Page 27

He braces his hands on the wall, but when I lean in, my cock hard and slick against the crack of his ass, he pushes back. Daring me.

I spit into my hand, lube myself, and then press the head against his hole. He’s tight, but not closed; he’s been fucked before, but he acts like he’s never going to let anyone in again. The resistance is pure, perfect. I work myself inside, slow at first, then faster as his body yields.

He hisses, a sound equal parts agony and lust.

I drive into him, hands on his hips, slamming his pelvis to the wall with every thrust. The impact shakes the shelves, makes the bottles clatter. The light overhead flickers, throwing us in and out of shadow, and in every brief strobe I see his face, lips parted, eyes wide.

He takes it all. Every inch, every thrust. He meets me, slamming back, grunting with the force. At one point he tries to twist free, but I catch his wrists and pin them above his head, palms splayed on rough concrete. The position leaves him exposed, back arched, chest heaving.

I slam in, deeper than before, and he screams.

Not in pain. In need.

I fuck him harder, pistoning in and out, sweat pouring off me. My balls slap his thighs, and every time I bottom out, he jerks, the sound of our bodies echoing off the walls.

He turns his head, looks at me over his shoulder, eyes daring me to stop.

“Harder,” he spits, voice hoarse.

I oblige. I reach around, wrap my hand around his cock, jerking him in time with my thrusts. He’s so close, I can feel it in the way his whole-body shakes, in the desperate clench of his ass around my cock.

I jerk him faster, rougher. He comes with a shout, splattering the wall and the floor, body convulsing.

I follow, slamming in and emptying myself into him, the force of my orgasm tearing a raw groan from my throat.

We stay like that for a minute, both of us shaking, neither willing to break contact.

Finally, I pull out, cock dripping. He sags against the wall, arms trembling.

I turn him, push him to the floor, and kneel over him. Leaning down, I kiss him, softer this time. He lets me. He bites my lip, not enough to draw blood, but enough to remind me who he is.

I sit back on my heels, look at the mess we’ve made. Blood, cum, sweat. Bruises already rising on his hips and back.

He sits up, wipes his mouth, and grins.

“You done?” he says, voice ragged but proud.

“Never,” I say, and mean it.

I wipe my hand on the robe, then pull him up by the hair. His face is flushed, eyes glassy, lips bruised.

I kiss him, softer this time. His tongue darts out to taste me, biting at my bottom lip until I pulled away.

We stand there, catching our breath.

Finally, I let him go. He grabs the robe and pulls it around himself, glaring but not angry.

“Thought you were supposed to break me,” he says.

I shake my head. “Turns out you’re unbreakable.”

He laughs, and for a moment there’s no hate, just respect.

I dress, hands shaking.

The game just changed.

When I look up, he’s still watching me. Still waiting for the next move.