The door swung inward and the corridor light cut across the floor, then his shadow filled the frame, and the scent hit me unfiltered for the first time without wood or stone between us, cedar and warm skin and sharp electric.
My whole body seized, my back arching off the ruined mattress, slick rushing out of me in a hot wave, a sound tearing out of my throat I’d never heard from my own mouth, low and desperate and involuntary.
His hands gripped the doorframe so hard the wood creaked under his fingers.
He looked at me.
I watched him take it in: me, naked and wrecked, skin flushed from my chest to my hairline, cock hard against my stomach, thighs slick and shaking, tear tracks drying at my temples.
His nostrils flared, his jaw locked, the vein in his neck hammering, his grey eyes burning, starving and terrified, and he stood there in the doorway with his back straight, his fists white-knuckled and the last 14 years of control screaming at him to turn around.
“Close the door,” I said.
He stepped inside, shut it behind him, and the room was just us now; his scent and mine braiding together in the warm heavy air, and he stood with his back against the closed door, chest heaving, hands at his sides, and I could see the war playing out across his face, the last wall holding, the final thread.
He crossed the room in 3 steps and his hands were on my face, both hands, cupping my jaw, tilting my head up, and his mouth came down on mine and the kiss was starving, graceless and hard, a man who hadn’t touched another person in 4 years breaking open on contact, his lips rough against mine, his teeth catching my lower lip, his tongue pushing into my mouth.
I grabbed the front of his shirt with both fists and pulled him down onto the bed and onto me, and the weight of his body pressing mine into the mattress was the first thing that had felt right in 5 days.
I was moaning into his mouth ’cause the press of his clothed body against my bare cock was sending shocks through my stomach, and every layer of fabric between his skin and mine was an insult.
I pulled at his shirt until he broke the kiss long enough to yank it over his head, and I got my first look at his bare chest, broad and hard, scarred across the left ribs, 4 parallel lines, old and white, that looked like they’d been put there by claws.
I didn’t ask ’cause this was not the time for questions.
“Jeans off,” I said against his mouth.
“Now…” He stripped fast, kicked everything to the floor, and when he was naked I looked at him and he looked at me, his cock was hard and thick and flushed dark and I wanted it inside me so badly my hole clenched and a fresh rush of slick dripped onto the sheets beneath me.
He saw it, his eyes dropping between my legs, and the sound he made from behind his teeth was wrecked, guttural.
His hand went to my thigh, pushed my legs apart slow, his scarred fingers sliding through the slick on my inner thigh, and when his fingertips brushed my hole I cried out and my hips bucked off the bed.
“You’re so wet,” he said, his voice destroyed, the Croatian so thick the English was drowning in it.
“Nico, you’re—” “I know, I’ve been wet for hours, please—” He pushed 2 fingers inside me, I arched and grabbed his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, and the sound I made was loud and raw and it echoed off the stone walls.
His fingers were bigger than mine, thicker, rougher, the stretch different from my own hand and better, so much better, and he curled them and found a spot that made my vision go white, and my cock jump against my stomach.
“Fuck, right there, don’t stop—” “I’m not stopping.” He added a 3rd and I took it easy ’cause my body was so open and slick there was no resistance, just wet heat and pressure and his knuckles against my rim and the fullness building and I was rocking down onto his hand.
He was watching me, his grey eyes fixed on my face, tracking every noise, every twitch, every breath, ferocious, unblinking, like he was memorising it.
“Damjan, I need you to fuck me, I can’t wait anymore, I need—” “I know.” He pulled his fingers out, slick and shining, positioned himself between my legs, and I felt the head of his cock against my hole, blunt and hot, and my body opened for him before he’d even pushed, muscles relaxing, hips tilting up, the slick easing the way, and he pressed forward slow and steady and sank inside me.
The sound that came out of both of us was barely human.
He was big, the stretch burning at the rim and tipping over into full, overwhelmingly full, and my mouth was open, my eyes shut, my hands fisting the sheets, and he kept pushing, slow and relentless, his cock sinking deeper while slick dripped out around him and my body pulled him in with every clench.
When he bottomed out, hips flush against my arse, cock buried to the root, I moaned his name and the moan cracked halfway through and turned into a sound closer to crying.
“Tell me if— if it’s too much,” he said against my forehead, his arms braced on either side of my head, his whole body shaking with the effort of staying still.
“It’s not too much, it’s…
Damjan, move, please.” He pulled back slow and pushed in hard, my spine curved and I wrapped my legs around his waist and dragged him deeper and the angle shifted and he hit that spot inside me and I shouted, loud and graceless, and he did it again, harder, and I dug my heels into his back and said “there, right there, don’t stop” and he didn’t stop.
He fucked me steady and deep, the wet sounds obscene in the stone room, slick squelching with every thrust, skin against skin, and I was loud, louder than I’d ever been, ’cause every nerve I owned was dialled past anything I’d experienced and his cock was hitting the right spot on every stroke and the heat in my blood was FINALLY being answered by a body that matched it.
His mouth found my neck and bit down, hard enough to bruise, hard enough that I felt it in my cock, and I arched into him and clenched around him and his groan against my throat vibrated through my chest.
“Harder.” He gave it to me harder, hips snapping, the headboard cracking against stone, and I was close, the orgasm building from two places at once, my cock trapped between our stomachs getting friction with every thrust, the pressure deep inside where he was stretching me and filling me and hitting that spot over and over.
This was nothing, NOTHING, compared to my fingers, this was being taken apart from the inside by a man whose body was engineered to fit mine, and I didn’t care about the biology or the bond or any of it, I just wanted him deeper and harder and I was saying that, saying all of it out loud, babbling and begging, my voice cracked and raw and past shame.
“I’m close, don’t stop, please don’t—” “I’m not— I’m not stopping.” His thrusts getting rougher, losing rhythm, his control fully gone now, every year of restraint burning off his skin.
“Come for me, Nico.” I came so hard my vision blacked out and my body locked down on his cock, every pulse inside and out, my hole clenching around him in waves while my cock shot between our stomachs, and the orgasm ripped through me in rolling sets, each contraction squeezing him, milking him.
He swore and buried his face in my neck and slammed deep one last time and I felt him come inside me, hot and pulsing, his cock kicking against my walls while his whole body shook above me and his hands fisted in the sheets, the sound that came out of him was my name, a groan and something broken braided into one ragged exhale.
We lay there shaking, his weight on me, his cock softening inside me, the slick pooling underneath us, sheets ruined beyond anything a washing machine could fix, the room smelling of sex, sweat, cedar and sweetness so thick I could taste it on my tongue.
My legs were still around his waist, my hands on his shoulders, fingernail crescents in his skin that I’d feel guilty about later, maybe, or maybe not.
His heartbeat was hammering against my chest, slowing, falling into rhythm with mine.
He lifted his head from my neck and looked at me, and his grey eyes were wet, open and stripped bare, no wall, no guard, no 14 years of anything, just him, and he didn’t say a word, just looked at me, then pressed his lips to my forehead so soft it barely registered as contact.
The gentleness of it after everything we’d just done cracked something in my chest that I’d been holding shut since the day I arrived in this country, and my eyes burned then I pressed my face into his neck and breathed him in ’cause I didn’t want him to see it.
His hand came up and cradled the back of my skull, his scarred fingers in my damp hair, his thumb moving slow across the base of my neck, and he held me there and the room was quiet and for maybe 30 seconds the heat pulled back and the world was just his chest, his heartbeat and his hand in my hair and the warm heavy weight of him still inside me.
Then I felt it building again behind my navel, rising, spreading, and his arm tightened around my waist ’cause he felt it too, felt the shift in my scent before my body had finished registering it.
He pulled back enough to look at my face and I saw him brace for it, steady and scared but certain all at once, and he said “I’m here” the way you’d say it to someone standing at the edge of a cliff, and the next wave broke over me and I felt him harden inside me.