Oisín’s hands fist the sheets, his head thrown back, those beautiful curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. I fuck him harder, driving up into him so deep his cock bounces against his stomach with every thrust. “God, you’re going to be fucking perfect for me, aren’t you, Sín.”
I wrap a hand around his cock, stroking him in time with my thrusts. His entire body is turning a beautiful flush of a red, a stark contrast to my dark skin against his pale. Needing more of those beautiful sounds, I lean down, bite his nipple, and drive into him even deeper. His legs wrap around my waist like he’s afraid I’ll stop.
“You’re gonna come like this,” I tell him. “With my cock buried inside you and my name in your mouth. Say it.”
He bites his lip, shaking his head to keep from saying it.That’s not going to work.I tighten my grip on his cock, my mouth trailing down to his jaw.
“Say. My. Mother. Fucking. Name. I want to hear the plea on your lips, begging to let you come.” I pull all the way out and thrust back into him. “Or I’m going to unload in this sweet ass and leave you here without letting you fall apart.Say it.”
I’m not sure why I need to hear it on his lips but it’s the only thing I want right now. I pick up my pace, while still holding his cock, not allowing him to come.
“Please! Saint, fuck. Let me come. Shit.”
I snort as I pull out, flip him over and slam back in, ruthless with every stroke. It doesn’t take long before his ass clamps down around me so hard my vision whites out. He screams my name as he comes, thick ropes spilling onto my sheets. I fuck him through it, chasing my own release until the pressure snaps. I bury myself deep and flood him, grinding through every pulse while he trembles and clenches around me.
Oisín slumps forward, breathing hard as I slip out of him, watching my cum trickle out and gather between his thighs. Slowly, I drag two fingers through and stuff it back into him, Oisín whimpering but he doesn’t move away.
He pushes back against my touch, inviting more of it. Despite my curiosity at how far this goes, there’s something else.
The static in my head is gone again.
Oisín isn’t just my newest favorite piece of solace. He’ll end up being the one thing that can destroy me.
Oisín
IwakeinSaint’sbed alone, sore enough that even breathing feels like something my body has to negotiate with itself before allowing. For several seconds, I don’t understand where I am. The room is too dark, too sparse, too unfamiliar, and the sheets smell like a man I’m still trying to convince myself I’m allowed to hate cleanly.
Then everything starts coming back from the initial meeting to Saint guiding me out of the room to his cock stuffed into my ass, that small part of me that needed this fully satisfied.
I keep my eyes closed for a moment and let shame move through me before I try to stand. Fighting it only makes it louder. I should feel only horror about last night, and part of me does. A sensible man would wake in a stranger’s bed afterbeing traded into an alliance and used as leverage between two criminal organizations and know exactly what to call the thing that happened to him.
The problem is that nothing in me feels clean enough for one name. I’m angry. I’m frightened. I’m embarrassed so deeply I can feel it in my soul. I’m also calmer than I should be, and that calm feels like the worst betrayal of all.
Sitting up a little, I find the indent where Saint had been is cold, the sheets pulled back as if he left early and without hesitation. That shouldn’t hurt, except that waking alone after everything feels too much like being discarded and too much like being spared, and both possibilities leave me lying very still under a ceiling I don’t recognize.
As I take another look around the room, I find a stack of clothes on the dresser. The attached bathroom door sits half open, light already on, a towel folded on the counter beside a new toothbrush. There’s no note. No explanation. No softness to make the gesture easier to understand. Saint has provided what I need and left me to decide whether that makes him considerate or controlling.
With Saint, I’m starting to suspect the answer will almost always be both.
“Lovely,” I mumble to myself, pushing myself up onto weak legs. Frowning, I look down to the absence of crusted cum between my thighs and my stomach.
Further confusion wars with my curiosity as I realize the sheets I fell asleep against aren’t the same ones I woke up to. There’s no way a man like Saint…
Warmth floods through me at the idea of a man that brutal cleaning me up, but I quickly squash the emotion. I can’t get attached. I won’t be here long, whether it’s because the alliance breaks anyway or because Saint decides he’s done with me.
The shower helps a little, the hot water easing the stiffness in my muscles, but it also wakes every tender place his hands and mouth left behind. I brace one palm against the tile and bow my head beneath the spray, breathing through the ache as it sharpens. I try not to look down and catalog the marks. That proves impossible once I step out and the mirror gives me back to myself in bright, unforgiving detail. There’s a dark bruise beneath my jaw, another half-hidden near my collarbone, fingerprints fading along one hip. My hair curls damply over my forehead, my mouth looks too soft, and the shirt Saint left slips off one shoulder no matter how many times I tug it back into place.
“Fantastic,” I mutter, because apparently humiliation is easier to survive when I narrate it.
Giving up, I move into the hallway. I pass three closed doors, a laundry closet, and a framed photograph of Obsidian members standing in front of a row of bikes. Saint is near the center, younger by a few years but no softer, Sol beside him with a hand resting on his shoulder in a way that should look paternal and somehow looks strategic instead.
By the time I reach the main area, the clubhouse has already noticed me.
Nobody stops talking outright. The Rogues would’ve stared openly, laughed louder, made sure I understood I was being measured and found lacking. Obsidian watches with more discipline, which makes it worse in a different way. Voices lower as I approach. Eyes move, pause, and move away. A prospect carrying a crate of clean glasses nearly clips the corner of the bar because he’s too busy pretending he hasn’t seen the mark beneath my jaw. Two men at a table near the far wall cut off mid-conversation when I pass.
I keep walking because stopping would invite questions, and I don’t have enough answers for myself, let alone for a room full ofmen deciding whether I’m Saint’s mistake, Saint’s toy, or Saint’s strategy.
I follow the smell of coffee to the kitchen because my stomach is unsettled but my head is worse, and caffeine feels like the only socially acceptable form of self-defense available. The kitchen is cleaner than I expected, with an industrial refrigerator, a scarred wooden island, mismatched mugs hanging from hooks above the sink, and a whiteboard covered in a list of ingredients.
