He stands at the railing, bare arms despite the cold, his skin lit by the blue-white wash of the sky. He looks like a statue someone chiseled out of hate and regret.
I step out, shivering, and he glances at me, the faintest smile on his mouth. “You should go back inside. It’s freezing.”
I ignore him. “You need to stop trying to freeze yourself to death.”
He leans in, voice low. “It makes me feel alive.”
I stand beside him, elbows on the cold rail. “So does pain. But it isn’t all you are.”
He finishes the drink, sets the glass on the ledge. “You’re a stubborn bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He looks at me, and the air changes. The tension isn’t like before—there’s no threat, no challenge, just the recognition that we’re both tired of just surviving.
He moves first. Grabs the back of my neck and pulls me into a kiss that’s more surrender than demand.
I melt into it, letting him take. My hands go to his waist, gripping tight, and he shivers, not from the cold but from the shock of being touched gently.
He pushes me back against the wall, mouth never leaving mine, and for the first time, I feel like I have some say in what happens.
He’s hard, and so am I. I can feel the heat of his cock through the denim, the way it pulses as I grind up against him. He moans, soft, a sound he’d never let anyone else hear.
I want to ruin him.
I want to show him he can be wanted for something other than violence.
I break the kiss, nuzzle his neck, bite down just hard enough to mark him. He gasps, hands digging into my back. I slide a hand up his shirt, find the line of his ribs, trace the old scars with my thumb. He shudders.
“Inside,” he mutters, voice raw.
We stumble through the door, into the empty living room. He pushes me onto the couch, climbs on top, and for a second I think he’s going to tear me apart.
But he doesn’t.
He’s careful. Slow. Every button undone is a question, every touch a request for permission.
I say yes, over and over, until the only thing left is skin.
He licks a stripe down my chest, kisses each bruise he left before. His hands are rough, callused, but his mouth is soft,and when he takes my cock in his mouth, he does it like he’s worshiping it.
I tangle my hands in his hair, fuck into his mouth slow, savor the way he moans around me.
He takes me all the way, no gag, just pure want. When I’m close, he pulls off, climbs into my lap, and slides onto my cock without hesitation. He rides me, slow at first, then faster, until he’s fucking himself on me like he needs it to live.
His eyes never leave mine. This moment burns into my memory.
My hardened protector, allowing me to fuck him.
If I died tomorrow, this would be the flashback I’d want replaying in my mind.
I grab his hips, hold him steady, thrust up as hard as I can. He throws his head back, mouth open, hair falling in his eyes. I jerk him off in time with the thrusts, and when he cums, he moans, raw and unguarded.
I follow, hips snapping up, burying myself as deep as I can. I shoot inside him, feel him clench around me, milking every drop.
When it’s over, he slumps against me, forehead pressed to my shoulder.
I hold him. I don’t let go.
