17. Seventeen #2
He took me deeper. I bit my fist to keep from making a sound that'd have Nikolai teasing him later. His big hands came up to hold my hips down when I bucked, pinning me, making me take what he wanted to give instead of the other way round.
"That's it," I said, wrecked already. "Take what ye want. Use yer hand wi' it. Aye, just like that. Christ, yer filthy when ye let yerself go."
He wrapped his fist round the base and worked me with his mouth, sloppy, eager, learning me the way he'd learned everything. My good hand went into his hair and I just held on.
He pulled off with a wet sound and licked his lips. "Tell me what you want."
"I want yer cock in me," I said, past pretending. "I want ye to fuck me till I cannae remember my own name."
His pupils blew wide. He pushed himself up my body, kissing me hard, the taste of me on his tongue. I sucked on it and he groaned into my mouth, grinding down against me, both of us still half in our clothes like teenagers.
"Get the lube, big man, and dinnae ye dare go gentle on me like I'll come apart. I'm no made of glass. I'm made of harder stuff than ye are."
"Bossy," he said. But he was already reaching for the drawer.
He slicked his fingers, and I spread for him, shameless, letting him look his fill. He pressed one finger in and I bore down on it, hungry for it.
"More," I said. "I can take it. I've taken ye before."
He added the second, and I groaned at the stretch.
Six months I'd been touched like cargo. Hauled, cuffed, dosed, counted.
A needle in the leg. A blade at the knuckle.
Hands on me only ever to move me or hurt me, or take a piece off.
I'd forgotten a hand could land on a man and mean nothing but yes.
I'd forgotten the body kept a ledger of the good as well as the bad.
He put his fingers in me like I was worth the time.
The ledger wrote a line in the other column for the first time since they'd put me in that van.
"There," I gasped when he found my prostate. "Right there, ye bastard. Do that again."
He crooked his fingers, and the pleasure went white up my spine. My eyes stung.
"You're beautiful like this," he said. "Taking my fingers. You have any idea what you look like?"
"Shut up and fuck me properly."
"Not yet." He worked me open slowly, patient prick that he was, adding the third finger when he chose to, not a second before. The stretch burned good. I rocked onto his hand and swore at him.
"Please," I said finally, past pride. "Aleksi. Please."
He drew his fingers free, and I whined at the loss. He lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against me, and pushed in slowly. The stretch was everything. Too much. Not enough. I bore down and took him deeper.
"Fuck," he gritted out. "Fin. You're so—"
"Aye, I know. Move. Fuck me like ye mean it."
He moved. Carefully at first, still half-frightened of his own strength. I wrapped my legs round him and took the choice off him.
"Harder. I told ye, I'm no—" He drove in hard and the rest left me making a sound I'd no dignity left to be ashamed of. "Aye. Like that. Like ye mean it."
"I mean it." He pulled nearly all the way out and slammed back in, deeper, the angle lighting me up from the inside. "I mean it, Fin."
"Harder," I begged. "Wreck me. I want to feel it tomorrow."
He fucked me harder, his rhythm breaking into something animal. The bed frame hit the wall with every thrust. His hand found my bad one on the pillow, the maimed one, laced our fingers and held on.
"Every fucking—" His rhythm broke and caught. The tip of his cock dragged over that spot inside and I keened. "Don't you ever ask me again if I'd put myself between you and them. Don't you—"
"I won't." I had tears on my face by then and couldn't remember how they got there. "I won't ask again. Just dinnae stop. Please dinnae stop."
He fucked me through it, slow, deep, ruinous, both of us past clever, past the brat, past the tamer, past the push and the pull, down to the thing underneath that neither of us had a word for yet.
My free hand found my cock between us. He knocked it away and took me in his fist instead, rough, out of rhythm, perfect.
"That's my job," he said against my throat. "I'm the only one who gets to make you come now."
I came with his name in my mouth, his fingers crushed in mine, spilling hot over his hand. The clench of it dragged him over with me. The sound he made when I tightened round him was the broken one. The safehouse one. The one I'd live on for the rest of my days.
Afterwards, he stayed there, heavy, shaking, breathing me in.
Then he gathered me against his chest, the bad hand cradled safe between us, his heart going hard under my ear, and for one long minute neither of us was anything but this. Not a vor. Not an asset. Two men in a dark room who'd decided, against all sense, on each other.
"Told ye," I said eventually, hoarse. "Nothing wrong wi' the rest of me."
"Don't push it."
"Bit late." I closed my eyes. "Bit late for that, Aleksi Laskin."
He left for the shower. I lay in the wreck of the bed and let myself have it, the warmth, the wanting, until the work called.