“Tell me what you want.”
“You.” The word came out cracked. “Please. Rook, please?—”
“Please what.” He rocked against me again, the head of him sliding slick against my hole without pressing in, and I made a sound against the glass that was barely a word.
“Please fuck me.”
“Yeah?” His hand slid down from my shoulder blade to grip my hip, thumb digging into the crease, holding me steady against the window. “You want me to breed this tight little hole, Soren? That what you want?”
The words went through me like heat.
“Yes. God. Yes.”
“Say it.”
“Breed me.” My voice came out wrecked against the glass. “Please, Rook, breed me, I want all of it?—”
He pressed in.
The slow thick slide of him opening me went on and on and on, inch by inch, his hand tight at my hip and his breathing gone ragged against my ear, and by the time he was fully seated my forehead was pressed so hard against the pane I could feel my own pulse against the glass. He held there. Let me feel all of him. Let my body work around the fullness of him and settle into it.
“Fuck.” He breathed against my neck. “You take me so well.”
Rook pulled back slow and drove forward.
The first full thrust pressed me into the window hard enough that the glass gave a faint groan against the frame, and I cried out against the pane and my breath fogged a huge wet patch and he did it again.
“Yeah.” Low and fierce against my ear. “There we go.”
He found a rhythm and built it. Each thrust landing with the full weight of his hips behind it, and I could feel the slick slide of him working deep in long steady pulls. His hand moved from my hip up the side of my ribs and spread wide across my chest, holding me against him, pulling me back onto him with every drive forward. His other hand came up and braced flat against the glass beside my face.
“You feel that?” He was panting now, rhythm picking up. “Feel me filling you up?”
“Yes—fuck—yes?—”
“Gonna fill you up so good.” His mouth at my ear, voice wrecked and low. “Gonna breed you right here against this window. Let him watch.”
Coach's pace had picked up. He had one hand now at the back of Jace's neck, holding him pressed to the glass, the other still at Jace's hip, and he was driving into him hard enough that I could see Jace's whole body move with every thrust. Jace's cock was visible in the reflection on the glass in front of him, flushed and hard and leaking in a long strand down to the floor, completely untouched.
Coach's eyes found Rook's and held for one beat before his mouth came down on Jace's throat.
Rook drove in harder.
“Mine,” he growled against my neck. “Every fucking inch of you. Mine.”
“Yours.” I was sobbing it now into the window. “Yours. Yours. Yours.”
Every drive of his hips pressed my chest flat against the cold pane and pulled back just far enough to make me chase him, and the glass was wet around my whole face now.
Coach was fucking Jace hard. Both of them pressed to the glass on their end, Coach's hand wrapped around the front of Jace's throat now, tipping his head back against his shoulder, driving into him in long punishing strokes that made the whole pane visibly shake on their end.
Rook's hand moved from my chest down my stomach.
He wrapped his fingers around me through the soaked lace and stroked once, hard, and the friction of the wet fabric against my skin plus the rhythm of him inside me was enough to make my knees start to give. He held me up with his other arm around my waist and kept going.
“Not yet,” he said against my ear. “Hold it.”
“Rook—” I was barely forming words now. “I can't?—”
