I fist our cocks tighter, stroking with slow, punishing precision, watching his expression break open, flushed and aching. His pupils are blown, lips kiss-bitten and slick.
“Say it again,” I rasp, voice darker now, hips grinding down to match the rhythm of my hand. “Beg me like you mean it.”
His hands twist in the sheets, knuckles white with strain.
“I’m begging,” he chokes out. “I’ll do anything—please,let me come, I can’t—Silas,por favor—I’ll be so good, I’ll take it however you want—just give it to me.”
Dámelo. Dámelo. Dámelo.
The word drums through my skull, pulsing with the pressure building inside both of us.
“Puta madre,” I growl, the words slipping from my lips without thought. “Mírate. Estás hecho para esto.”
He doesn’t understand—maybe later I’ll explain. But not now.
Now I don’t want him thinking. I want himfeeling.
“Ahora,” I bite out. “Ven por mí.”
His whole body bows, breath shattering into a cry as he comes with a whimper, cock pulsing hard against mine, spilling over both of us in thick, hot spurts.
I don’t let up—not yet. I stroke him through it, even as he squirms, the oversensitivity painting his face with something between bliss and agony.
And when he slumps beneath me, boneless and panting, I finally slow my hand—then bring my fingers to my mouth, licking the taste of him from my palm with a low, satisfied sound.
Luke watches through heavy-lidded eyes, dazed and wide all at once.
I meet his gaze, holding it as I slide my cum-slick fingers lower, between his legs, dragging them deliberately through the mess of both of us.
There’s no teasing in the motion now.
Only pure intent and possession because, for tonight, he’s all mine.
“No necesito nada más,” I murmur, pushing one slick finger inside him, slow and steady. “Estás listo para mí,hermoso.”
He moans, back arching again, pupils blown all over again.
And I don’t stop.
He’s still trembling beneath me, flushed and wrecked, and yet he opens for me like he was made to. One slick finger becomes two, easing inside with steady pressure. My other hand braces at his hip, grounding him, even as his breath hitches and his thighs fall further apart.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Silas?—”
His voice is raw, barely there.
But he doesn’t pull away.
He moans instead, head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted in open surrender.
I curl my fingers just enough to find the spot that makes him jolt, makes his whole body seize with pleasure—and then I keep pressing. Testing. Stretching. Working him open as his hands claw uselessly at the sheets.
“Más,” I mutter under my breath, voice low and reverent. “You need more.”
His legs tremble.
I push deeper.
My fingers curl again, and his mouth drops open in a silent moan that quickly spills into sound when I twist just so.
