40. Lance
Lance
We don’t make it past the doorway with anything close to control.
George has me up off the ground the second we cross inside.
My legs lock around his hips on instinct, like my body had already decided before my brain caught up.
His hands are hard on me, fingers digging into wet denim like he’s anchoring me there, like letting go would mean something he doesn’t want to think about.
I hit the doorframe on the way in. Hard enough that it knocks the air straight out of my chest. The door swings wide, slams back against the wall, and echoes through the apartment like it’s announcing us.
He kicks it shut behind us without breaking the kiss. He doesn’t slow down or give either of us time to remember how to think.
My place is dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the curtains.
He takes a few fast steps into the living room and catches on something—one of the moving boxes by the couch.
His boot clips it and the whole movement jolts through him.
Through me. He doesn’t go down, just stops, breath coming hard like he had to physically pull us both back from the brink.
I pull back from his mouth just enough to see his face in the weak light.
The sight hits him like a physical thing. His jaw flexes, gaze sweeping over every packed corner, every piece of proof that I’m actually leaving. For one second, the desperate grip on my ass hurts a little, too tight that it’s closer to grief.
The boxes are everywhere. Tall stacks along the walls, smaller ones half-blocking the hallway. The kitchen counter is buried under cardboard marked BOOKS and KITCHEN SHIT in my handwriting. The lamp from my bedroom sits wrapped in an old sweatshirt.
He doesn’t say anything. He looks at it all for a second like nothing here is still up for discussion.
He starts moving again, carrying me down the hallway like the boxes aren’t even there, as if none of them matter right now anyway.
He drops me on the bed. Stands there for a beat. The streetlight cuts across the sharp line of his jaw and catches in the wet strands of his hair. He reaches back, yanks the soaked shirt over his head, and lets it fall with a heavy slap against the hardwood.
I sit up too fast and reach for him. He comes down on me like there’s no point in waiting anymore.
Whatever restraint we had left on the ridge is gone.
George’s hands are rough and impatient, but he doesn’t move yet.
He just looks at me. The scrubs are soaked through, clinging everywhere, and he drags his eyes down the length of me slowly, jaw tight, like he’s deciding where to start.
His hands come up and grip my waist through the wet fabric, thumbs pressing in hard.
Then he yanks the scrub top up and off me in one rough pull, shoves the pants and boxers down my thighs in the same move, and doesn’t stop after that.
I kick them away desperately while he strips himself just as fast—boots kicked off, belt ripped open, jeans and briefs shoved down and stepped out of.
Everything ends up in a soaked pile on the floor.
He snatches the lube from the drawer and comes back down like a storm. “Swear to god, I don’t have the patience tonight,” he growls. “I’ll try to get you ready, but fuck, Lance…”
I’m already groaning under the assault of his mouth—teeth scraping down my throat, sucking dark bruises across my chest, biting hard on my nipple until I arch off the bed. He flips me onto my stomach, works two thick fingers into me, then three when I demand more.
“George.”
He freezes, fingers still buried deep.
“I don’t need careful tonight.”
He just stares at me, his breaths turning uneven and impatient.
“I mean it.” I look back at him over my shoulder, eyes locked on him in the dim orange light. “Just fuck me with everything you’ve got. Raw.”
Something feral breaks loose in him.
“I’ve been tested, and I’m negative. Haven’t been with anyone else since Trevor’s wedding months ago. It’s only been you ever since.” I’ve never been surer of anything. “I want you bare. Fill me up.”
He studies me for one long second, then he adds more lube, curls those thick fingers deeper, and stops pretending he’s in control. I push back hard, greedy for it. He gives it without mercy, working me open like he owns every inch.
“Same for me. Tested negative, no one but you. Would very much want to fuck you bare, fill you so deep my cum leaks from your hole the whole damn night.”
He carries on prepping my ass, then spits on it for good measure.
He then lines his cock up behind me and pushes in. Even though I’ve had it many times by now, I still can’t get used to it. I hiss through clenched teeth, fists twisted in the bedding, body fighting the invasion even as I want it. He pauses halfway, breathing out hard, giving me a second.
I don’t want the second. I shove back hard, taking every brutal inch in one rough slide, and he bottoms out with a low, broken curse that vibrates down my spine.
We stay there, me on my elbows and knees, shaking. His hands brace on either side of my head. He starts to move.
It’s fast and deep, punishing from the first thrust. I’m loud immediately, loud groans and curses, his name torn out of me almost every time he slams home. The apartment is full of boxes and thin walls, and I don’t give a fuck who hears.
He fucks me like a man who knows this is the last time.
Hips snapping hard, cock dragging every ridge and vein against my walls until I’m split open and still begging for more.
My ass grips him tight, muscles fluttering helplessly around that thick base.
Every pull-out feels like he’s taking half of me with him before he drives back in.
He leans over me, chest to my back, bites down on the nape of my neck hard enough to mark. “Fuck, Lance,” he growls against my skin. “This tight ass takes my cock so goddamn deep. Open up for me. Let me take you the way you need.”
I’m memorizing everything—the heavy slam of his thighs against mine, the wet slap of skin, the smell of rain, sweat and raw George filling my lungs.
He suddenly pulls out and flips me onto my back in one smooth motion. Then he hooks his powerful arms under my thighs and stands, raising me completely off the bed. My legs lock tight around his waist on instinct.
There’s nothing holding me up except his strength.
There’s no floor or bed—nothing but him.
He fucks me for a long moment suspended in the air, hips snapping upward with raw power, driving his cock so deep.
My full weight forces me down onto his entire length with every thrust. The burn is merciless and perfect.
The angle is devastating. He carries me across the room like I weigh nothing, slams my back against the cool glass of the window. The rain-streaked pane is freezing against my shoulders while his body burns everywhere else. He fucks me there standing, face-to-face.
“Lance,” he breathes, “Gonna ruin this hole, you, tonight.”
I hold onto his shoulders and take every thrust and grind. My own cock is trapped between us, leaking steadily against his stomach. I rock against him, trying to match the punishing rhythm even though he’s doing all the work.
Still buried to the hilt, he lowers us into the old armchair in the corner.
I straddle him and ride him hard while his hands guide my hips in a bruising grip.
The chair creaks and groans under us like it might collapse.
I lean in, bite down on the thick muscle of his shoulder, marking him back the way he’s marked me everywhere.
He groans, tilting his head back against the chair, and thrusts up to meet me.
He carries me back to bed. After a few more punishing strokes on my cock, I come hard and loud, spilling over his fist while my ass locks down around him so tight he curses brokenly.
He follows seconds later, shuddering through it as I feel the hot pulse of his cum flooding deep inside me, his face pressed to my neck.
We collapse together, breathing like men pulled from the deep. He doesn’t move off me right away. He stays heavy on top of me, one hand flat over my ribs like he’s counting every heartbeat. I stare at the ceiling and force every thought out on purpose.
His cock is still half-hard inside me, still stretching me open. He lets out a low, broken sound against my neck.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re still so goddamn tight. Thought I’d destroyed you enough for one round.”
“You seriously think one round is enough tonight?”
He lifts his head and narrows his eyes on me, then drags his thumb across my bottom lip and presses it inside just enough to feel my tongue. His cock twitches hard inside me.
“No,” he says, the word coming out thick and hot. “Not even close.”
He pulls out slow. I feel his cum immediately start to leak from my hole. He watches it drip down my thigh, a low groan escaping him. He moves me onto my side, hooks one of my legs over his hip. He pushes back in with one forceful thrust.
The new angle hits deeper and different. I swear I feel him in places I didn’t know existed.
“I’m gonna make sure you feel me for days,” he grits out. “Every time you sit, every time you move, you’re gonna remember this cock splitting you open.”
From there, the night blurs—round after round, position after position.
We lose count. Each time we come down, George stays buried deep inside me a little longer, breathing warm against my neck, his hands slowly stroking down my spine.
And each time, it comes back faster and hungrier than before, because neither of us can stand the thought of this ending.
Tears come then, without warning or sound.
They’re not sobs, just silent tracks slipping down the sides of my face, warm against the cooling sweat. His rhythm falters, hips still buried deep, and he pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumbs brush the streaks away, so gently it fucking hurts.
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He already knows.
I shake my head, stubborn. “Don’t stop,” I whisper, breath hitching. “Don’t you fucking stop.”
His eyes flicker with grief, need, and the same raw thing clawing at my chest. He doesn’t speak. He just pulls me tighter, one big hand cupping the back of my head, and fucks me slower, deeper, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of me from the inside.
I silently cry through it all, tears mixing with sweat as I ride him hard, taking everything he gives me. If this is goodbye, I want every brutal second burned into my body.
When we finally break, my body is shaking so much my limbs flail about. His thrusts turning ragged, he collapses half on top of me. His hand finds mine. Our fingers lace tight.
He doesn’t say anything. We don’t have to.
I fall asleep like that—pinned under his weight, still full of him. The hollow ache behind my ribs never really leaves. It just gets drowned out for these last few hours by the heat of his body, the steady thump of his heart against my back, and the brutal knowledge that we’re not done yet.
Not until the sun forces us apart.
The bed is empty.
I wake to cold sheets. My hand slides across them out of habit and finds nothing. George is already long gone.
I lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, letting the truth sink in. I knew it was coming. Doesn’t make the empty space beside me hurt any fucking less.
Eventually, I drag myself out of bed and walk into the lounge, still naked. Every step hurts. My body is sore in all the places he took too hard, too deep last night. The marks he left throb under my skin like bruises I’m not ready to watch fade.
I welcome the pain. It’s the only part of him I get to keep.
In the kitchen, the cardboard box I packed for him days ago is gone. His toothbrush, spare razor, the shirts I washed and folded, even the worn work gloves he always left by my sink. All of it gone. In its place sits a single key.
My apartment key.
I close my eyes, standing frozen in the empty kitchen, and let the tears fall. The ache in my chest feels carved in bone now—brutal, permanent, and full of every stolen moment we pretended would never have to end.