Chapter 17 #3
There was no love in this, only anger and passion.
Ecstasy climbed up Rowan’s spine like toxic rot, engulfing every sense as he fucked Yves’s beautifully cruel mouth, which had so recently commanded him, and spoken formally to him as if they had never known each other like this.
Yves’s nails dug into Rowan’s hips, little pinpricks of pain amidst the pleasure.
His tongue swirled around Rowan’s shaft, and with one last thrust, Rowan came—hot and intense—down Yves’s throat.
His vision whited out for a moment, body shuddering as Yves milked him dry.
Yves withdrew swiftly and stood. He caught Rowan in his arms, pinning him to the wall.
He leaned close, and Rowan thought he would finally kiss him.
But Yves spat a mouthful of cum into his own hand, and used it to slick up Rowan’s inner thighs.
Not bothering to wipe his hands, he released his hard cock from the front of his trousers and squeezed Rowan’s thighs back together.
Still without a word, Yves thrust between Rowan’s soft thighs.
Rowan couldn’t protest even if he wanted to, his mind still hazed with the aftershocks of orgasm, his body weak and pliable.
He would’ve let Yves do anything to him in that shadow-darkened hallway.
Would have let Yves fuck him raw with only his own cum as lube if he wanted.
Yves thrust between Rowan’s thighs again, quick and hard.
A small pearly bead of Rowan’s cum flecked his delectable lips.
So close. Rowan didn’t care anymore that they were fighting, though his anger still seethed among the afterglow.
He grabbed Yves’s bloodied shirtfront, ignoring how wrecked and desperate he looked in the broach’s reflection, and dragged him closer for a kiss.
But Yves snatched his wrist and slammed it against the wall.
Rowan gasped. His other hand clutched Yves’s shirt so tightly the bloodied collar ripped, revealing the edge of a silver chain around his neck.
Rowan could barely make it out in the shadows, smeared with Yves’s dark ruby blood.
Strange. Yves wore jewelry, but never like this, under his clothes where it couldn’t be seen.
Rowan reached for it, intending to draw it out into the dim light.
But the oppressiveness in the air sharpened, causing his fingers to flinch away.
Rowan’s gaze rose to meet Yves’s eyes, as black as the shadows around him. His cock throbbed between Rowan’s cum-slick thighs, pumping faster and faster. His fingernails dug into Rowan’s wrist, keeping him pinned as his breath grew harsh.
Yves growled, the first real sound since he’d ordered Rowan to silence.
The shadows seemed to coalesce and thicken around them.
Suffocating. But not a single one touched him.
Rowan whimpered, and hot liquid gushed between his thighs, splattering the wall behind him and squelching as Yves rode out his orgasm.
Finally, Yves’s body stilled. He gazed back at Rowan, still full of anger. Rowan wanted to kiss him, to know that he was loved despite it all. His breath caught in anticipation, sure that Yves would finally give him a taste. His eyelids fluttered, his lips parted. Ready.
Yves withdrew and released Rowan from his grip, leaving behind small crescent indents on Rowan’s skin.
He tucked his length back into his trousers, drew a lacy handkerchief from his sleeve, and dabbed the bead of cum from his lower lip.
Without a backward glance, he flipped the handkerchief in Rowan’s direction and left.
The shadows trailed behind him like a widow’s veil.
The handkerchief fluttered to the floor as the door slammed behind him.
It was as if all the air had been sucked from the room.
Silence even more deafening than when the shadows and anger had filled it.
Rowan’s legs finally gave out, and he sank to the floor.
He knew he should clean up. Knew that when Yves stormed across the deck with blood on his collar, Rowan’s crew would come looking for him.
And he couldn’t face them like this, pants halfway down his thighs, covered in two loads of cum and delirious out of his mind.
He regained his feet shakily, moving in a trance. He hiked up his pants, but his belt buckle was broken, wrenched apart by Yves’s impatient hands. The handkerchief lay in a heap on the floor, and Rowan snatched it up, cleaned the cum from the wall, and retreated to his quarters.
Fuck, what was wrong with him? Rowan fisted his fingers in his hair with no regard for cleanliness.
The anger had not lessened, but now it was laced with both confusion and shame.
He’d let Yves come in here and do whatever he wanted.
He’d wanted Yves to ruin him, hurt him, and use him.
Yet now that it was done, he did feel used.
Was Rowan not even worth a kiss? A word?
Yves had only come here to slake his thirst, nothing more.
Rowan fell back onto his bed, head spinning. He pressed a dry corner of Yves’s handkerchief to his nose and inhaled the scent of him. Sex and seawater and expensive cologne. Hating himself for falling so pathetically under Yves’s spell.