Chapter 5 #2
He brought his other hand up, slicking two fingers with the spit and precum still shining on his own cock.
Without further warning, he pushed one finger inside Aiden, a slow, relentless intrusion that breached the tight ring of muscle.
Aiden's breath hitched, a harsh, guttural sound.
His knuckles on the balcony railing were white, the only sign of the strain.
“Fuck, Zack,” Aiden bit out, the words strained.
“Quiet,” Zack commanded, working his finger deeper, scissoring it, stretching the tight passage. “You wanted this. You wanted to taste her on me. Now you’re going to feel what I feel when I’m inside her.”
He added a second finger, the burn a sharp, exquisite ache that made Aiden’s vision swim.
The city below became a blur of abstract shapes and colors, the sounds of traffic a distant hum.
All he could focus on was the relentless pressure inside him, the possession in Zack’s voice, the heady mix of pleasure and pain that was short-circuiting his brain.
This wasn’t the gentle exploring touch he offered Sophie.
This was a claim. A brutal, undeniable mark of ownership.
Zack found that spot, the bundle of nerves that sent electric shocks ricocheting up Aiden’s spine. Aiden choked back a cry, his hips bucking back involuntarily, seeking more.
“That’s it,” Zack growled. “Take it. Take what I give you.” He curled his fingers, rubbing relentlessly against that sensitive place, reducing Aiden to a trembling, helpless mess.
His body was no longer his own; it was an instrument, and Zack was the master musician, playing him with expert, merciless precision.
Zack watched his fingers disappear into him, again and again, the sight a visceral confirmation of his control.
His body fought it, a tight, hot clench around his invasion, but it was a losing battle.
Zack could feel the precise moment Aiden surrendered, the subtle give of muscle, the deep shudder that ran through his entire frame.
That surrender was the drug he craved. From Sophie, it was a beautiful, blooming flower.
From Aiden, it was a goddamn earthquake.
The shattering of something ancient and unbreakable, leaving only the truth of what he was: his.
Zack's cock was a heavy, aching presence, demanding its turn. But he held back, drawing out the anticipation. Zack wanted him to feel the loss as he slowly withdrew his fingers, leaving him empty and wanting.
“You want more?” Zack murmured, his voice a low taunt. He slicked himself with a mix of spit and precum, his grip tight. The head of his cock, dark and engorged, nudged against Aiden’s loosened entrance. “Tell me how much you want it.”
Aiden’s reply was a ragged exhale. He didn’t have the words. He didn’t need them. His body was speaking for him; the slight backward tilt of his hips was an invitation that was both desperate and defiant.
“Good,” Zack breathed, and pressed inside.
The breach was a slow, exquisite torture.
The tight, searing heat of him was a stark, violent pleasure that made Zacks's own vision go white for a second.
He watched, transfixed, as his cock sank into him, inch by inexorable inch, claiming the space he had just made. There was nothing gentle about this.
Aiden’s back arched, a beautiful, pained curve, as Zack bottomed out, his hips flush against his ass. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting Aiden adjust to the intrusion, to the sheer, overwhelming reality of it.
“Fuck,” Zack ground out, the word a guttural rumble from deep in his chest. “Look at you. Fucking split open on my cock.”
Zack set a punishing rhythm. Hard, deep strokes that pushed him forward against the glass, the force of my movements making the metal creak in protest. Each thrust was a punctuation mark in the unspoken sentence Zack was writing on Aiden’s body. Mine. Mine. Mine.
“Tell me,” Zack commanded, his voice rough with exertion. His fingers dug into the flesh of Aiden’s hips, holding him in place, using him for his own pleasure. “Tell me what you're thinking about.”
His head lolled to the side, his cheek pressed against the cool glass. “Sophie,” he gasped, the name a broken whisper. “Her… her face when she came.”
A white-hot surge of possessiveness shot through Zack. That was his work. His design. And yet, here he was, finding his pleasure in her pleasure, weaving a connection Zack couldn't control.
“Think about this, too,” he snarled, angling his hips and driving into Aiden harder, deeper. Zack's name was torn from his lips. “Think about me when you're with her. Think about me owning this ass while you're playing Daddy.”
“Zack…” It was a prayer and a curse.
“Touch yourself,” Zack ordered, his pace never faltering. “I want you to come. Right here. Right now.”
One of Aiden’s hands left the railing, moving shakily to his own cock. He was hard, weeping precum, the head flushed a dark, angry purple. He wrapped his fist around himself, stroking in time with the brutal thrusts.
His whole body went rigid. His back arched, a bowstring pulled taut, and with a hoarse, shattered cry, he came.
Thick, white ropes of it striped the glass on the balcony, pulsing from him in violent, powerful bursts.
His release was a beautiful, messy thing, a painting of his surrender against a backdrop of the city.
The sight of it, of Aiden's pleasure so starkly displayed, so completely given over to Zack, was his undoing. The last frayed threads of his control snapped. Zack drove into him one last, brutal time, burying himself to the hilt as his own orgasm tore through him.
He turned to face him, and the sight of him almost made Zack take a step back.
His eyes were dark, dazed, the confident mask completely gone.
There was a vulnerability there that was so raw, so pure, it was like looking directly into the sun.
His lips were swollen from their kiss, and a faint, purpling mark was already blooming on his jaw where he'd gripped him.
He looked… wrecked. And he looked magnificent.