Aven #2
Ira takes his time, applying that same precision to my body.
He kisses his way down my throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over my pulse point, making me gasp.
His hands are everywhere, on my thighs, my chest, the small of my back, mapping me out with a focus that makes my skin feel like it’s humming.
When his hand finally closes around my cock, I nearly jump off the bed.
He’s firm but careful, his thumb circling the head with a rhythm that makes my vision go hazy at the edges.
“Ira,” I moan, my head tossing back against the pillow. “Please.”
“Shh,” he says, his voice a dark caress. He leans over me, his eyes locked on mine. “Look at me, Aven. Stay right here with me. No ghosts. Just this.”
He reaches for a small bottle on the nightstand, the scent of sandalwood filling the air as he slicks his fingers.
He’s patient, working me open with a slow, methodical care that leaves no room for anything else.
One finger first, sliding in deep while his other hand strokes my cock in steady pulls.
He coaxes, twisting his wrist, crooking his finger until he finds that spot inside me that makes my back arch off the bed.
“Good boy,” he whispers, voice low and rough with approval. “Just like that. Breathe for me. Let it go. You’re safe. I’ve got the door locked.”
The word safe shouldn’t be this erotic. It shouldn’t make my heart hammer against my ribs like a trapped bird.
But hearing it from him, while he’s opening me up in the dark, makes me feel like I’m finally allowed to exist. I’m not a vessel.
I’m not a conduit. I’m just a man on a bed, and someone is taking care of me.
He adds a second finger, then a third, stretching me with that same relentless patience.
The burn turns into a heavy, pulsing fullness that makes my thighs shake.
His thumb keeps working the head of my cock, smearing precome, keeping me right on the edge without letting me tip over.
I’m panting, fingers twisted in the sheets, the bond humming thick and steady between us like a wall I can lean my entire weight against.
When he finally pulls his fingers free and lines himself up, I’m already wrecked.
He’s bigger than the others and the first push inside me is a slow, thick slide that forces a broken sound out of my throat.
He fills me inch by inch, stretching me until I’m shaking, until there’s nothing left but the feeling of him and the solid weight of his body pinning me to the mattress.
He freezes when he’s buried to the hilt, forehead resting against mine, breath coming in ragged hitches.
“You okay?” he grunts, jaw tight with the effort of holding still. “Aven. Talk to me.”
“Don’t stop,” I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Don’t you dare stop. I need… I need you to fuck the noise out of my head, Ira. Please.”
He starts to move with slow, deep thrusts at first, then gaining that rhythmic, overwhelming power.
He isn’t rough. He’s thorough. Every time he slams into me, my world narrows until there is nothing left but the feeling of him filling me and the sound of our skin slapping together in the quiet room.
One of his hands clamps at the back of my neck, thumb resting firm against my jaw, holding me exactly where he wants me. Grounding me. Containing me.
“They don’t get you,” he says, the words rough against my skin, punctuated by a hard, deep thrust that hits that spot inside me dead-on. My back arches, a helpless moan tearing out of me. “The Church doesn’t. The dead don’t. Stay with me, Aven.”
I can’t remember anything else. My mind goes completely, blissfully blank.
The spirits, the journals, the burning cross until it all vanishes into the friction of his body against mine.
I’m drowning in him, and for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be saved.
I want to sink. I want to be buried under the weight of his protection until there’s nothing left of the boy who was afraid of his own shadow.
I come with a sharp, broken cry, my body clenching around him as wave after wave of heat crashes over me, my vision swimming, as Ira follows me over the edge.
He thrusts one last time, burying himself as deep as possible, his body tensing as he spills inside me with a low, guttural groan against my throat.
Ira stays there, his weight a heavy, comforting blanket, until our breathing slows and the sweat begins to cool on our skin. The silence in the room's absolute, just the hum of the amber lamp and the sound of Ira's heart against mine.
He pulls me against his side, his arm draped over my waist, and reaches for a damp cloth he must've prepared earlier. He cleans me up with a tenderness that feels like another kind of prayer, as I just lie there and let him do it, my body feeling heavy and boneless.
"Sleep," he says, pulling a thick duvet over both of us. He tucks it around my shoulders, his hand lingering on my cheek. "I'm right here. I'm not leaving the room."
I don't argue. I just let the silence take me.