Magnus’s hand trails up to my neck, squeezing lightly. “I wasn’t asking. Fucking bounce on me, Alaric.”
I whimper at his desperate tone, spreading my ass and letting him line up with my entrance.
“God, you’re so pretty.” He kisses my spine sloppily as I sink down onto him.
“It’s too deep,” I gasp.
“You’re almost there.” Magnus tries to keep his words steady. “You can take me.”
His hands yank my hips down, causing me to yell out.
“Shh, you’re doing great. Touch yourself, baby. Use me all you want.” His voice is silk against my skin.
My hand pumps against myself—once, twice. I’m full to the brim with him, and I can feel Magnus twitching with excitement.
His fingers pinch my nipples.
“Oh...” I start to move. Oh fuck, he’s at the perfect spot.
“Yes, Alaric. Use me.” His hands scrape against my thighs.
The hot water is making me burn up. His callused hands making pre cum leak from my hard cock. “Magnus, Magnus. Oh, fuck. Ah!”
“Come for me. Please Alaric. Fuck, you’re so tight. I’m not gonna last?—”
The small bathroom fills with vulgar squelching and rugged moans.
Magnus comes first, drenching my core with his DNA. He flips us, forcing me over the shower bench, using the cum as lube ashe pounds into me harder. My hands slip against the seat, my face pushing against the tile. Drool slips from my tongue as I try to breathe through it all. He ruins me. He puts me together just to tear me apart and make me feel like I’m seeing stars.
I come long and hard. My semen getting washed away in the shower’s stream.
We breathe hard before Magnus eases himself out of me, kissing my shoulder.
“Can we go again?” His voice is rough.
“Magnus,” I say in a warning tone. “I shouldn’t have let you do that the first time, idiot.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He smiles faintly, stepping back under the stream. The water runs over his face, down his neck. I hand him the soap and he starts scrubbing, movements mechanical, like he’s trying to wash something deeper than dirt away.
He rinses off, then shuts the water. The sudden silence feels heavier than before.
We towel off in awkward silence. I find one of his T-shirts—soft, worn, hanging off me like it’s three sizes too big—and he tosses me a pair of sweatpants. He pulls on boxers and a clean hoodie, hair sticking up in wet curls.
“Never thought I’d see you in my clothes,” he says with a crooked smile.
“Go to bed.”
He smirks. “You’re bossy when you’re worried.”
“Bed. Now.”
He obeys, surprisingly. The bedroom’s small, lit only by the orange glow of a streetlight bleeding through the blinds. The sheets are tangled. I sit on the edge of the bed while he crawls under the covers. He looks younger like this, stripped of all that bravado.
“You coming?” he asks sleepily.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
“Stay all night.”
