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His fingers press deep, pressing into the skin at my hips, firm and possessive, and I lift my ass as much as I can without lifting my knees from the bed to meet him. He bucks with wild, grunting thrusts, and I feel each one reverberate through me. He’s all the way inside me, sending visceral pulses of pleasure to every cell in my body. He’s part of me now, as much mine as any of my other organs.

His fist strokes me in perfect rhythm with his thrusts. Up when he pushes in, down when he pulls back, and the coordination of it is devastating. It’s like he’s orchestrating my entire body, controlling the pleasure from the inside and the outside simultaneously.

I’m here with Lucien, but I’m somewhere else too, outside my body, soaking in a liquid pool of pleasure that laps at the most sensitive inside part of me: my soul.

I keep one hand on the bed, holding myself up for him, and reach the other back, wanting to touch any part of him. His hand takes mine, and he intertwines our fingers. His chest leans against my back as he presses our intertwined hands into the mattress. I collapse, my face falling forward onto the bed, and now he’s even deeper inside me, still stroking me.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You feel so good. So perfect.”

I can’t hold back anymore. I’m right there, right on the edge, gasping and crying, completely undone. I’m a mess.

“Come for me,” he says, his voice urgent. “Let me feel you come.”

Each time he hits that spot inside me, that place that makes my vision go white, it sends a shockwave through my entire body. My prostate is screaming, pulsing, right there on the edge of ecstasy, and when he finally pushes deep and holds, I explode, coming hard. A cry tears from my throat, muffled by the pillow, as my cum spurts onto the bed beneath me. I’m drowning in my own pleasure, convulsing with the pulsing aftershocks. My whole body grips him, clenching around him so hard, I’m afraid I might hurt him, and I feel him respond instantly. He’s chasing his own orgasm like his life depends on it.

“Fucking hell, Cam!” He groans, his movements becoming erratic. His breathing fractures. When he comes with a hot pulse inside me, his whole body goes rigid.

I hold myself exactly where he needs me, keeping my ass up even though my body is screaming to melt into the mattress. I let my brain catch up with what just happened, with what he just did to me.

He slowly pulls out, and the loss of him is abrupt. I feel empty. He squeezes the condom off and tosses it into the trash.

Then he reaches over and turns on the bedside lamp. Soft light floods the room. His hair is damp with sweat, and his eyes are dark and saturated.

He collapses next to me, panting hard. He pulls me on top of him, and I nestle my head into his neck, my whole body still coming down from the aftershocks.

“How was your first time?” he asks, his voice spent and amused, his hand stroking gently down my back.

I kiss his neck and make these small, broken sounds. I can’t form words yet. I don’t know what to say anyway. How could I possibly convey what that was like? The thing I’ve been dreaming about since the moment I met him.

I can’t tell him that. It seems like too much, even after what we just did.

Lucien laughs softly at my incoherence. “That good, huh, baby?” He rakes his hands through my hair and says, “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

I freeze. Something inside me is triggered. A sense of tragedy at knowing what I lost in the years between meeting Lucien and now suddenly hits me. And that thought leads me to another, and it unsettles me. In those lost years, someone taught Lucien. It dawns on me that it might not have been a fellow student. Suddenly, my skin prickles with sickly heat. I roll off Lucien, looking for cool relief, and land in the wet spot.

Shit. Oh well. I’m going to shower anyway.

“Lucien, who taught you how to do that?”

He sighs. “I told you. I promised I wouldn’t tell.”

“Okay, but it was a student, right?”

He looks over at me with a serious expression. “Of course.”

Then he watches me, and after a minute, he asks, “Why are you asking? At St. Silas, did you…? Were you…treated well?”

I roll toward him. “Not always.”

His eyes narrow. “Who?” His voice is sharp. “What did he do to you?”

“Come on, Lucien. It was a long time ago. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

He sits up and watches me intently. “Cam, just tell me who.”

I look up at him. I don’t want to talk about it, but I know Lucien won’t let this go.

“Thom.”