Jericho carefully scooted closer, letting his lips graze one freckled shoulder as his fingers played over his entrance once more, testing his theory. Atticus made another appreciative noise, arching his back slightly.
Fuck. That was so hot.
Jericho’s cock throbbed. He rolled, grabbing the lube that still sat on the nightstand, coating his fingers. He let his mouth explore whatever skin he came in contact with as he reached down to massage his hole. When Atticus didn’t protest, Jericho pushed a finger inside, squeezing his eyes shut as his body accepted his finger in that tight heat, sucking him deeper without resistance.
He kissed his way along Atticus’s throat, his ear, his cheek, pumping his finger in and out. Atticus was totally at his mercy. Totally his. He slid free of his body before pushing in with two fingers, moaning when Atticus offered no resistance. He found his prostate, rubbing over it until Atticus made a helpless sound that went all the way to Jericho’s aching dick.
He couldn’t stop himself, didn’t want to. He pulled his fingers free, kneeling between Atticus’s splayed legs. Jericho lubed his cock, blanketing himself over Atticus to run the slick crown between his cheeks until it caught on his rim.
He didn’t push in, no matter how much he wanted to. Instead, he nuzzled behind Atticus’s ear. “You awake, Freckles?”
“I am now,” Atticus grumbled sleepily.
“Me too,” Jericho said, letting Atticus feel his length pressing against his hole. “Can I?”
“Yeah.”
Jericho slid inside in one smooth motion, biting down on Atticus’s shoulder to stifle a groan as the tight heat of his body enveloped him. He slid his arms beneath Atticus, holding him tight as he lazily fucked into him. He just wanted to feel Atticus beneath him, to be inside him, connected to him. He needed to feel something other than the panic he’d felt upon waking.
Atticus’s breaths increased as Jericho rolled his hips against him, pressed his lips against his ear to murmur. “You’re so fucking hot inside, so tight. I can feel you milking my cock.”
Atticus shivered, goosebumps erupting along his shoulders. Jericho’s lips followed in their wake.
“I’ve been thinking about this—about you—all day. Thinking about stripping you down, spreading you open, burying my tongue inside your tight fucking hole, watching you flush and stammer and grumble the whole time until you gave me what I wanted, until you were so desperate and needy you’d beg for my cock, beg for me to fuck you, use you, claim you…breed you.”
Atticus turned his head so that Jericho’s lips were pressed against his ear. It was so obvious that he loved Jericho’s praise, his approval, his words. That he needed to please him. It spurred him closer to orgasm. Still, he couldn’t stop talking, pressing the words into Atticus’s skin. “When you’re sleeping, you don’t hide how bad you want it. Your body knows you belong to me. When I slid my fingers inside you, you arched your back, moaning like a whore for me. I swear I almost came on the spot.”
Atticus shivered beneath him. Jericho released him to run his hands along his arms, tangling their fingers together as he picked up speed.
“You like being a whore for me, don’t you?” he rasped.
“Yes,” Atticus said, his voice a barely-there whisper.
Jericho couldn’t help the almost feral sound that fell from his lips. “Just for me. My perfect fucking whore.”
“Yes,” Atticus hissed.
“Say it. Say it’s just for me.”
Atticus’s skin grew hot. “It’s just for you. Just you.”
Warmth pooled in Jericho’s belly. He used his knees to force Atticus’s thighs farther apart, rising just enough to snap his hips into Atticus in long, sure strokes that made them both moan. Atticus’s fingers tightened around his, his back arching. Jericho picked up his pace, driving into him harder, chasing his pleasure. He couldn’t stop staring down between them where their bodies were joined.
Atticus had never let anybody else inside his body before, had never been vulnerable like this for anybody else. Just Jericho. Only he got to claim him. Only he got to breed him, mark him.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck…” His orgasm hit him hard, driving his brain offline for a full minute. He didn’t pull out right away, just laid there breathing heavily, mouthing at the spot beneath Atticus’s hairline, their fingers still entwined, his cock growing soft inside him. He needed to take care of Atticus, but his brain was mush.
“You good?” Atticus asked with enough concern to make Jericho’s chest tight.
Jericho dropped a kiss to the back of his head, finally managing to say, “Yeah, I’m great.”
“You’re lying,” Atticus countered.
Jericho sighed. “I just had a…bad dream.”
“About Mercy,” Atticus asked, hesitant.
“Yeah.”
