He kissed me back. Hard and desperate and tasting like acceptance and resignation and the kind of desire that came from knowing you'd crossed too many lines to ever go back.
When we pulled apart, his eyes were dark. Pupils blown. "Take me home."
"That's the plan."
Thomas pulled up to Inferno and we took the private elevator straight to the apartment. The moment the doors closed, Emilio was on me. Kissing me like he needed it to breathe. Like the only way to forget what he'd learned tonight was to lose himself in this.
I let him set the pace. Let him push me against the elevator wall and kiss me breathless. Let him take what he needed.
When the elevator opened, we stumbled out still kissing. Made it to the bedroom in a trail of expensive formal wear. The tuxedo I'd had made for him ended up in a heap beside my own. Shoes scattered. Bow ties abandoned.
We fell into bed and I took control. Rolled him beneath me and pinned his wrists above his head. "Tell me what you need."
"You. Just you. Make me forget everything except this."
"I can do that." I released one wrist to trace down his chest. "I can make you forget your name if you give me enough time."
"We have all night."
"Then I'm going to use every minute of it." I kissed down his body. Started at his throat where his pulse hammered against my lips. Spent time on his collarbone, biting gently until he gasped. Worked my way down his chest, tongue tracing the lean muscles that shifted under his skin with every harsh breath.
I found the spot on his ribs that made him squirm. The place just below his navel that made him curse. The sharp jut of his hip bone that made his hands fist in the sheets.
"Sandro—" My name came out strangled. "Please—"
"Please what?" I looked up at him from where I'd settled between his thighs. His cock was hard and leaking against his stomach. Flushed and desperate. "Tell me what you need, Emilio. Use your words."
"Your mouth. I need—" He broke off when I licked a stripe up the underside of his cock. "Fuck. Yes. That."
I took him in my mouth slowly. Sank down until he hit the back of my throat. Heard him choke on a moan. His hands flew to my hair, gripping tight but not pushing. Just holding on while I worked him with lips and tongue and the kind of skill that came from years of practice and genuine enthusiasm for the task.
I pulled off before he could get too close. Ignored his whine of protest. "Not yet. You don't get to come until I'm inside you."
"Then get inside me." His voice was wrecked. Desperate. "Stop teasing."
"This isn't teasing. This is making sure you're ready." I grabbed the lube from the nightstand and slicked my fingers. "Spread your legs wider. Let me see you."
He obeyed. Always did when I used that tone. Spread himself open and let me look my fill. Flushed and wanting and absolutely beautiful in his surrender.
I pushed one finger inside and watched his face. The way his eyes rolled back. The way his mouth fell open. The way his whole body tensed and then relaxed as he adjusted to the intrusion.
"More," he demanded. "I can take more."
"I know you can. But I'm going to take my time anyway." I worked that single finger slowly. In and out. Twisting. Finding the spot inside that made him cry out. "Going to make this last. Going to make you feel every second of it."
By the time I added a second finger, he was rocking back against my hand. Chasing the sensation. Muttering a steady stream of curses and pleas that went straight to my cock.
"That's it. Take what you need." I scissored my fingers, stretching him open. "You look so good like this. Desperate and needy and completely mine."
"Yours," he agreed breathlessly. "Completely yours. Now please—please, Sandro—I need—"
I added a third finger and his back arched off the bed. "Need what? Say it."
"Need you inside me. Need you to fuck me. Need—" His words dissolved into incoherent sounds when I crooked my fingers and nailed his prostate.
I worked him open thoroughly. Made sure he was ready. Made sure he'd feel this tomorrow. Made sure he'd remember exactly who he belonged to every time he moved.
When I finally withdrew my fingers, he made a sound of loss that was almost painful to hear.
