Chapter 23
Aaron
He pushes forward.
The first inch steals my breath. It’s not pain — not exactly — it’s pressure, fullness, this stretching burning sensation that’s completely different from his fingers. Bigger. So much bigger. My hands fly to his arms and grip hard enough to leave marks.
“Breathe,” Sasha murmurs. His forehead is still pressed against mine. His voice is steady but I can feel the strain in his arms, the way his whole body is rigid with the effort of holding still. “Just breathe, Aaron. Let your body adjust.”
I breathe. I force my lungs to work, force my muscles to unclench. The burn is fading into something else — something heavy and full and overwhelming. I can feel every inch of him. Every single inch. And that’s not even half.
“Talk to me,” he says. “How does it feel?”
“Big.” I choke out a laugh. “You feel really big.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” But his voice is strained. His arms are shaking.
“More,” I whisper.
He pushes deeper and my head drops back against the pillow. A sound comes out of me — low, rough, nothing I’ve ever heard from my own mouth before. His cock slides into me slow and I feel my body resist and then give way, over and over, my body opening for him in stages I didn’t know I had.
“That’s it.” His lips brush my jaw. “You’re taking me so well. Just a little more.”
Another inch. I dig my nails into his biceps. The fullness is so much — not bad, just so much. More than his fingers. More than I imagined when I was lying in my dorm room in the dark thinking about this, about him, about what it would feel like.
It feels like everything.
“Almost there,” he says, and his voice is deep and intense with want. The accent is thick and I can hear what this is costing him — holding back, going slow, when every muscle in his body wants to push all the way in.
“I can take it.” I tighten my legs around his waist. Pull him closer. “Give me all of it.”
He pushes the last inch home and we both groan. He’s buried all the way inside me, his hips flush against my ass, and I’ve never felt so full in my life. It’s overwhelming. It’s too much. It’s exactly what I asked for.
He holds still. His arms are trembling. His blue eyes are locked on mine and I can see the effort — jaw clenched, chest heaving, every line of his body fighting the urge to move.
I need a second. My body is pulsing around him, clenching in these involuntary waves, trying to figure out what to do with this much. The burn has mellowed into a deep, heavy ache that isn’t pain anymore. It’s just — a lot. Him. Inside me. As close as two people can physically be.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m —” I shift my hips experimentally and we both groan. The movement drags his cock against my inner walls and something sparks at the base of my spine. “Oh. Oh, that’s —”
“Yeah?” He pulls back a fraction of an inch and pushes in again. Slow. Testing. His eyes searching my face for any sign to stop.
My back arches. “Do that again.”
He does. A slow withdrawal and a deeper push, and the drag of him inside me is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. My body is learning the rhythm of it — clench, release, the burn becoming heat becoming pleasure. His cock hitting places his fingers only hinted at.
“More,” I say. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “I need more.”
“Tell me.” His hips pull back, push in. Still agonizingly slow. “Tell me what you need, Aaron.”
He’s making me say it. He’s always making me say it.
“Faster,” I breathe. “I need you to go faster.”
“Not yet.” He grins down at me, and even now — even buried inside me with sweat on his temples and his arms shaking — his arrogance shows up. “I’m enjoying you too much.”
“I swear to god, Sasha —”
“So demanding.” He rolls his hips and something lights up inside me. Some spot, some angle that his fingers found earlier but his cock reaches differently — fuller, harder, more. My whole body jolts hard enough that his grin turns sharp. “There?”
“Yes — right there — please, fuck —”
“Found it.” He sounds so smug. I’d kill him if I could think straight. “Remember this. This is what happens when you’re polite.”
He does it again. Rolls his hips at that exact angle and pleasure tears up my spine and my nails dig into his shoulders. I can feel the marks I’m leaving. I don’t care.
“More — please — don’t you dare stop that —”
“So many manners tonight.” He drops his mouth to my neck. Bites down gently where my pulse is racing. “I’m very impressed.”
He rolls his hips again, same angle, and the pleasure hits so hard I can’t see straight. My hand flies from his arm to the back of his neck, pulling him down, and I kiss him because if I don’t put my mouth on something I’m going to scream.
He starts to move in earnest now. Slow deep strokes that hit that spot on every pass, each one drawing a sound out of me that gets louder and less controlled.
I’m gripping the back of his neck, my other hand clutching the sheet, my thighs tight around his waist. The bed is creaking under us — this stupidly expensive California king in this stupidly expensive penthouse, and we’re wrecking it.
I catch our reflection in the dark window. Him over me. Us, moving together.
“Harder,” I tell him. “Please.”
He gives me harder. His hips snap forward with more force and I gasp at the change — deeper, more intense, the fullness becoming a rhythm I’m meeting with my own body.
My hips lift to take him on every thrust. Somewhere in the last sixty seconds I figured out how to do this — how to move, how to angle, how to take him the way my body is screaming for.
The wet sound of our bodies meeting fills the room. I should be embarrassed. I’m not. There’s just this — his cock driving into me, my body rising to meet him, the sounds I’m making that I couldn’t stop if I tried.
“God — Aaron —” His composure is cracking. The careful, controlled Sasha who was checking in and going slow — gone. His eyes are glazed, his jaw is tight, and the sounds he’s making are as raw as mine. “You feel incredible. You have no idea — so tight — so hot —”
“I can feel you.” My voice breaks on it. “I can feel everything.”
I pull him closer. I want his weight on me. I want to feel his chest against mine, his heart hammering where it meets my ribs, the sweat between us making our bodies slide together. He drops onto his forearms and the angle changes and his cock drives into me deeper and I cry out.
“Right there — Sasha, right there, don’t stop —”
He doesn’t stop. He fucks me harder, his hips finding a rhythm that’s making me lose my mind, and I’m not quiet about it. Every thrust punches a sound out of me — gasps, moans, his name in fragments. I can hear myself and I don’t care.
My dick is trapped between our stomachs, hard and aching, getting friction with every movement. Precum is smearing between us, warm and slick, and the sensation of his abs against the head of my cock while he’s thrusting inside me is pushing me toward the edge faster than I want to go.
“Slow down,” I gasp. “I’m too close — I don’t want it to end —”
“We have all night.” He slows. Barely. Deep grinding strokes instead of sharp thrusts, his hips rotating in a way that’s somehow worse — every slow grind hitting that spot deep inside me, over and over, this relentless wave of sensation that makes my toes curl and my abs clench.
“We have all week if you want. I’ll fuck you every night in this bed. ”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And in the shower. And in the hot tub. And against those windows where I first kissed you.”
“You’re going to make me come just from talking.”
“Good.” He thrusts deep. Holds there. I feel him throb inside me and my whole body clenches. “Touch yourself,” he says against my ear. His accent is thick, the English slipping. “I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.”
I reach between us. Wrap my hand around my cock and the relief is instant — I’m so hard, so swollen, so close already.
I stroke myself in time with his thrusts and the dual sensation makes my eyes roll back.
His cock filling me, my hand working myself, his body moving against mine.
It’s too much. It’s everything at once. I don’t want it to stop.
“You’re close,” he says. Not a question. He can feel it — my body clenching around him, my rhythm getting desperate, my thighs shaking against his hips.
“Yeah.” My voice is wrecked. “Yeah, I’m — Sasha, I’m gonna —”
“Look at me.”
I open my eyes. He’s right there. Blue eyes so close I can see the ring of darker blue at the edges.
His lips are parted. His hair is damp against his temples.
He’s as close as I am — I can feel it — his cock throbbing inside me, his thrusts ragged and uneven, his breath coming in short punches against my mouth.
“I want to watch,” he says. “I want to see your face when you come for me.”
For me. My throat closes up.
He thrusts deep. Hits the spot. I stroke hard.
Everything detonates.
My orgasm rips through me so hard my back bows off the mattress.
I come in hot streaks across my stomach, my chest, one spurt hitting my collarbone, and my whole body clamps down around him — pulsing, clenching, riding it out in waves that make my thighs shake and my voice crack on something that might be his name.
Sasha watches all of it. Blue eyes wide. Mouth open. And then the tight squeeze of my body around his cock tips him over and he buries himself deep with a groan that comes from somewhere in his chest.
“Aaron —”
Just Aaron. Not Aaron Kelly. The mask off. The composure gone. Just my name, raw and wrecked, and I feel him pulse inside me — his cock jerking, his hips stuttering, his whole body shuddering through it with his forehead pressed against my shoulder.
We stay like that. Breathing. His weight on top of me, his cock still inside me, both of us shaking. My hand is still loosely wrapped around my softening dick and his face is buried in my neck and I can feel his lashes against my skin and neither of us moves.
The snow taps against the windows. Somewhere in the other room, the fire is still going and the Christmas tree lights are still blinking.
“Holy shit,” I say.
Sasha laughs. Breathless. Muffled against my neck. “Good?”
“I think you broke me.”
“I was gentle.”
“You were not gentle at the end.”
“You told me harder. Multiple times. With a please.” He lifts his head. His smile is lazy and satisfied and I can’t look at it too long or I’ll say something stupid. “I take direction well.”
I laugh. It comes out shaky and gasping and I don’t care. I press my hand against my eyes because my chest is doing something huge and unmanageable and I don’t have words for it.
He pulls out slowly, carefully, and I wince at the loss — sore and empty and still throbbing with aftershocks.
He deals with the condom, drops it in the wastebasket, and then he’s back.
Before I can move, before I can even think about cleaning up, he’s pulling me against him.
My back to his chest, his arm heavy around my waist, his chin hooked over my shoulder.
His hand comes up. Finds my jaw. Tilts my face toward his and kisses me — slow, deep, thorough. I taste myself on his tongue and I taste him and none of it should work together but it does.
“Stay,” he says against my lips. Like I might leave. Like there’s anywhere else I could possibly want to be.
“I’m not going anywhere.” I press back against him. His body is warm and solid behind me. “Storm, remember? I’m stuck with you.”
“Stuck with me.” His mouth finds the back of my neck. A kiss, then another, lazy and warm. “What a terrible fate.”
“The worst.”
We lie there. His hand spreads flat on my stomach and my muscles twitch under his palm. The room smells like sex and pine from the Christmas tree in the other room. Through the windows the snow is still falling, thick and steady, and the skyline is blurred and soft behind it.
“Are you sore?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I shift my hips and feel the ache. Deep, dull, radiating. “I’m going to feel that tomorrow.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“It’s really not.”
His laugh is a warm huff against my shoulder. I cover his hand with mine and lace my fingers through his and we lie there, tangled together, the city glowing beyond the windows and the snow coming down and no alarm set and nobody expecting me anywhere.
After a while he gets up. Comes back with a warm washcloth from the bathroom — the heated marble floors, I can hear his bare feet on them — and cleans me up.
Gentle. Careful. His hand steady where I’m tender and sore.
I let him because I can barely move and because the tenderness of it is making my throat tight again.
He tosses the washcloth toward the bathroom and climbs back in. Pulls the covers over us. Pulls me back against his chest.
This is what I didn’t know I wanted.
Not just the sex — though the sex was — yeah. But this. Afterward. His body behind mine, his breath slowing against my shoulder, his fingers threaded through mine. Quiet. Safe.
“Sasha?”
“Hmm.” His voice is thick with sleep. His arm is heavy.
“Thank you for the Christmas tree.”
He’s quiet for a moment. His thumb strokes across my knuckles. Back and forth. Slow.
“You know what my favorite thing about tonight is?” he says.
“Don’t say my ass.”
He laughs. Really laughs — the kind that shakes his whole body behind me. “It’s not your ass. Although your ass is —”
“Sasha.”
“My favorite thing is that you asked.” His voice goes quieter. “You told me what you wanted. You never do that.”
My chest aches. He’s right. I never do that. I never have. Not with anyone. Not for anything.
Until tonight.
His lips press against the curve of my ear, and I feel his smile.
“Merry Christmas, Aaron Kelly.”
I close my eyes. The snow is still falling. His heartbeat is steady against my back. I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Not one single place.