"I want to fuck you." I bite his earlobe, feel him jolt. "I want to bend you over and open you up and make you feel what I feel when you're inside me. I want you to lose control. I want to hear you beg."
His breathing goes ragged. "I don't beg."
"You will."
I push him forward, toward the table in the center of the room. It's solid oak, heavy enough to hold both our weights. He goes willingly, bracing his hands on the surface, and the sight of him like that, bent over and waiting, makes my cock ache.
I step back to admire the view. The long line of his spine, each vertebra visible in the moonlight. The muscles in his shoulders, coiled with anticipation. The curve of his ass, pale and perfect, presented to me like an offering.
"You have no idea how you look right now," I tell him.
"Tell me."
"Like an alter I want to worship. Like a man I want to ruin." I run my palm down his spine, feel him shiver beneath my touch. "Like you've been waiting your whole life for someone to take you apart."
His fingers curl against the wood. "Maybe I have."
I strip off my own clothes quickly, not wanting to waste time on ceremony. When I press against him again, skin to skin, weboth groan. My cock slides between his cheeks, hot and hard, and he pushes back instinctively.
"Eager," I murmur.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
He laughs, rough and surprised, and the sound loosens something in my chest. This is what he needs. Not just the sex, but the connection. The permission to exist in the present, not the past, not the future.
"Have you ever done this before?" I ask. "Let someone fuck you?"
"No."
The admission makes my head spin. The man who's done everything, who's seen everything, who's been in control of every situation his entire life, has never let anyone take him like this.
And he's going to let me.
"I'll go slow," I promise. "Tell me if you need me to stop."
"I won't."
I reach for the lube I grabbed from his bedroom on my way here. Slick my fingers, warm them between my palms. Then I spread his cheeks, exposing him, and press one finger against the tight ring of his hole.
He tenses. I wait, rubbing small circles, feeling the muscle flutter against my fingertip. His body doesn't know what to do with this sensation, this intrusion, this surrender. I give him time to figure it out.
Slowly, so slowly, I push inside.
The low whine that escapes him almost makes me forget to go gentle. His body clamps down on my finger, tight and hot and impossibly snug. I have to breathe through the urge to push in faster, to take more, to claim him the way he's claimed me so many times.
"Relax," I murmur. "Let me in."
"I'm trying."
"I know. You're doing so good." I work my finger deeper, feeling the way his body opens for me inch by reluctant inch. "So good for me, Jagger."
His head drops between his shoulders. His hips push back, seeking more. I crook my finger, searching for that spot, and when I find it, his whole body jerks.
"Fuck." The word tears out of him. "What—"
"Your prostate." I rub it gently, watching him shake. "That's what I feel when you're inside me. That fullness. That ache."
