I grabbed a condom and some lube out of my nightstand. After quickly gloving up, I spread some lube between his ass cheeks and then lined up, rubbed the head of my cock against his tight entrance, and pressed in, slow but relentless.
He groaned, a long, low note. I went in to the hilt, then stopped, letting him adjust. He was hot and tight, squeezing me so hard it was almost painful.
I pulled out, then slammed back in, hard enough to rock the bed against the wall. Newt arched up, mouth open, gasping. I set a rhythm, slow at first, then faster, each thrust hittingdeeper, harder. He dug his nails into my back, raking down my shoulders, marking me.
I wanted every mark Newt could give.
I fucked him, rough and relentless, until he was shaking, tears at the corners of his eyes from the force of it. He never said stop. He never said slow down. He just took it, like it was what he was made for.
I leaned down, teeth at his nipple, bit until he yelped. Newt came hard, shooting across his own chest, cock still clamped in my fist.
I chased him, ramming deep, then pulling out and flipping him onto his stomach in one motion. He moaned, but lifted his ass, waiting for me to finish.
I lined up and shoved in again, fucking him face down, one hand locked around his hip, the other fisted in his hair. He took it, every inch, every thrust. I came with a grunt, buried to the root, the pulse of it almost a pain.
I collapsed on top of him, breathe gone, the room spinning. We lay there a minute, both panting, sweat cooling on our skin until he made a noise, half-laugh, half-sob, then turned to look at me over his shoulder.
"You okay?" I said, voice rough.
He nodded, eyes shining. "Yeah," he said. "Fuck. Yeah."
I pulled out, rolled him onto his back, and wiped the hair from his forehead. He looked ruined. Beautiful.
He grinned, dazed, then curled up against me, small and perfect. I wrapped an arm around his waist, held him tight. I didn't say anything. I didn't have to.
He was mine now.
Everyone would know it.
And for once, I wasn't planning on letting go.
Chapter Eight
~ Newton ~
I’d read, somewhere, that after a really intense experience, your mind would replay it on a loop, as if it had to make sure you’d really survived and that the world hadn’t tilted off its axis while you weren’t looking.
I used to think that was just about trauma. I’d never realized it worked the other way, too—that you could survive a different kind of obliteration, and your brain would scramble to process it with the same feverish, runaway slide show.
That’s what it was like, lying in Knox McKenzie’s bed, his chest hot against my back, his hand splayed over my stomach like it owned the whole territory.
My brain had gone recursive, playing and replaying the last hour—okay, maybe forty minutes, but the man worked at a velocity I had never encountered—with the obsession of a true academic.
I was going to die here, I realized, and I would die happy, and also possibly paralyzed from the waist down. My thighs burned. My ass felt like it had been used as a battering ram in an actual war, which, in a way, it had.
I couldn’t stop grinning. I tried—there was dignity to consider—but the post-coital smile kept sneaking up on my face, and every time I shifted, I caught a whiff of Knox’s skin and it would start all over again.
He was sweat and soap and just a little bit of engine oil, and when he exhaled, it was always through his nose, like a wild animal considering whether or not to eat you.
He was asleep now, or at least faking it at a professional level. His chin rested in the tangle of my hair, and I could feel the rise and fall of his chest like the deepest drumline ever.
His cock had gone soft, but the rest of him was still rigid—arms and legs wrapped around me with an almost gravitational force, like a redwood tree refusing to yield to weather, or time, or even the threat of spontaneous combustion. If there had been an earthquake, I honestly believed he’d just hold on and ride it out.
I’d known, of course, that sex with Knox would be intense. I’d built it up in my mind for literal years, through every lonely night and every cringe-inducing day dreams. I’d expected it to be rough, a little dangerous, maybe even overwhelming.
What I hadn’t expected was how careful he’d be in the middle of all that violence, how every bite and bruise came with a check-in, a pause, a look that asked, Are you good? Are you still here? Are you with me? I’d never had that before. Not even close.
My history with sex could be summarized as: one, college; two fast, forgettable, mostly fueled by vodka and a mutual desire to get it over with; and three, an absolute dearth of follow-up.
