When he broke the kiss, his lips traveled to my throat. His teeth scraped against the skin where my pulse hammered, and I tilted my head back, offering access. The bite, when it came, sent electricity through my entire body.
"Yes," I breathed as he worried the spot with his teeth, darkening the mark. Another bite lower, at the junction of neck and shoulder. Then another. Each one was a brand, proof I belonged to him.
My pants and underwear joined the pile of discarded clothes. His hands mapped my newly exposed skin, reacquainting themselves with territory they'd only recently been permitted to explore. When his fingers brushed the base of my cock, I nearly came from that alone. Pathetic. I was fifty-four years old.
He tried to turn us, pressing me back toward the chair, but I resisted. My hands framed his face, thumbs tracing his cheekbones, the stubble shadowing his jaw.
"Not like that," I said. "I want to see you tonight."
He nodded once. I took his hand and led him from the living room, through the hallway, up the stairs to his bedroom. His bedroom. In his home, where he'd never brought me before tonight.
The bed dominated the space. The sheets were turned down, city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything silver and shadow. The room smelled like him—cologne and clean linen and something indefinable that meant safety.
I backed toward the bed, drawing him with me. When my legs hit the mattress, I paused. This was his bed. It was the first time he'd brought me here, to his most private space. I lay down and pulled him over me, arranging us face to face. His green eyes locked with mine as he settled his weight against me.
His cock pressed against my hip, hot and slick. Mine was trapped between our bodies, sensitized skin rubbing against the hair on his stomach with each breath. The friction was maddening.
He reached for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube.
He warmed it in his palms before reaching between us. One slick finger traced my entrance. My body was eager, but he took his time anyway. One finger, then two, stretching and preparing me with devastating thoroughness.
When he crooked his fingers and found my prostate, I arched off the bed, a cry strangled in my throat. White-hot pleasure raced through every nerve. My cock leaked against my stomach, desperate for touch, but his hands had other priorities.
"Al," I gasped when I couldn't bear it anymore. "Please. I need you."
He withdrew his fingers, leaving me empty, but not for long. The blunt head of his cock pressed against my entrance, slickwith oil. I forced myself to relax as he pushed inside, inch by inch, filling me completely.
The stretch was perfect, just shy of painful and exactly what I needed. He paused when he was buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to mine, giving me time to adjust. Our breath mingled.
Then he began to move with a slow withdrawal followed by a thrust that sent pleasure racing along my spine. The angle was perfect, each stroke hitting that spot that made my vision blur. My hands found his back, nails digging into muscle as he set an unhurried, devastating rhythm.
His lips found mine briefly before moving to my throat. I arched beneath him, offering myself. His teeth found the skin above my collarbone, pressing deep enough to leave a mark. I moaned, knowing that tomorrow I would wear his claim visibly.
His tongue soothed each bite before finding new territory. My shoulder. The curve where my neck met my chest. This wasn't just sex. This was him writing ownership across my skin.
Sweat beaded on his forehead, catching the city lights. I licked it away. My lips found the small scar on his collarbone, the one from Santiago he'd mentioned years ago. I pressed kisses there, then traced lower to another mark, this one from a knife fight in Marseille. Each scar was a story. A piece of the man I'd served for thirty-two years. I worshipped them all with lips and tongue.
He shuddered at my attention, hips stuttering before he regained control. His mouth returned to my throat, teeth finding the spot he'd marked earlier and biting down again, deeper. The pain-pleasure made me cry out, made my cock twitch between our bodies.
My cock rubbed against his stomach as he thrust. The friction was delicious but not quite enough. I was close. Had been balanced on the edge since I'd first knelt at his feet. But I didn't want to come yet. I wanted to hold this moment and preserve it against whatever Macau might bring.
My body disagreed. The steady pressure against my prostate, the weight of him above me, the emotion in his eyes… It was too much. Pleasure coiled tighter, threatening to overwhelm me.
"Don't leave me alone in the world, Al," I demanded. It was the only demand I'd ever made that wasn't about business.
He stilled above me, eyes widening. His hand found my face, palm warm against my cheek.
"Never," he whispered against my lips. "I swear to you, Maxime. I will never leave you alone. Never."
The promise shattered something inside me. Tears I hadn't known were building spilled down my temples, and he kissed them away with devastating gentleness.
Pathetic. Crying during sex like some heartbroken teenager. But I couldn't stop.
He began to move again, deeper now, more urgent. The steady rhythm became something wilder. His teeth found my shoulder, biting hard enough that I knew the mark would last for weeks. I welcomed it, arched into it, offered him more skin to claim.
His mouth moved to my chest, teeth scraping across my nipple before biting down. The sharp sensation shot straight to my cock. He marked my arms, my collarbone, anywhere his mouth could reach while he moved inside me.
His hand wrapped around my cock, slick with oil and pre-cum, stroking in time as his thrusts deepened. The dual sensation was devastating. Pleasure crashed over me in waves.
