He built speed. The bed protested beneath us, the frame screeching with every thrust.
"That cock is fucking mine," he said over his shoulder, his voice rough and certain. "Mine."
I smacked his ass again. Harder. He groaned at the impact and rode faster.
"Say that again," I commanded him.
"Mine."
The bed screeched louder. His back muscles flexing with every movement, sweat starting to bead along his spine. Iwatched my cock disappear inside him and reappear, the visual of it driving me toward an edge I didn't want to reach. Not yet.
I grabbed his hips. Pushed him forward off me. He went onto all fours, breathing hard, his back arched, his ass up.
"My turn." I was behind him. My hands on his waist. "You rode long enough, cowboy."
"Then fucking take me." He looked back. The blue eyes dark with lust. "Fuck me."
One thrust. Slow but absolute—all of me back inside him, the full length entering in a single decisive stroke that made his arms buckle. He gasped. He reached back with one hand, and I caught the wrist. Then the other one. Pulled both arms behind his lower back and held them there with one hand, the leverage pushing his face into the mattress and arching his back deeper.
I started to fuck him. Long strokes. Full withdrawals, full entries. The pace steady and building, each thrust hitting deep enough to pull sounds from him that he couldn't filter. I smacked his ass again, the cheek reddening under my palm, and he pushed back against me.
"Don't stop—don't you dare fucking stop—" His voice was muffled by the mattress. "Fuck—I've dreamed about this. About being like this with you again."
I heard every word. Filed it somewhere deep. And kept pounding his perfect round glutes while stretching his pink hole.
I pushed him flat, fully prone on the mattress. Planted my feet on the bed, crouching over him, and drove downward. The angle made him scream—not in pain, in the overload of sensation, his cock grinding against the mattress with every thrust, the dual friction working him from both sides.
His head was turned to the left. His eyes rolling. His mouth open. The sounds coming out of him were wrecked and continuous, a rolling series of groans and curses that had stopped forming complete words.
I loved it. The effect I was having on him. The total unraveling of a man who held himself together through four years of ranch work and a war and a kidnapping, coming apart under me.
"I'm close." My voice came out rough. Barely controlled. "Logan?—"
"Me too—oh fuck, me too—don't stop, just like that, right fucking there?—"
I drove harder. Faster. The rhythm was punishing, the bed slammed against the wall, the slap of my hips against his cheeks filled the room. My orgasm built from the base of my cock—a gathering heat that climbed upward and forward and?—
"Fuck!" The word came out elongated, pulled from somewhere deep. I buried myself as deep as I could go and came. The release was massive. Days of tension and combat and sleep and want, all pouring out of me in waves that shook through my entire body.
Underneath me, Logan's voice broke. "Oh fuck—oh fuck—oh f—" The words dissolving into a gasp, then a moan, then the clench of his body around me—his hole tightening in rhythmic pulses that told me he was coming too, hands-free, his cock grinding against the mattress while I filled him.
I collapsed onto his back. My cock still inside him, still hard. My face pressed against the back of his neck. The salt of his sweat on my lips. Our breathing ragged, filling the small room with the sound of two bodies coming back to earth.
I was smiling. Actually smiling—the muscles in my face pulling into an expression I almost didn't recognize because it happened so rarely.
"That was..." Logan's voice was destroyed. He turned his head, trying to look at me. "Diego. That was incredible."
"Mm." I pressed my mouth against the back of his neck. Kissed the skin there. Tasted his saltiness.
"At some point," he murmured, "I want to do that to you."
I nipped his earlobe. "You'll get your chance for sure."
The kitchen smelled like onions mixed with chaos.
Irish was at the center of it, of course, because Irish was always at the center of disarray. Three burners going, something involving ground beef in a massive pan, Nolan beside him wiping steam from his glasses while he stirred a pot that was either soup or a war crime. Declan at the counter, chopping. His knife work was getting more natural, less execution-esque, but Irish was still supervising.
"That's a dice, Dec. I asked for a mince. You want to know the difference? The vegetables will tell you, because right now they're looking at me with disappointment."
