Page 41 of American Prince (New Camelot Trilogy 2)
Through the morphine and the pain came a slight moment of embarrassed panic—what was I doing? Of all the men I’d slept with, there’d never been a time when I’d been unceremoniously stripped and opened, treated like nothing more than a convenient hole to fuck…
But the thought of it, of being so dehumanized when normally my lovers adored and worshipped me, brought me dangerously close to pumping cum all over this rucksack.
Ash clamped a forearm across my lower back, pinning me in place as his other hand smeared Vaseline from the first aid kit where he needed it. “Is this what you want?” he asked, not a little coldly. A fingertip pressed against my entrance, sliding in to the knuckle, and I bucked backwards. It felt wrong, my body interpreting
the invasion as pain, but I’d done it enough times to rewrite the feeling as pleasure. After a few seconds, he added a second finger, deeper and wider, and something grazed against my prostrate.
“Answer me,” Ash demanded. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” I moaned.
“You’re going to let me use you, aren’t you? Fuck you any way I want?”
I moaned again as those clever fingers left me, unconsciously rocking my hips against the rucksack to get some friction against my cock.
“Yeah,” Ash muttered to himself. “Yeah, you are.”
I looked back, unprepared for the sight that met me: Ash without his jacket, his T-shirt clinging to the lean muscle of his shoulders and chest, the biceps in one arm tensing and relaxing as he fucked a fist full of Vaseline through the open fly of his pants. Everything about him conveyed his power over me, his right to take what he wanted—the fact that he was still fully clothed, the slide of that brutal cock in his fist, the forearm still cruelly pinning me in place.
Finally, he had his cock slicked and glistening, and he moved closer, still holding me in place while the wide, blunt crown of his dick began to press against me. It felt huge, unbearably big, a monster, and I squirmed and gasped, instinctively trying to move away from the violation.
“Oh no,” Ash breathed. “You’re not getting away that easily.” He moved his arm underneath me, against my lower abs and hips, to keep me from moving forward any more, and then he continued his intrusion, the thickly swollen head of him pressing past the first ring of muscle and then past the second.
It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. The roughness, the pain from my gunshot wounds, the morphine. The years of wanting and wishing and furtively jacking off to ideas just as fucked up as this. It hurt, it hurt so badly it stole my breath, and yet my own dick felt stretched tight like a drum, wet with precum and throbbing with a needy heat.
Fingernails raked fire down my back and I arched in response, causing Ash to give a cruel laugh behind me. He shoved in another inch, the new angle making it so his tip pressed against that firm, full gland at the front of my inner walls, and I dropped down in morphine-drunk ecstasy, my body completely draped over the rucksack now.
Ash followed me, bearing down until his full length was buried inside. “Fuck, it’s hot inside your ass,” he hissed, almost sounding angry about how good it made him feel. He ground his hips into me, pulling out a few inches and rocking back and forth to tease that spot inside me.
“Oh God,” I mumbled. My hips thrust against the bag—it was a reflex, I couldn’t stop it if I wanted, and there was more cruel laughter behind me.
“You gonna come like a teenager humping a pillow?” His hand slid under my throat, curving me back towards him so he could talk into my ear as he slowly pistoned his cock in and out of me. “Huh?”
I shivered violently, devilish heat scissoring through my groin. My balls were drawing up, my thighs so tense they almost hurt more than the gunshot wound in my calf, and the morphine put everything on the near edge of surreal. For a moment, the man behind me with his cold laugh and humiliating taunts really was a twisted storybook prince. For a moment, this really was what happened all those years ago on that day he’d stood over me with his boot on my wrist—after defeating me at the drill, he flipped me over to finish that defeat in the most complete and total way possible.
He kept his hand on my throat, but his head dropped as he gave himself over to the feeling of fucking me, his strokes going deep and mean, hard enough to jar my shoulder every single time, hard enough to loosen the dressing on my wound. “Fuck,” he said to himself. “This is what I needed. Goddammit, hold still—” my hips were thrusting against the bag again, my climax only the barest breath away “—hold the fuck still like I want you to.”
That’s all it took, that stark confirmation that he was indeed using me, that right now to him I was just a tight hole that couldn’t fight back, and I came, rubbing against the bag, a horny teenager just like he’d said, and not a man with multiple confirmed kills and a garage full of sports cars. It was Colchester inside me, Colchester gripping my throat, Colchester showing me the side of him filled with limitless cruelty and selfish, animal strength. Colchester, Ash, my captain, staking my body with his cock like a conqueror, like a king.
And my climax went on and on and on, thick lines of ejaculate spattering the bag, and Ash kept my body curved towards him so he could watch it all from over my shoulder, as if I was putting on a show for him. And once I’d emptied myself, he pressed me back over the bag and let loose, as if my orgasm both angered and aroused him beyond measure. Almost all his weight was draped over me, I could feel the muscles in his thighs and abdomen and chest all working in concert to drive those powerful hips into me, all working to bury that cock deep and hard and fast. It was all I could do to breathe, all I could do to keep ragged, guttural groans from spilling out of my throat; it was his massive frame folded over mine and also that massive cock, unrelenting and greedy and unsatisfied, determined to wring everything it wanted from me before it finished.
Ash seemed lost to himself too, his jabs and cutting remarks from earlier now gone, just irregular grunts and the inexorable invasion of his dick as he speared me over and over again.
And then, without warning, his teeth sank into my shoulder and he exploded in a flurry of sadistic thrusts that left me with tears searing my eyelids. I could feel the scorch of his semen as he pumped himself into me, the hot spurts of him, and I could also feel the fresh blood trickling warm down my chest from the gunshot, and through my tears, a strange giddiness arrived. Colchester—Ash—had just fucked me to within an inch of my life, just spilled himself inside me at the same moment blood spilled out of me, like he was a vampire or a fairy queen or a wolf. I’d waited four years for this, and it had been more deadly and brutal and beautiful than I ever could have hoped.
We laid there for a moment, Ash still draped over me, and then—impossibly—he began moving inside me again. Still fucking hard.
“I hope you didn’t think it was that easy,” he murmured in my ear. He shifted his weight and tilted my body up, and I could feel the thin smears of blood from my leaking wound across my stomach as he positioned my body. The blood didn’t bother me and it certainly didn’t seem to bother him, not with the way he held his fingers up to the moonlight to look at it.
More shifting and moving and then my rapidly swelling cock encountered a warm palm full of Vaseline. His fingers closed around me and my eyes fluttered closed of their own accord and he suspended me between two realities—the reality of his thick cock stroking me from the inside and the reality of his slick fist, tighter and meaner than I liked to handle myself, but somehow even more perfect for that exact reason.
“I’m going to—” I broke off, it already happening, Ash’s dark laugh echoing in my ears as he kept jerking me through my climax. A few minutes later, he came again with a low growl and pulled out after his contractions slowed. I thought that was the end, but when I saw—even more impossibly—that he was still hard, I knew it wasn’t. He rolled me onto my back and eagerly tugged off my boots and pants, and then entered me again.
“You like being fucked like this?” he asked, pressing our chests and stomachs together so that my cock was squeezed between the flat muscles of our bellies. Whenever he peeled himself away, there were smears of blood and precum across the ridges of his perfectly sculpted abdomen.
We both groaned at the sight of the blood. “Yes,” I managed.
Oh God, there was no way I could get it up again, no way I could come, but it was going to happen, I could already feel it. Ash bent his head down to nip at my jaw, and I turned my face to look at him with feverish eyes. He was only half-monster now, and there in his face I could see my Achilles again, the man who danced with me, and was it wrong of me that I craved both? The man who danced and the man who bruised me?
