Chapter 2 #2
A sound escaped me I didn’t recognize. Half gasp, half groan, completely helpless.
His hand gripped my hip, holding me in place when I tried to move.
The other wrapped around the base of my cock, stroking what his mouth couldn’t reach, working me over with practiced efficiency.
In control but asking permission with every movement.
The contradiction of it—the power and the gentleness—was going to destroy me.
“Nico,” I breathed. The first time I’d said his name since we’d gotten to the room. It came out wrecked.
He pulled off just long enough to look at me. “Yeah?”
“I want you inside me. Do you have—” I broke off, breathing hard. “Lube? A condom?”
Understanding flickered across his face. He rolled off the bed and searched the floor until he found his jeans. He pulled his wallet from the back pocket and withdrew packets of lube and a foil wrapper.
“Yeah,” he said, coming back to me. “I’ve got you.”
He slicked his fingers with lube, watching my face. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
I nodded, and he started with one finger first, slow and careful. The pressure was intense but not painful. I breathed through it, and when my body relaxed around him, he added a second. The stretch burned, but in a way that made me want more, not less.
“Okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah. Don’t stop.”
By the time he added the third finger, I was already moving against his hand, chasing the feeling.
He worked me with maddening patience, each careful press stretching me wider, preparing me.
When he found that spot inside me, the one that made stars burst behind my eyelids, I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped. Didn’t even try.
My hips moved without permission, chasing the pressure of his fingers. Shameless. I’d forgotten how to be anything else.
“Please,” I heard myself say. “Don’t make me wait.”
He withdrew his fingers slowly, and I felt the loss everywhere. The rustle of the condom wrapper. The wet sound of more lube. Then his weight settled over me, the heat of his body covered mine, his thick and hard cock pressed against where I was slick and open.
“Look at me,” he said.
I met his gaze.
When he finally pushed inside me, we both groaned—his rough and strained, mine breaking into pieces.
The stretch was intense, bordering on too much, but I breathed through the burn while he held perfectly still.
He went slowly, giving me time to adjust to the thickness of him, the overwhelming fullness.
Inch by inch, letting my body open around him.
But I could feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, his muscles locked, breath coming hard.
The tension was visible in his jaw, in the way his thick arms shook where they braced beside my head, biceps flexed and trembling.
“Okay?” he gritted out.
“Yeah. Keep going.”
He pushed deeper, and when he was fully seated inside me, we both went still. The fullness was almost too much—stretched wide, completely filled—but it was exactly what I’d needed.
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him deeper, locking my ankles at the small of his back. He bottomed out with a groan, the angle making me see bursts of color. I bit down on my lip to keep from making too much noise.
“Move,” I managed, voice wrecked. “Please.”
He pulled back, slowly at first, the drag making my nerve endings light up, then thrust back in. Not gently. The second thrust was harder, deeper, and I forgot entirely about being quiet.
“Like that?” His voice was gravel.
“Exactly like that.”
He moved. Raw and desperate, nothing gentle about it.
We found a rhythm that shouldn’t have come so easily, with him driving into me, and me meeting every thrust. He shifted his angle and hit the spot that made electricity shoot up my spine, my back arch off the bed, and my fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
“There,” I gasped. “Right there.”
He did it again and again, nailing my prostate with a precision that made my vision blur.
His forehead dropped to mine, close enough that I could see nothing but his eyes, dark and intense and locked on me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. His pupils were blown wide, sweat beading on his temples, lips parted as he panted.
“You feel so good,” he groaned. “So fucking good.”
Our breaths mixed in the small space between us.
Harsh pants, bitten-off sounds I couldn’t hold back.
The slap of skin on skin. The creak of the hotel bed beneath us.
I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began.
Just heat and friction and sweat and the relentless build of pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in my gut.
His hand slid between us, wrapping around my cock. The dual sensations of him inside me, his fist stroking me, shattered every coherent thought I had left.
“Oh God—” I tried to warn him, but it was already too late.