I did my best to stay where he wanted me. I’d say this much for the man. He knew what he wanted in bed and made damn sure I gave it to him.
"Quick study, vor," he gasped. "For a man who didnae know what he was doing two months past."
"Shut up."
"Make me." He gritted his teeth on a moan. "Don't ye dare move it. I mean it. I'll —"
"You'll what?" I pulled out and slammed into him hard enough that he’d have bruises on his ass tomorrow.
"Cannae remember. Ye fucked it out of me."
The pillow under his head had a wet patch the size of my hand, and I didn't know if it was sweat or spit or what he'd cried out of himself somewhere around the second time. The room smelled like sex and him, and I wanted to roll in it and never leave.
If someone had told me a year ago I’d be fucking a mouthy Scotsman in my own bed, I’d have shot him dead. Yet here I was. I hadn’t even finished round three, and I was already planning rounds four, five, and six. Fin and his tight ass had turned me into a fucking addict.
"Aleksi—" He bit my lip, and the split from last night opened up. I tasted blood. Mine. "Aleksi, get yer hand on my cock, c'mon."
I didn't reach for him. I bent down instead and bit his throat where I'd already left a mark an hour ago, and he keened. It was an ugly sound. I'd heard him make it twice in our lives, and the other time he'd been bleeding.
"Beg."
"Cunt." He laughed, broken. "Ye absolute cunt — fuck — Aleksi, please, ye great Russian bastard, please—"
I wrapped my fist around him. He was so wet my hand slipped on the first stroke and I had to tighten my grip. He swore at me and dug his heels into my lower back. His hole was clenching around me in irregular beats now, the way it went when he was close and trying not to be. I jerked him roughly, out of rhythm. I wanted him to come, and I wanted to feel the difference, and I wanted the mess.
He came on me like that, messy and weak, the cum gone all watery from having already emptied himself twice in the hours before.
He lifted his maimed hand and gripped me by the hair. "Don't stop." He could barely get it out. "Use me. Finish. Inside."
I didn't need telling.
I drove into him four strokes, five, and when I went it was with my lips on his and my tongue in his mouth.
We lay there, panting against each other, trying to catch our breath. His hand had gone soft in my hair.
I lifted my head.
His freckles were gone in the flush. His mouth was open, lower lip swollen, and there was a streak of his own cum drying on his chest. I pulled most of the way out and stayed there a second, and a slow line of cum came out of him onto the sheet.
He winced. "Aleksi. Mercy. I mean it now. I cannae feel my legs and my sugar’s probably in the shitter.”
“You need something to eat?”
"Aye. Ye've broken me proper this time, ye Russian fuck."
I pulled out the rest of the way. He hissed and his hole clenched on empty air and another slow pulse of my cum ran out of him onto the sheet. Fuck, I’d never get tired of watching that.
"Stay there," I ordered, and got out of bed.
"Cannae move if I wanted to."
"Going to get you orange juice."
"Aleksi Laskin." He turned his head on the pillow. "If ye fuck me half to death and bring me orange juice after, I'll marry ye in a kilt."
"Don't say things you don't mean."
"Who said I didnae mean it?"
