I’m still open from when we fucked early this morning, so Roman soon sets his cockhead against my hole and pushes inside. The sensation of himstretching and filling me takes over my awareness. It’s always a lot at first, too much, then it’s perfect.
At first as he starts fucking me, I’m pinned to the bed, my cock trapped against the mattress, rubbing with each thrust. Then Roman tugs my hips up and forces my legs farther apart. His other hand remains on my head, smashing me down as he starts fucking me harder. He’s hitting my prostate now, which has me nearly out of my head.
His rhythm is harsh and relentless. His pelvis smacks against my ass, and his cock pistons inside me. I don’t need my hand on my cock when he’s fucking me like this, so I just turn my face into the mattress and scream as he makes me come. My cock jerks up against my stomach with each wave of my orgasm. Cum hits my abs and chest. I strain through it, overwhelmed, as he keeps fucking me. It’s too much, but it’s the exact too much that I want. I moan and whine and break down to a deeper part of myself.
Roman is getting rougher, closer. When his cock swells and kicks inside me, I cry out at the heavy pulses against my prostate. I’m not sure if I ejaculate again, but I do orgasm. I buck against him as he groans and strains, releasing hotly inside me as our bodies fully synchronize.
I’m shaky at the end, gasping as I spasm. I clench on his still-hard cock, making him spasm against me in turn.
Roman’s hand lifts from my head and slides under my chest. He pulls me up and away from the mess, rolling us onto our sides. His cock pulls partway outof me in the maneuver, but he pushes back inside and tightens his arms around me.
I settle contentedly in his possessive hold.
***
We shower together. It’s one of my favorite things. When Roman and I were captive, our showers were always a mix of relief and stress. It was always good to get clean, but we were supervised and rushed. Roman always had to wear an electric collar because we were outside the cell.
Now, we have privacy and time. Roman is no longer restrained or abused, even if the history of restraint and abuse is written all over his body in scar tissue. My fingers bump over the permanent marks of whips and blades and shackles. I try not to let Roman sense how much they bother me. They always have, because they show how much he’s suffered, but the longer we’re outside of that dark place, the more wrong they seem to me.
But at least I can take my time caring for him. I love that he allows it, at least here in this space. The more closed in we are, the better he does. Mostly, though, he cares for me. For every moment I get to spend washing his body, he spends twice that on mine.
After, when Roman shaves, he does it without looking in the mirror, not even checking at the end.He just runs his hand over his face. The peace of the sex and the shower is already fading.
His avoidance of the mirror confirms what I’d already sensed. He’s backsliding, reverting to some of the behaviors that characterized our early days here.
God, I’m so worried.
I try to hide it, busying myself with my own shaving. I take longer than Roman because I also have to dry my hair. He waits for me. Even when he’s struggling, he’s still so attentive.
After we’ve dressed, we go down to the kitchen. I can never tell whether Roman is hungry, but I’m starving. It’s almost two p.m. Days start and end late in this house, but that’s really late for breakfast even here.
I don’t say anything, but I see the exact moment that Roman realizes it. He glances at the microwave clock, grunts softly, and goes straight to the refrigerator.
No one else is in the kitchen right now, so it’s quiet as we make fried eggs and sausage with hashbrowns and toast. Most of the time, our silence is comfortable, but sometimes it starts to oppress me. I can’t help it. I just want to hear Roman’s voice.
When we sit down to eat, Roman sits where the wall is at his back and he can monitor both doorways into the kitchen. I sit close enough to press my foot against his.
Roman gets up because we forgot the ketchup. He comes back and puts it by my plate.
“Thanks,” I say.
He pets my hair as he sits down but doesn’t say anything. I feel bad that I’m disappointed about that. He was paying attention. He communicated. It should be enough.
I focus on my food.
I’m slathering jam on my toast when Quinn walks in. “Morning,” he says gruffly, even though it’s afternoon.
“Hi, Quinn,” I reply.
Roman doesn’t acknowledge the greeting. He just tracks Quinn’s movement as he walks to the island.
Even though Roman isn’t being aggressive, most people would be unsettled by his silent intensity. Quinn, however, isn’t bothered by it. He’s always understood Roman really well.
Quinn has his own scars. Burns on his forearms, others on his body. Now that it’s summer, he’s mostly wearing t-shirts with his jeans, exposing more of it, at least here at home. He always wears long sleeves when he goes out. I don’t know a lot about Quinn’s life before he became a bodyguard for Vitali, but it’s not hard to see that it was rough.
“What are you making?” I ask as he gets out a glass measuring cup.
“Marinade. For steak.”
