I reach forward. Grip his jaw. Turn his face out of the pillow.
His eyes are glassy. Wrecked. A tear track on his cheek he doesn't know is there. His mouth is open, wet, swollen from biting his lip, and he looks like something holy and profane and I want to destroy him in the most careful way possible.
I reach down. Grab his boxers off the floor where I kicked them. Ball them up.
"Open."
His eyes widen. A flush crawls up his neck—not arousal this time. Shame. Thrill. The two things tangled so tight he can't tell them apart.
"If you're going to make that much noise," I say, pressing the fabric against his lips, "suck on these. Unless you want your mother walking in to find out what her stepson sounds like when he's getting fucked."
His mouth opens. I push the fabric in—not rough, not choking, just enough to fill—and his eyes roll back and his moan comes out muffled and desperate against the cotton and my cock jerks inside my pants so hard we both feel it.
Christ. He likes it. Of course he likes it.
The boy who's been hiding his whole life gets off on having something shoved in his mouth to keep him quiet. The irony is so perfect it's almost poetic.
His eyes find mine. Dark and desperate and certain, even with his mouth full, even with tears on his cheeks. He can't speak but he doesn't need to. The look says it.Please. More. Don't stop.The boy who wrotemaybe I deserve itlooking at me like he's finally figured out what he actually deserves.
Me. He deserves me. And I deserve this—the trust of someone who has every reason to run and is choosing to stay.
I pull my fingers out and kick off my pants. I crawl onto the bed behind him and line up. The head of my cock presses against him and he pushes back—impatient, needy, the omega override that makes his body chase what it wants—and I grip his hip with one hand and the back of his neck with the other and slide into him in one long, devastating stroke.
The sound he makes cracks something in my chest.
Not a moan. A surrender. A sound that starts in his spine and pours out of his mouth and fills the room like smoke. His fists clench. His back arches. He pushes into me, taking me balls-deep, and I bottom out with a groan so raw my throat burns.
Fuck.
He's tight. Impossibly, insanely tight—clenching around me in waves, his body pulling me deeper like it's trying to swallow me whole. Just like I remembered him.
The slick makes everything wet, obscene, the sound of me inside him filling the room alongside our breathing. Hisscent hits me like a wall—vanilla and smoke and the dark, sweet undertone of an omega in heat for his alpha—and my hindbrain lights up like a circuit board.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
I don't go slow.
I can't. My hips snap forward and the muffled scream against the cotton is the filthiest sound I've ever heard. I do it again. Harder. The headboard cracks against the wall. His hand shoots back, finds my hip, and pushes. Pushes me away like it’s too much.
Good try, baby. You can’t run from me.
I wrap my arm under his hips. Yank him up to his knees. Change the angle and his whole body locks—spine arched so deep I can count his vertebrae, the sounds coming through the gag going high-pitched and frantic.
I reach forward. Pull the boxers from his mouth. Toss them aside. Because I'm a hypocrite—I gagged him to keep him quiet and now I need to hear him. Need the unfiltered version.
"Wait—" he gasps the second his mouth is free. "Zero, wait—slow down—I can't—it's too—"
"Yes you can."
"I can't—please—just give me a second—"
His voice is wrecked. Shaking. And his cock is so hard it's dripping onto the sheets, untouched, and his ass is clenching around me in rhythmic waves, and every inch of his body is sayingmorewhile his mouth says stop. I know the difference. I've always known the difference with him.
The first time—the basement—I didn't care about the difference. I took what I wanted.
This time I care. And the difference is telling me to keep going.
I lean forward. Press my chest against his back. My mouth at his ear.
