Chapter 24 #4
He uses his hands on Indrie's hips to guide him.
Lift and lower, lift and lower, a rhythm that starts slow and deepens as Indrie's body adjusts.
The drag of his cock against Indrie's inner walls on each withdrawal is exquisite — the tight cling of muscle, the slick friction, the way Indrie's body tries to keep him inside with every pull back and then shudders open to take him again on each downstroke.
The pain in Indrie's expression gives way to something else entirely.
The younger man learns fast, faster than Eskil expects, his hips finding the rhythm on their own, and then he's moving, really moving, rising and falling in Eskil's lap with an instinct that is breathtaking, his palms braced on Eskil's chest, his head thrown back, his mouth open.
"That's it," Eskil groans, his hands tightening on Indrie's hips, feeling the roll of them, the sinuous motion of a body discovering what it can do and reveling in it.
"Just like that. Ride me just like that.
You feel so fucking good — your ass gripping my cock, taking every inch, squeezing me so tight — fuck, you were made to take my cock. "
Indrie whimpers, loud enough that if the cabin walls are thin, someone will hear, and his body rolls in Eskil's lap in a way that is pure, unthinking want.
"You’re so beautiful, Indrie," Eskil murmurs, and the softness in his own voice surprises him. "Stay with me, sweetheart. Right here. Just you and me."
Indrie's breath hitches. His hands, braced on Eskil's chest, slide forward to cup the sides of his neck, and the touch is so tender, so at odds with the urgency of their bodies, that something in Eskil's chest cracks.
He angles his hips. Shifts the trajectory.
Finds the spot he's looking for — he knows exactly where it is, mapped it with his fingers — and knows he's found it when Indrie's whole body jolts and a sound comes out of him that is not a gasp or a moan but something between a cry and a prayer, high and broken and so vulnerable it makes Eskil's chest crack wider.
He does it again. And again. And again, each thrust precise, targeted, designed to take this man apart from the inside, the fat head of his cock hammering that spot with a relentless accuracy that has Indrie keening.
Indrie is barely coherent now, the rhythm dissolved into something desperate and graceless and perfect, his body moving on pure instinct, chasing the pleasure Eskil keeps feeding him.
He's clenching around Eskil on every stroke, involuntary, his body trying to hold him inside, and the rhythmic squeeze of it is driving Eskil insane.
"You're close," Eskil tells him, because he can feel it, the tension coiling in Indrie's body, the trembling in his thighs, the way his breath has dissolved into broken fragments, the way his hole has started clenching in rapid, fluttering spasms that tell Eskil he's right on the edge.
"I can feel you, sweetheart. I can feel your body squeezing my cock, trying to milk me — you're right there.
Let go. Come on my cock. I want to feel you come while I'm inside you, want to feel that tight ass clench around me when you fall apart —"
Indrie's voice breaks on a sound that's almost a scream, his face flushed scarlet, tears beading at the corners of his eyes, and Eskil knows the words landed even if the meaning was only half-understood, because Indrie's body clenches around him so hard Eskil sees stars and his hips stutter and his mouth opens on a silent cry.
"That's it," Eskil breathes. "That's it, beautiful. Come for me. Let me feel it."
Indrie comes. On his cock, without a hand between them, just the angle and the fullness and the relentless pressure of Eskil's cock against that spot inside him and Eskil's voice in his ear, and the orgasm tears through him visibly, his back arching, his fingers digging into Eskil's neck, his whole body locking tight and shaking.
His cock jerks and pulses between them, untouched, painting Eskil's chest and stomach in hot, wet streaks, and the sound he makes is devastated — a broken, shaking cry that dissolves into sobs of overstimulation as his body contracts around Eskil's cock in waves, each spasm milking him, pulling him deeper.
The sight of him undone, lost, tear-streaked and shaking and more beautiful than anything Eskil has ever seen or will ever see is unlike anything he’s ever seen before.
But it’s the feel of him, the vise-tight clench of his orgasm rippling around Eskil's cock, the wet heat of him pulsing and squeezing, that drags Eskil over the edge with a force that leaves no room for resistance.
Eskil comes inside him and the world whites out.
He comes more than he's ever come in his life, pulse after pulse, endless, flooding Indrie with a heat that makes the younger man gasp and shudder and clench tighter, the pleasure so intense it borders on obliteration.
The act of filling Indrie makes him feel something primal, something binding, something he's never felt before.
The Cara fruit's compound recognizing its completion, maybe.
Or something older than the fruit. Something that belongs to Eskil alone.
He holds onto Indrie through it. Both arms locked around the smaller body, his face buried in dark hair, breathing him in while the aftershocks roll through them both.
Indrie clings to him, arms around Eskil's neck, face pressed into his shoulder, trembling with the intensity of what just passed through him, soft, broken sounds still falling from his lips and the feeling of being clung to, of being the thing someone holds when the world is too much, is more intimate than any act that preceded it.
The fever breaks.
Eskil feels it go. The heat that has been burning through him since the fruit took hold drains away, replaced by a bone-deep cool that is relief and exhaustion in equal measure.
His skin cools. His pulse slows. The maddening sensitivity recedes, and the room resolves around him with a clarity that has been absent for hours, the lamplight steady, the walls solid, the man in his arms real and warm and alive.
He wants to kiss him again. He wants to kiss him forever.
He wants to tilt that flushed, dazed face toward his and press his mouth to Indrie's and say things he doesn't have the right to say, not now, not after what just happened, not when Indrie did this to save his life and Eskil can't be certain that any of it was wanted.
He eases Indrie off of him. Carefully. Gently.
The separation draws a soft, pained sound from Indrie is something Eskil absorbs and holds and doesn't let show on his face.
Then the younger man is in his lap rather than on him, small and spent and still trembling, the evidence of what they've done cooling on both their skin.
Eskil wants to hold him. He wants to pull Indrie against his chest and wrap the blanket around them both and sleep with this man in his arms. He wants to press his lips to Indrie's hair and tell him he's beautiful and brave and worth more than every kingdom Eskil has ever conquered.
But the exhaustion is not optional. The fever's departure has taken the last of his strength with it, and his body is shutting down with the finality of a gate dropping.
His arms go heavy. His vision softens. He barely has the coordination to lay back against the pillows before consciousness abandons him entirely.
The last thing he registers is the feeling of a small, warm hand pressing against his chest, over his heart, and staying there.
Then nothing.