“Only for you,” I replied.
We stayed tangled like that, the moonlight painting us in silver and the world outside the windows holding its breath. And for the first time in a week, I felt like nothing and no one could ever take him away from me.
We lay there for a while, breathing each other in, the air thick and heavy as syrup. Levi squirmed under me, a slow, lazy stretch that made every muscle in his back roll and flex. I traced the line of his spine with two fingers, feeling the ridges, the warmth of him, the way he shivered at the touch.
He rolled his head to the side, hair sticking up like a field of wheat after a storm, and looked at me with a smug little grin.
“Again?” he said, voice soft, almost shy, but the challenge was there.
“Yeah,” I said, and slid my hand down his back, spreading his ass cheeks, running my thumb along the crack. He arched, pushing up into my hand, shameless and greedy.
I’d never seen him like this, so open, so fucking hungry. The moonlight cut through the window in sharp lines, and I saw the shadow of my hand span across his lower back, big enough to cover half of him.
“Up,” I said, nudging his thigh. He got on all fours, elbows down, cheek pressed to the pillow, ass up and waiting. The sight of it—the curve of his back, the little dip at the base of his spine, the tight clench of muscle—made my cock twitch back to life.
I gripped his hips, kneading the flesh, and bent down to mouth at the small of his back. He shivered, giggled, then gasped when I bit down, marking him with teeth. The skin tasted of salt and the faintest hint of pecan pie.
I licked a trail down, my tongue flat and wide, until I reached his hole. He moaned, low and guttural, when I circled it with the tip of my tongue, teasing the edge, then pressing in just a little. He writhed, hands fisting the sheets, hips pushing back into my face.
“Fuck, Quiad,” he panted. “Just—God, just do it, please.”
But I didn’t, not yet. I wanted to see how far I could take him, how much he’d beg before he broke.
I spat in my hand, slicked up two fingers, and worked them in, slow and careful. He was tight, but he opened up for me, greedy, sucking my fingers in to the knuckle. I curled them, massaging the inside wall, and he jerked, a high whine in his throat.
“That’s it,” I murmured, voice so low I barely heard it myself. “Take it. Take me.”
He whimpered, grinding back on my hand, trying to fuck himself on my fingers. I pumped them in and out, twisting, scissoring, feeling him stretch, feeling the heat and the pulse of blood in the delicate flesh. I leaned in, kissed his lower back, and nipped him again, a mark for every time someone had tried to take him away from me.
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a garbled string of yes, please, more. I smiled into the skin of his ass, then pulled my fingers out, making him whine at the loss.
I reached for the nightstand, fumbling for another condom. My hands shook—not from nerves, but from the need coiling tight inside me, almost painful. I rolled it on, slicked myself, then lined up, one hand steadying his hip, the other guiding my cock to his entrance.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes huge, mouth open. The moon caught the sweat on his face, the dark ring of the tattoo on his wrist. He lifted his arm, showing it off, a badge of ownership.
“Yours,” he said, voice breaking. “All yours.”
I growled, couldn’t help it. I pressed the head of my cock to his hole, pushed in slow, inch by inch, letting him feel every bit. He was so fucking tight, I almost lost it before I even got halfway. He hissed, then moaned, rocking back to meet me, taking me deeper.
I bottomed out, my hips flush against his ass, and for a second, neither of us moved. Just breathing, just feeling.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
“Good?” I rasped, barely holding on.
He nodded, forehead mashed to the pillow. “Fuck me, please. Hard.”
That was all the permission I needed. I started to move, slow at first, then faster, pounding into him, driving him down into the mattress. My hands gripped his waist, holding him still, claiming him with every thrust. The bed creaked, the headboard thumping against the wall in a steady, punishing rhythm.
He was loud, shameless, every moan and gasp bouncing off the rafters. I watched the way his back arched, the way the muscles tensed and flexed with every thrust. I reached under, wrapped a hand around his cock, and jerked him in time with my movements.
He screamed, the sound tearing out of him raw and unfiltered, and came in hot, messy spurts all over the sheets. I didn’t stop, fucked him through it, chasing my own release. My balls drew up, the pleasure white-hot, and I came, grunting, hips stuttering as I emptied myself inside him.
Afterward, I slumped over him, my chest slick with sweat, breath heaving in and out like a bellows. I kissed his shoulder, bit the skin there, then licked the mark I’d left.
He collapsed onto his side, pulling me with him, our bodies tangled, sticky, perfect. We lay in silence, the only sound our breathing and the distant creak of the old building settling in the night.
He lifted his arm, showed me the tattoo again, and smiled. “Still yours,” he said.
