Page 64 of Harvest of Sighs (Thornchapel 3)
“Say it back to me,” he begs. His voice has lost some of that coolness now, some of its indolence. He sounds a little breathless, a little rough. “Tell me what I want to hear.”
Still spoiled though. Rich boy.
“You already know what you want to hear,” I say, eyes still closed. “You already know how I feel.”
His hand finds my cock and he gives it quick, vicious strokes, pulling me up to my toes every time he squeezes his fist to the tip, and following my hips with his own every time I rise up so there’s no escaping his fuck.
“You’re not playing fair,” I complain in between grunts. My lower belly is poured full of heat and my erection is so swollen that I feel like I might split apart. Every single muscle is wire-tight and thrumming. “You’re resorting to tricks.”
“I never promised fair. I never promised that I wouldn’t use tricks.”
“You said there would be rules.”
“For you and my little bride,” he murmurs wickedly. His hand is too much. His thick cock wedged against my prostate is too much. “Not for me. I am the king and you are mine to keep and to fuck. I make the rules. And the rule right now is you have to tell me you love me.”
I should have known. I should have known he wouldn’t leave here without taking everything. I should have known he wouldn’t let me hide from this.
“Fine, I love you. Are you happy?”
He reaches for something else in his pocket, and once he has it, he kisses my neck again. “I’ll be happy when you’re in my house. In my bed. In my arms. I’ll be happy when I can fuck you whenever I need. I’ll be happy when I can feel that piercing against my cock whenever I want. I’ll be happy when you, Poe, and I are truly, actually together, the way we all know we’re supposed to be.”
“We’re not supposed to be anything, we’re—”
“I know what we are,” he interrupts. “It doesn’t change that you’re mine. It doesn’t change that you want to be mine.”
“And you?”
“Well, I’m yours, of course,” he says simply. “Yours to eat and ruin too.”
It’s too much. The hand, the fuck, his words. His thorny, cannibal heart.
I grunt as the pleasure finally takes me, as it snaps through me hard and cutting and keen, and as the first pulse surges up, Auden’s hand is replaced with a handkerchief. He catches my climax with the soft, expensive-feeling cotton, standing patiently as I spurt out every last drop.
The orgasm goes on a shamefully long time, pulse after pulse, so thick and forceful that he can see how much I loved this, how much my depraved body hungered to be used in just this way and only by him. It would knock my feet out from underneath me, it would bend me double, it would have me boneless and staggering to the floor, but he holds me up as he finishes tenderly milking my orgasm, he keeps me upright not only so I can empty into his handkerchief, but so he can stay inside me as I do. So he can feel every seize and shiver and clench of my groin as I release.
“Good boy,” he whispers, giving me an approving nip on the neck as I slowly stutter to a finish. “I didn’t want you to dirty your tux with what you let me do to you.”
The handkerchief disappears, and then his bare hand returns to pet me. Fondly. Appreciatively. “Now hold still, I need to come.”
His cock is wedged tightly inside of me, he’s jammed in so thick and so deep, and every rock of his hips has him shivering, murmuring to himself, squeezing my hips and cock and biceps at turns, as if to reassure himself that I’m really here, he’s really fucking me, he’s really using his stubborn boy the way he needs. And here I am doing the same thing—trying to memorize the feel of his lips on my neck, the fit of his erection inside me, the low rumble of his pleasure-words under his breath as he eases his needs with my body. I want to stuff myself so full of him that even when we’re apart, I can feel his hands and hear his voice. His possession most of all—that is what I must never forget. I must never forget how it feels to be whole.
He comes with a ragged sigh, one hand on my throat and the other wrapped tight around my waist. I feel him inside me, I feel each and every throb, and without a condom, I can feel the slick heat of his release too. His orgasm feels as good as mine, which sounds like it shouldn’t be true, and yet it is, it is. Feeling his satisfaction, his jerking, pulsing animal pleasure—it eases something inside me. It scratches some itch I can’t describe—service, submission, love, something—and it makes me feel like I’ve just swallowed the sun.
Plus it makes me hard all over again.
“One more,” he says gently. “I can’t send you out there like this.” I feel him reach for something else in his pocket, and after the tearing of a wrapper, I look down to see him rolling a condom on over my renewed erection. He’s like Mary Poppins with that inner tuxedo pocket.
“I’m afraid you’ve already defiled my handkerchief,” he explains as he rolls the latex all the way to my base. “And walking around with cum on your tux is rather infra dig.”
I think I laugh a little, a soft puff of air that has my body clenching around his erection, which hasn’t softened one bit since he came.
He takes in a sharp breath at the abrupt squeeze of my channel around him, and then he’s moving fast, hard, rough, his earlier release easing his way and making his fuck slick and wet. And he matches his own pleasure with mine; he fists my latex-covered cock and jerks me like I jerk myself at home. Brutally. Impatiently. With a ruthless pace and a cruel grip.
I don’t stand a chance.
The merciless ride against my prostate, the elegant, watch-wearing fist I’m fucking, the vulgar selfishness of the man behind me using me like this—there’s no way I ever stood a chance. My second orgasm rips through my guts and tears through my groin, and I fill the condom with long, heavy jolts; I empty all of myself into that primal, aching moment, my heart pushing up to the vaulted ceiling of barley and wheat and floating there as Auden finishes inside me. He chases every drop, every swell and pulse, he denies himself nothing.
He would deny me nothing too, I think. If I let him have me.
