“You belong to me.” The words escape without authorization. “Say it.”
I pull out of his mouth.
“I belong to you,” he says. “I’m yours.”
I pull him up by his hair and crash my mouth against his. The kiss is violent. I reach down and tear the smock away.
I walk him backward until his shoulders hit the wall. I pin him there.
“Don’t come until I tell you.”
He whimpers.
I spin him around, pressing his chest against the wall. I retrieve the lubricant.
When I return, he is trembling.
I slick my fingers and press one against his entrance. He gasps.
“Relax. I’ll go slow.”
“Don’t.” His voice is ragged. “Don’t go slow. I want to feel it.”
The words undo something in me.
I add a second finger, then a third. He pushes back against my hand, fucking himself on my fingers.
When I judge him ready, I withdraw my fingers and position my cock.
“Tell me to stop and I will stop.”
“Don’t stop.”
I push inside.
The heat is extraordinary. He cries out—pain and pleasure indistinguishable.
Then I begin to move.
The rhythm builds. Each thrust draws sounds from him that I will never forget.
“Mine,” I growl against his neck. “Say it.”
“Yours.” The word is a sob. “I’m yours.”
I bite his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark.
He shatters.
His body convulses. I feel his release splash against the wall. The sensation pushes me over the edge.
I bury myself deep and I come.
The orgasm is devastation—a destruction of the walls I have maintained for twenty years.
I am not a process. I am a man who has just claimed another man.
We stay like that for a long moment.
