His breath catches. His pupils dilate. Under me, I feel his body respond, hardening against my thigh.
"I need you to make me forget," he whispers. "I don't care how."
I don't start gentle.
Gentle is what Moore did. Gentle is the soft voice and the careful hands that preceded hours of calculated agony. Gentle is a lie, and Elliot has had enough lies.
Smashing my lips to his, I force his mouth open, taking what I want without asking. He moans against my lips, body arching up to meet mine. I tighten my grip on his wrists, feel the bones grind together, and he gasps but doesn't pull away.
"More," he breathes when I break for air. "Please. More."
I release his wrists, grab the hem of his shirt, yank it over his head. His chest is pale, ribs visible under the skin, scattered with old scars. I run my hands down his sides, feeling him shudder, then rake my nails back up hard enough to leave red lines.
He cries out. The sound is nothing like the screams from the warehouse. This is sharp, surprised, edged with something that sounds like relief.
"Again," he says. "Do it again."
I do. Harder this time. He writhes under me, hands clutching at my shoulders, hips grinding up against mine. I can feel howhard he is through the thin fabric of his pants, can feel the wet spot spreading where he's leaking.
Grabbing his chin, I force his head to the side, and bite down on his neck. Not gentle. Not careful. Hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark, hard enough that he'll feel it for days.
He screams. His body jerks, then goes slack, then pushes up against me, demanding more.
"Jace." My name is a prayer and a plea. "Jace, please, I need—"
"I know what you need, let me do what I do best."
Pants, underwear, everything gone in seconds. He's fully hard, flushed and leaking, trembling on the sheets. I stare at him for a moment: the jut of his hipbones, the hollow of his stomach, the way his cock twitches under my gaze.
Then I flip him over.
He gasps as I push him face-down into the mattress, hand on the back of his neck, pressing him into the pillow. I yank his hips up with my other hand, positioning him on his knees, ass in the air, completely exposed.
"Stay," I say.
He stays. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, barely breathes. Just waits, trembling, for whatever I decide to give him.
I reach for the nightstand. There's water-based lube in the drawer—I put it there three days ago, anticipating this possibility with the same clinical detachment I bring to everything.
I slick my fingers, press one against his hole without warning, and push inside.
He cries out into the pillow. His body clenches around me, tight and hot and resisting.
"Breathe," I say. "Push out."
He tries. I feel him relax by degrees, feel his body start to accept the intrusion. I add a second finger, scissoring them apart, stretching him open without worrying about being gentle. He will take me because I demand it.
"Jace—fuck—Jace—"
"You can take more." I add a third finger, twisting them, searching for the spot that will make him fall apart.
I find it. He screams.
His whole body convulses, cock jerking, leaking a stream of clear fluid onto the sheets. I press against the spot again, hard, and he sobs, fingers clawing at the mattress.
"Please," he begs. "Please, fuck, fuck. Take me. Just fuck me until I can’t breathe.”
I withdraw my fingers. He whimpers at the loss, empty and open and desperate.
