Milo
TEETH SCRAPED OVER my neck, and for once, it wasn’t me who was trembling. Jasper’s lips quivered against my skin, his stubble rough. The heat of his breath made my eyelids heavy. If he pulled away and changed his mind, I wasn’t sure I would survive it.
He bit me. Hard. A raw, high-pitched noise clawed its way up my throat, my back arching instinctively.
His tongue tended to the blooming ache, the muscles in my neck tender as my head lolled to the side.
I reached up into his hair and grabbed at the roots, and the shock that rolled through me made the freshly wrapped laceration on my hand throb in time with my pulse.
The sickness that had been consuming my thoughts was solidifying into something real.
It wasn’t just fantasy anymore.
I wasn’t jerking off in his bed.
“Fuck,” I rasped. “Just like that.”
My words of encouragement made him still.
His horn-rimmed glasses bit into my shoulder while he breathed me in, and suddenly I was terrified that I’d said the wrong thing.
I arched my spine even further, until every inch of our chests pressed together, the harsh pounding of my heart threatening to bruise my ribs.
Whatever demons he was battling, mine were hungrier.
He cursed under his breath. His hands dipped under my shirt and ran over my stomach with a firm pressure, grabbing, squeezing, and digging his nails into every part of me he could reach.
The blood from his wound was warm, smearing across my skin, marking me in a way that drove me to the brink of insanity.
“Tell me what to do,” Jasper ordered. “Tell me how to keep you here with me.”
I closed my eyes, afraid of being denied. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you,” he hissed. “Tell me exactly.”
“More.”
“Where, loverboy? Use your words.”
Humiliation burned a hole in my stomach. Admitting the way I needed him felt dirty. Wrong. As I wrestled with the morality of it, I lost his touch, his hands pulling out from beneath my shirt and leaving me aching with loss.
I grabbed his wrist gingerly with my uninjured hand and guided him to where the hard line of my cock strained against denim, a pathetic, needy whimper tumbling out of my mouth. His knuckles dragged lazily over the source of my torment, my hips jerking forward to meet the sensation.
“Fuck, Milo…” My name sounded filthy rolling off his tongue.
I turned my head in a blind search until I found the corner of his mouth, and his body went rigid with restraint that I loathed.
“Kiss me,” I pleaded, nudging his head with mine.
Nothing.
“I said—”
The air left my lungs in a hurry as my back connected with the couch, his body between my legs, effectively becoming my prison.
His lips were softer than I’d imagined. I thought they might be rough, like the harsh words and guarded touch I knew, but the kiss was gentle, as if he thought I were something delicate.
I didn’t want to be delicate.
I sobbed against his mouth, an influx of mixed emotions lancing through me. He sucked my bottom lip between his teeth and bit there too, the taste of metal seeping into my tongue. Nothing was enough.
The couch creaked beneath us, the heated kiss growing sloppy. He felt his way down to the button of my jeans, and with a mind of their own, my hips canted upwards to help. I couldn’t lose the taste of him, chasing his mouth each time he tried to pull away enough to get me undressed.
I felt the rumble of frustration in his chest as he pulled my jeans and boxers down with deft hands, the cool air hitting newly exposed skin and making me shiver.
I looked up at the ceiling, not willing to look at the scars that plastered my thighs, because it was already mortifying enough to know that he could see them, too.
He already knew they were there, but what if touching them was different?
What if he hated the way my raised, uneven skin felt on the pads of his fingers?
My panic was unfounded. He slumped, his head dipping between my legs, alternating between open-mouthed kisses and reverent nips at my thighs. He touched me like they weren’t even there—like I was whole.
“Hurry up,” I rasped, writhing with anticipation.
“God, you’re so needy.” He gave me an annoyed look from behind his glasses before wrapping his blood-slick hand around my cock, giving it a reprimanding squeeze that made my vision blur.
“Your hand… it’s dirty,” I moaned.
“Just like you.” He gave my touch-starved length a rough stroke.
“Fuck you.”
My head fell back against the couch, and I struggled to suppress another moan.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His eyes darkened.
My heart skipped.
“No, that’s not right, is it?” He considered me. “You want me to fuck you.”
“I—I...”
I couldn’t muster a comeback.
The faint smell of copper filled my senses on a choppy inhale, and I watched with morbid fascination as he worked me with his filthy hand. A different kind of pleasure bloomed deep inside of me, euphoric and raw. I’d never felt so connected to someone in my entire life.
I was sick, truly sick.
“Say it, Milo.” He reached up with his free hand and gripped my chin, angling my face down so I met his gaze head-on. “Say you want your brother to ruin you.”
Oh, God.
His glasses sat unevenly on the bridge of his nose, unbridled hunger in his eyes. I saw the way his chest stuttered, the way he could barely manage to catch his breath. It was the most out of control I’d ever seen him, though his words kept their wicked bite.
“I want it,” I answered pathetically.
“Want what?” He smirked.
I thought about lunging forward and tackling him to the goddamn floor, but he picked up the pace of his strokes, the sound of his blood mixed with my precum loud and obscene.
I was at his mercy. After a few agonizing moments that I thought would send me over the edge, he slowed, painfully so, and I had to rock my hips to fuck myself into his fist like some wanton creature.
“I want you to make me feel good.” I blinked hard, trying to focus on his face through the haze of my delirium.
“Is that what I told you to say?” He was killing me, his thumb swiping leisurely over my tip.
“Please,” I choked. “I want you to ruin me.”
Jasper’s hand stilled, the words settling into the space between us, my heart suspended by rapidly fraying strings. I was scared. Terrified. He’d pushed me to admit it, and I still felt like he might be disgusted with me.
“How long have you wanted me to fuck you, Milo?” He stood, pulling his sweater vest over his head and tossing it onto the arm of the couch.
I stared at him dumbly, almost not registering what he said, too focused on watching the pop of every button as he worked to get his shirt off.
I didn’t know the answer—didn’t know when I’d started to obsess over his attention, or when I’d gotten so territorial that I’d willingly beat the shit out of my best friend for sleeping with him.
“I don’t know.” My voice cracked, attention drifting down his naked chest at the sound of his belt buckle coming undone.
Jasper had the body of a man who lived on too many late nights and cups of coffee. There was a wiry strength to him from carrying textbooks by day and bartending at night, his ribs lifting with each breath to expose a faint stretch of muscle.
Watching him undress felt like a crime. The feeling solidified when he dropped his pants, his hard cock straining heavily against his boxer briefs, already soaked through with arousal that matched my own.
I wasn’t going to hell—I was already in it. My own personal hell, one where I was tortured by the magnificent sight of his dick when he finally removed his underwear. If he took any longer, I was going to die.
“You don’t know, or you’re too embarrassed to tell me?” His voice softened just a touch.
I fisted my shirt and tugged it down, suddenly all too aware of myself. My silence spoke volumes, judging by the sly grin that spread across his face when I didn’t answer.
“Why are you always hiding from me, like I’m not the only one who sees you?” he lectured, his expression sobering.
I didn’t answer right away, too busy watching the way his eyes raked over me like embers stirred to life. Half of me wanted him to look at me like that forever, and the other half wanted to get up and run, just like I did every other time things got too intense.
“I’m not hiding,” I finally answered with a lie.
Before I could make any sense of the shift in his mood, he grabbed me by the arm and flipped me over. I scrambled to steady myself, forced to grip the back of the couch to keep from face-planting into it. He pushed my face into the cushions, muffling my gasp.
The position left me feeling vulnerable.
And it made me so fucking hard.
A sharp, tingling pain exploded at the base of my scalp when he pulled me by the hair and forced my back to bow, the couch groaning under all our movement.
Every inch of him blanketed my backside, and despite my head spinning with whiplash from being manhandled, I pushed even harder into him.
We couldn’t possibly get any closer unless he was inside me.
I wanted him inside me. I needed him to rip me open and see how ugly I was, and still be hungry for more.
“You’re still a shitty liar.” He reached around with his injured hand and grabbed me by the throat.
I struggled to suck in air as his grip tightened, the pressure squeezing a fresh wave of blood from his palm that trickled down to my collarbone. He held me like that, against his chest, white noise buzzing in my skull.
His hand relaxed, and he rubbed the column of my throat tenderly with his fingertips, smoothing the blood over more of my skin as he pressed his lips to my hair.
“Do you think about me when you touch yourself?” His hand moved up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing over my lip and pressing it down until my lips parted.