Marcus #2
He’s flushed from his neck to his thighs, his dirty blonde hair wild, and his face twisted in bliss as he rides me, the sunlight painting him gold. And it hits me that nothing has ever been this good. Nothing could ever be better than this. Than him.
“Goddamn, Alex,” I grunt, my orgasm approaching so much faster than I want it to. “I need to touch you. Let me fucking touch you, alpha.”
“No,” he says, eyes gleaming, leaning forward so he can run the flat of his palms over my ribs and roll my sensitive nipples between his finger and thumb until I’m whining like a dog. “Only if you beg for it.”
“You know I can’t,” I grit out.
“Then you’ll just have to watch.”
He takes his hands off of me and puts them on himself—stroking his beautiful cock with a firm twist of his hand, never breaking his rhythm as he bounces in my lap. His mouth drops open a fraction, his pink lips pursed as he pursues his own pleasure.
“So fucking good,” he murmurs, his eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at me, his scent deepening even further as he gets closer to the edge. “Letting me use you like this. Like a good toy.”
This time, when my hips buck up to meet his downward strokes, he lets me, each hard thrust drawing a ragged cry out of him.
One hand grips my shoulder as the other continues to work his cock, smearing himself with his own precome, and god, I want to taste him.
I want to coat my fingers with his release and lick it off, I want to bury my nose in the crook of his neck and breathe him in until I’m a growling, sweating, horny mess, until there’s no distinction left between my alpha and his, until—
“Fuck, Alex, I’m close—” I rasp.
“Me too,” he says, his breath hitching as he grinds down against me feverishly, taking exactly what he wants from me.
The air is thick with our combined scents, cedar and mint and tobacco and amber, melding until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, and I fucking love it. “Come for me, alpha.”
Alex drives himself down onto me one last time, his hole clamping around my throbbing shaft.
And even though the pressure and the heat are overwhelming, that’s not what pushes me over the edge: the sight of him coming undone is what does it.
His head is thrown back in ecstasy, chest glistening with exertion, cock spilling over my stomach in hot, thick ropes that paint me in white stripes up to my neck.
I come with a stuttered groan, my orgasm ripping through me in a violent, pulsing rush as I fill him. My vision darkens at the edges as we ride it out together, squeezing every last drop of pleasure out of one another until our chests are heaving, completely spent.
When Alex finally slides the restraints off my wrists, my alpha is quiet enough that I don’t pin him down or wrestle him into the mattress; I just reach for him and tangle my fingers in the soft strands of his hair, pulling our bodies flush and burying my nose against his shoulder until our breathing returns to something resembling normal.
Alex does eventually get around to giving me the tour.
His apartment is small but beautiful, filled with natural light and the kind of classy, timeless furniture that I want but don’t know where to find.
There’s a pile of dance shoes in one corner, and a massage ball and foam roller on the coffee table.
Alex shows me around in typical Alex style, revealing the contents of his fridge like he’s on an episode of Cribs, and posing in various positions around his cramped bathroom while I lean against the doorframe and watch him with a pathetic smile on my face.
As we walk back to the bedroom, I notice Alex is favoring his right side, like he’s avoiding putting too much weight on his left foot.
It’s subtle—probably not noticeable to the average person—but I’ve spent enough time studying his form and the precise mechanics of his body that it’s glaringly obvious to me.
I remember the old Achilles injury he mentioned during our first meeting.
“Is your Achilles giving you trouble?” I ask.
He glances down at his ankle with a wince. “A little. Between rehearsals and training with you, it’s been a heavy load recently. It plays up from time to time, but I can usually power through.”
“Sit down.” I pull him down onto the bed, gesturing for him to scoot back so I can lift his foot into my lap. I feel his eyes on my profile, unusually cautious as I cradle his foot in both hands and roll his ankle experimentally.
“Does this feel okay?” I ask softly, running my thumbs over the bony protrusion of his ankle and the ridge of his Achilles.
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes fluttering closed. “No pain.”
I take the opportunity to stare at him as I test his ankle’s range of motion, taking in the sculptural lines of his face and the dark splay of his lashes. He’s usually clean-shaven, but I can see a hint of light stubble dusting his cheeks and chin, and around the soft, pink curve of his lips.
“I trained as a physiotherapist, you know,” I say, trailing my fingers over the strong arches of his feet. “Worked in professional practice for a few years before Max and I opened the gym. It’s where we met, actually.”
He hums, cracking open one piercing blue eye and smiling at me softly. “I didn’t know that. I like hearing about your life. You sure you didn’t train as a masseuse, too? This feels way too good.”
Satisfied that there’s nothing horribly wrong with his Achilles and suddenly feeling warm all over, I press my thumbs into the meat of his foot, concentrating on the pressure points that draw a low hum from him.
I slide my hand up to his toned calf, smoothing my hands over the muscle and massaging it gently.
I shift my position so that I can access more of him, my hands travelling up over his knees and thighs, until I’m crawling up his body and hovering over him, his legs widening around me so I can slot between them.
“So what’s the prognosis, doctor?” he sighs, relaxed and pliant beneath me, the rabid alpha posturing from earlier nowhere to be found, thoroughly fucked out of the both of us.
“Well,” I say, one hand glancing down his side and pulling him down by his ass, so his head meets the pillow. His smile is easy and familiar. “The bad news is, you’ll never dance again.”
He gasps. “Say it isn’t so! Is there nothing we can do?”
“I’m afraid not,” I say gravely. “There’s no choice but for you to stay here, with me, indefinitely.”
And then I kiss him until he’s nearly late for rehearsal, and my scent is so tangled in his sheets that he’ll still be able to feel my presence when he falls into bed tonight.