He bounced, breathless, limbs splayed. He looked up at me, cheeks flushed, water droplets running down his neck to soak the pillow.
"You okay?" I asked, voice stripped down to the bone.
He nodded, but his smile was gone. What was left was hunger.
I shut the door behind me, locked it, and turned.
This was not going to be gentle.
This was not going to be slow.
I crossed the room, boots heavy on the floor, and stared at him until he started to shake. Not with fear. With anticipation.
I was about to ruin him.
And he was going to thank me for it.
The second the door clicked shut, the air changed.
My territory.
He sprawled on the bed, propped up on one elbow, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt painted to his skin. He looked every bit the thing I'd been dreaming about since the first time I saw him alone in a room, afraid and trying not to show it.
Now he wasn't afraid. He was ready.
I made him wait anyway.
I stood over him, arms folded, watched as he tried to guess my next move.
The room still smelled like cedar and gun oil, but under that was something new, something wild. The walls were bare except for a rifle rack and two cheap prints of fishing cabins. The desk, the dresser, the headboard—I'd built every piece myself, heavy and indestructible. There were no pictures, no trophies. I didn't need reminders of the past. I needed something that belonged to me.
And right now, that was him.
Newt shifted on the bed, trying to cover his hard-on with a forearm, then gave up and let it tent the wet fabric instead. Hisface was flushed, lips parted, eyes wide and wild. There was a splotch of sunburn at his collar, and droplets ran down his neck to his chest.
I ran my eyes over him, slow. Every inch. Every shiver.
Newt trembled, but didn't break eye contact.
"You scared?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No."
"You should be."
He swallowed. "Are you going to—"
"Yes."
He took a breath, and in that second I saw the shift—something hard and desperate underneath the nerves. Newt wanted it as much as I did. Maybe more.
I crossed the room, boots thudding. He watched me, chest rising and falling in little hitches. I stopped at the foot of the bed, hands on my hips. "Take it off," I ordered.
Newt hesitated, fingers curled at the hem of his shirt.
I waited.
He peeled it off, slow. The fabric stuck at his elbows, then slid free. I watched every muscle as he flexed, watched the way the skin bunched at his ribs, the freckles across his chest, the flat, almost hairless belly. His nipples were small and pink, hard from the cold and the nerves.
