felt like being occupied by another body's gravity.
Canyon fed himself in inch by inch, and Jace felt every ridge, every vein, every throb of the ancient heartbeat transmitted through the shaft, until Canyon was fully seated, his balls pressed against Jace's, his cock buried to the root, the stretch stabilizing into a deep, pulsing pressure that pressed against the prostate with each breath.
"You're so tight," Canyon rasped, his hands gripping Jace's hips, his body trembling with the effort of holding still.
"So hot inside, I can feel your pulse around me, your body's gripping me like it never wants me to leave—" He went utterly still, one hand flattening warm against the small of Jace's back. "Breathe. Tell me when."
"Move," Jace said. "Please, move—"
Canyon pulled back, slowly, agonizingly, the ridge of his head dragging against the inner walls, catching every nerve ending, and then thrust forward, and the sound Jace made was loud enough to echo in the cathedral ceiling of the great hall, a cry that was pleasure and shock and the primal recognition of being filled by something that was not human and not gentle and not anything except exactly what he needed.
Canyon's hand snaked around Jace's hip to wrap around his cock, stroking in counterpoint to the thrusts, each pull timed to the withdrawal, so that Jace's body was stimulated from both directions simultaneously, stretched and squeezed and stroked in a rhythm that was too coordinated to be human, the product of a mind that processed sensation at supernatural speed and applied it with three centuries of expertise.
The climax built like a cathedral of pressure, each brick a thrust, each beam a stroke, the architecture rising toward a spire that Jace could feel but couldn't reach, climbing and climbing, the edge approaching and receding as Canyon controlled the pace with sadistic precision, slowing when Jace's moans peaked, accelerating when the tension threatened to ebb.
"Come for me," Canyon finally said, and the words were not a request but a release, permission granted, the leash cut, the door thrown open, and Jace came with a violence that shook the table, his cock erupting in Canyon's fist, thick ropes of cum painting the dark wood, his body clenching around Canyon's shaft in rhythmic, milking spasms that dragged Canyon over the edge with him.