When I took him in hand, he nearly bucked right off the bed. “Easy,” I warned, stroking slow. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Don’t want to,” he whispered. His eyes were wet and desperate, and I wanted to see more of that. All of it. Everything he tried to hide.
He was trembling under me, and not just from the cold. There was tension in the way he held himself, as if I could break him with two fingers, but nothing about Phoenix had ever been easy to break. I knew that. I worked my thumb into the hollow at the base of his throat and felt his pulse stutter.
“You want me to stop?” I pressed, just to be sure.
He shook his head, frantic. “Please,” he managed. If he was lying, he was a better actor than I knew.
I rewarded him with a kiss that was more bite than anything, right over last night’s bruise. He gasped, but he didn’t pull away. God, I loved that. I loved thathe’d let himself be opened up and still hand over everything, even when it cost him.
I took my time with him. He was so thin it made something tight in my chest every time I ran my hand down his side. This wasn’t just about sex. It never was. I wanted to replace every awful memory with something that belonged only to us.
“Hands,” I reminded him, and he tensed them so hard against the headboard I thought he might rip the sheets. His cock was leaking already, desperate, so sensitive he nearly sobbed when I touched him.
“All right?” I murmured, nose in his hair.
He whimpered. “Yeah. Yeah, good. Please don’t stop.”
I stroked him, slow and mean, just enough to remind him he wasn’t going anywhere until I let him. His thighs trembled, but he didn’t try to close them. He wanted me to see. He wanted me to take.
He tried to arch, but I pressed my forearm across his chest, pinning him. “Patience,” I told him. He blinked up at me, brown eyes glassy, and for a second, I thought he might cry.
I didn’t want that. Or maybe I did. I wanted to be trusted with all of it—not just the good moments, but the ugly ones too.
“Do you know how beautiful you are?” I asked him, my voice nothing like it was in interviews. “Do you know what it does to me, seeing you like this?”
He shook his head and tried to laugh, but it caught. “You’re insane.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I leaned down and bit his collarbone, just hard enough he’d feel it the next day. He gasped and shuddered. The line between pleasure and pain was so thin on Phoenix I wanted to dance across it forever.
I edged two fingers down, circled the rim of his hole with lube, worked him open while I stroked his cock slow and relentless. “You like being touched here, don’t you?”
He moaned, long and low. “Fuck, yes.”
“How much?”
His breath quickened. “More than anything.”
“Good answer,” I whispered. “Hold still.” I slid my fingers in, slow but steady. He was tight, but there was no resistance once I got the angle right. He wanted it, even when he braced and shuddered; he wanted every bit of it, and maybe he needed it as much as I did. I worked my fingers slowly, deeper, rubbing careful circles until his whole body went limp and he whined, desperate and raw. His back arched off the mattress, and I held him steady with my forearm, letting him struggle against it, just a little, just enough to remind him he wasn’t getting free.
He kept his hands above his head, knuckles white against the pillow. It killed me, how obedient he was, how every careful breath came out shaky, but he wouldn’t stop, not until I told him to. Every inch of him begged for it, whether he realized or not.
“More?” I murmured, right up against his ear, breath hot. He nodded, so open and wrecked for me already, blinking fast and not daring to close his eyes.
“Please,” he said, the word hoarse.
I could have drawn it out forever. I wanted to. But he was shaking and his cock was leaking, and my own control was hanging by a thread. I slid the condom on, slicked up, and pressed in, steady, watching his face the whole time.
He made a small sound, something half pain, half relief, and I paused to let him adjust, hands braced on either side of his shoulders. I wanted to fuck him through the mattress, but I didn’t, not yet. Not with the way he was clinging to the sheets, not with the way every muscle in his body tensed and then let go.
“Okay?” I asked. One word. He nodded, frantic, dragging in air like it was the only thing left in his world.
I started moving, slow at first, deep so he could feel every inch of it. He arched, helpless, and I bent down and bit his neck, not enough to mark but enough to make him whimper. His legs slid around my waist, clinging on, and I let myself press him down into the bed. He took every thrust like he’d been built for it, like he needed to be pinned and fucked and possessed.
His hands stayed where I’d put them. The trust in that nearly killed me.
