“Fuuuck,” he whimpered. “Shit. That’s… Hank, what’re—” His stream of words was cut off, morphing into a string ofunrecognizable expletives and pathetic sounds as Hank sucked his hard length all the way to the back of his throat. Finn fumbled blindly for the shower wall to steady himself, his legs threatening to give way beneath him. Swallowing around his cockhead, Hank pushed a thick finger inside him roughly, the sting excruciatingly lovely, causing his thighs to shake.
“Hank, Hank, Hank,” he chanted, his right hand sliding on the wet tiles, their semi-coolness doing a piss-poor job at grounding him. His other hand grabbed desperately for Hank’s hair—perhaps a little too hard—but he no longer had any control over his body. It was no longer his. It belonged to Hank.
Adding another finger, Hank bobbed his head up and down, water cascading over his furry shoulders and further down his broad back. Muscles rippled beneath the skin, Hank’s entire body working at giving Finn pleasure. Pushing his ass back against Hank’s hand, Finn started riding his fingers in incoherent thrusts, his hole so hungry, so fucking hungry, for those fat fingers.
“I’m gonna come, Hank. I’m gonna come like this,” he babbled, thrusting harder, faster, against Hank’s fingers, angling his hips so the tips would hit that spot deep inside again and again just right. “Please… Please, Hank.” He needed to fucking come, but he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. Of course, he couldn’t. Giving him a long, lazy lick, Hank released his throbbing cock from his mouth. Looking up at Finn, who continued to hump his fingers, Hank swept the back of his other hand across his mouth. He, too, looked wrecked. More wrecked than Finn had seen him before. It was a good look on Hank. Especially because he, Finn, put it there. Burying his fingers even deeper inside Finn, Hank’s eyes darkened as he licked his bottom lip.
“Come,” he coaxed, ever so softly, his voice so calm, yet so demanding. How could Hank be so fucking calm when Finnwas a storm inside, threatening to blow the fucking roof right off the cabin? “Come for me, Finn.”Yes. Whatever you want, Hank. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t let me go.Finn’s entire body shook as his release washed over him, threatening to steal his feet away from under him. “I got you,” Hank promised, grabbing both of his thighs, not allowing him to fall. “I got you, sweetheart.”Sweetheart. Sweet. Heart.
“Hmmm.” The semi-annoyed lilt to Hank’s voice didn’t escape him. Even though his body had lost all pretense of being present, his mind the equivalent of mashed potatoes at this point, Finn’s hearing at least seemed to be functioning.
“What?”
“They’re fading,” Hank mumbled against his left inner thigh, and if Finn didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that Hank was pouting. But Hank didn’t pout. He would grump around when he couldn’t find his truck keys, and they were exactly where they always were. He would huff when Finn said somethingmillennial, and he would groan—fuck, could that man groan like a grizzly—when he was balls deep in Finn. But, no, he didn’t pout.
“What are you talking about?” he chuckled, Hank’s tongue and the tips of his fingers licking, trailing across the sensitive skin of his thighs, the tickling sensation close to painful if it hadn’t been so goddamn exquisite.
“The marks.Mymarks. They’re fadin’,” Hank hummed, and yes, there was definitely a pout to his voice.
“Oh, yeah?” He hadn’t noticed himself, but since Hank spent an obscene amount of time down there, he would have to take his word for it. “So? Can’t you just—” The rest of his question died in a loud, pitiful squeal as Hank’s teeth latched onto his skin, sucking it crudely, hungrily into his mouth like some famished beast. Fuck, that felt good. Finn had done drugs a couple of times in his life—nothing hard or anything—but this… this feeling of Hank marking him like that. It was the biggest high ever. Like hot lava coursing through his veins, igniting tiny sparks on its way, bringing every fiber of his body to a higher plane of being until finally bursting inside his heart and in his mind. Like fucking fireworks on steroids.
Hank’s heavy hand held him down as he moved to a new patch of skin and sucked it into his mouth, growling possessively around it. Squirming beneath him at first, the pain initially so all-consuming and intense, Finn eventually relaxed, giving into the sensation of being devoured. Of being owned.He owns you. He does not. He does too.With small sighs and cries of contentment, he melted into the mattress as Hank moved toward his other thigh, creating a pink, crimson, and purple colored canvas there, too.
“Look at you,” Hank mumbled against his overstimulated skin. “Such a beautiful, beautiful boy, aren’t you? My own little beast of burden.MyFinn.”Shit.This wasn’t just fucking anymore, was it? Things were changing between them. He felt it. Hank must feel it too, right? The last couple of times when they’d fucked, they’d both slipped in and out of this state moreoften, where they would confess things to each other that usually only lovers would. Where dangerous—potentially life-altering—words likemine, yours,andbeautifulwould escape their mouths. As much as it should’ve scared him, freaked him out, and made him run screaming and crying for the woods, there was another feeling that won out. A feeling that he recognized because it had been his invisible, needy twin all his life.
Need me,it whined.Want me,it pleaded.Love me,it cried.Please, please, please love me and never let me go.It had never been a romantic kind of urge, nor an egotistical one. It was a starving little animal that fumbled blindly for scraps. When everyone else had had their fill of love, warmth, and affection, it would scramble out from the darkest corners and suck up, lick up, and wrap itself in the sad leftovers. That hunger. He knew it so well. It was so bottomless, so insatiable. Although lately, with Hank, there were moments, fragments of moments, where he would feel almost sated and content. Where the hunger wouldn’t pull at his screaming intestines, and that nagging voice in his head would shut up for just a few blissful moments.
It won’t last. It never does,was replaced by abut what if it can?
Don’t get too happy. Don’t rest. Don’t relax,was starting to give way to abut what if I want to be happy? What if I, too, deserve it?
When they realize who you are,whatyou are, they won’t want you. You’ll be back out in the cold again. Don’t get too comfortable.The words still hurt. They did. But not as much as they used to, because another small voice grew in strength with every word, kiss, and caress from Hank.But what if hedoeswant me? What ifhewants me?Being with Hank was the closest he’d ever come to making those voices shut up. At least momentarily. Because, of course, it couldn’t last.
“C’mere.” Hank tugged at his hips, pulling him down towards him. “Need to kiss ya.” His voice sounded tired, sated; like he’d just had a feast. Well, he kind of had. Scooting down, Finn wiggled beneath Hank’s solid grip. Once they were aligned, lying on their sides facing each other, Hank leaned in, his lips bruised and bright red. A satisfied smile swept across his face seconds before he closed his lips around Finn’s. The kiss was chaste at first, just a few pecks to each corner of Finn’s mouth and to his Cupid’s bow. Carefully, he pressed his mouth against the small scattering of freckles above Finn’s upper lip. Once, twice, he lost count, succumbing to the feeling. Tenderly, Hank’s tongue teased Finn’s lips apart. Separating his lips, he let Hank in, sucking his tongue lazily into his mouth. Hank hummed inside him, his arms squeezing Finn closer—so close, but never close enough—against him, his heavy right thigh resting across Finn’s hip. There was nothing demanding about the kiss, no hidden agenda. It was just a kiss.
“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you Finn?” Hank spoke against his lips. Finn nodded; what else could he do? He wanted it so badly. To be good. Because if you were good, you could perhaps be forgiven too, right? “You’re my good boy, Finn,” Hank promised, causing Finn’s heart to do happy little somersaults. When Hank called him hisgood boy, it felt like having dessert and then, later, ice cream, just because. Like celebrating Christmas three days in a row. Like racing down an open road on your bike, arms reaching for the blue sky. Or like the first day the whales returned to the coast of Oregon, the moment the giant magnificent creatures would finally—fucking finally!—break through the still surface of the ocean.
Brushing at the skin beneath Finn’s eyes, Hank swallowed, his voice dipping to a low drone.
“Why are you crying, sweet boy?” he whispered, a worried frown between his bushy brows.
“No reason,” Finn gulped. He hadn’t realized he was crying. It was all just suddenly too much. Hank was everywhere, and he missed his family. His mom and his dad. Cara. God, he missed Cara.
“Don’t cry, Finn. Everything’s okay. Right now, everything’s okay.”
“I know. Thank you, Hank. Thank you.”Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“You’re good, kid. You’re good.” Hank pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, before pulling him flush against his broad chest, his chest hair offering up a cushion for Finn to rest his head on. His thighs were throbbing, Hank’s marks on his body reminding him that he was someone’s. However fleeting and temporary, at this moment, he belonged to someone like he’d once before, for twenty-five years, belonged somewhere else, too. Breathing in the familiar scent of Hank, he closed his eyes, a clipped sigh slipping from his lips. “You sleep now,” Hank soothed. “You sleep now.”
“Goodnight, Hank.”
“Goodnight, Finn.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hank
Now
