Chapter Thirteen
‡
Riding the elevator up to my suite, I lean back against the wall, thunking my head on the mirrored surface. I’m supposed to take Hart out tonight, but I don’t know if I can manage it. I might have to beg off and offer some profuse apologies. Though maybe when I see him, I’ll feel differently. He has a way of making me feel…energized. Sure, that’s the word for it.
I let myself in with the keycard and step inside to where Allie’s lounging on the couch, phone pressed to his ear. With a few words, I can tell he’s on the phone with Kendra. I give him a wave as I head through the bedroom and into the en suite. I get in the shower because I want to wash the whole thing off. Kenji tests my mettle. At least he’s good for desensitizing me. Nothing makes me blink anymore.
After letting the hot water sluice over me for a good ten minutes, I feel slightly more human. Not to the extent I want to go clubbing or anything, but I could probably manage dinner.
I don’t bother putting on clothes before wandering out to the living room but sling on a robe because, depending on what we decide to do, I might dress differently.
“How’s Kendra?”
Hart blinks at me as if he’s surprised I noticed.
“Fine. Kids are good.”
“Good.” I perch on the back of the couch, not bothering to attempt much in the way of modesty. “So I know I said we could go out tonight, but my session was more taxing than I’d expected. Would you be terribly put out if we went to dinner instead?”
Allie shakes his head, and I can’t detect any real disappointment on his face. “Would you be upset if I asked for room service? I mean, I know you want to show me off and all…”
Crossing my arms, I cock an eyebrow, a skill I had to perfect in the mirror when I was a kid. So worth it. “Do I?”
“Dude, I’m a hot piece of ass.”
That makes me laugh. I don’t remember the last time someone called me dude before I met Hart. I could get used to it.
“You are indeed. Although I don’t mind keeping you all to myself for an evening.”
Perhaps if I’ve recovered enough, I’ll have all of him as I was planning to.
I grab the room service menu, a pad of paper and a pen from the desk, and hand it to Hart.
“Pick whatever you’d like and write it down. I’ll call after I get dressed.”
Ten minutes later, I’m met with a Hart who hasn’t budged from the couch and is staring at the menu with crunched brows and the corners of his mouth turned down.
“What’s the matter? Couldn’t find anything you’d like? I’m sure they could throw together something you’d find acceptable.”
“It’s not that. It’s that I don’t feel good about ordering a thirty-dollar cheeseburger.”
I bristle some at his disobedience, but dismissing his concerns isn’t going to help anything. Nor would it make him feel any better to know the last hotel I was at, it would’ve been forty-two dollars.
“I can’t say I disagree with you, but on the plus side, the staff person delivering said excessively priced cheeseburger will be getting a nice tip that will help them pay their rent. If it bothers you, we could take a car to the nearest fast food joint and our entire meal will likely come out to less than that. Would you prefer that?”
He eyes me suspiciously, not closing the binder of over-priced cuisine. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. I like In-and-Out as much as anyone.”
His brows descend further until his eyes are merely slits. Incredibly dubious slits.
“Yes? Something I could help you with?” I’m starting to get hungry, and I’d like to get the Bay of Cheeseburgers over with.
“I’m trying to figure you out, that’s all.”
Good luck with that. “What about me?”
“For starters, you call yourself a control freak.”
“I am.”
“For a control freak, you sure do let me have my way a lot.”
How to put this? “There are some things I care very much about and other things that don’t matter. Where we eat dinner tonight is something I care about only insofar as I’d like to eat something and I’d like to see you eat something. Where we do it is of little consequence.”
“What’s something you do care about?”
“Right now? I’d like for you to wear your grey shirt instead of that one and I’d like for you to think about how I’m going to fuck your ass when we get back from dinner.”
Hart’s eyes have popped satisfyingly wide, and I can’t help how one side of my mouth draws up. “I also wanted you to stop looking at me as if I’m a specimen in a jar. Mission accomplished. Now let’s go.”
He shakes his head and stands, pulling his shirt over his head in one swift movement and heading toward the bedroom. When he comes back, he’s got his grey shirt on, the one that clings to his chest and biceps just so, and I smile.
“See? Now we’re all happy.” Cocking my head toward the door, I hold out an arm. “After you.”
*
I was correct about how much our meal cost. Even between the Animal Style Double-Doubles, well-done fries, and shakes we ordered, it was less than one room-service cheeseburger. I’ll happily keep my mouth shut about how taking the car pushed us over that.
Hart slurps at the last of the Neapolitan milkshake in his cup for longer than necessary, and I ask him over the cheaply laminated tabletop if he’s nervous about something. He scowls at my mischievous questioning as he wipes his fingers on yet another paper napkin. We dispose of our trash and head out to where the car is waiting.
“I’d say fuck you, but—”
“That’s not going to happen. Ever.”
He should know that upfront, and I know I needed to be clear about that. Still, I don’t like the way his chin drops toward his chest as he draws back.
“What is that, some bullshit Dominant thing?”
If only. “Absolutely not. Being penetrated has nothing to do with submission.”
Not that it can’t be used that way, but it completely depends on the person. I know plenty of Dominants who like penetration. Like anything else, it depends on how it’s framed. Some things are harder than others to shape that way, but I guarantee I could make almost any act a dominant one given the right circumstances and participants.
“It’s just not something I do, and if you decide it’s not something you do either, that’s a hundred percent fine. But at least let me try to convince you sodomy has its perks.”
I’d gleaned from some of our conversation on the plane that, while Allie’s been with men, he’s never bottomed. When I suggested that might be something we tried while on our little jaunt, he hadn’t seemed averse, and it’s been in the back of my head ever since. Getting inside this gorgeous man would be a dream come true, and I want him to want me there.
“I think you’re the only person on the planet who could say that with a straight face.”
“Doubtful. I could name a handful of people off the top of my head.” We’ve pulled up to the hotel, and our driver’s climbed out and is coming around to my door. “Let me take you upstairs and prove it to you.”
The elevator ride up to our suite is the most deliciously tension-filled thirty seconds. Hart’s leaning up against the railing, his fingers curled around the edge, his nailbeds turning white with the pressure. I’m resting against the opposite wall, studying him.
My Hart’s so tense. Yes, I want him buzzing with anticipation, but also with desire and curiosity. I’ve got my plans, certainly, but this is one of those things you don’t rush. I’ve seen far too many people who’ve had bad experiences and sworn a thing that can be so exquisitely pleasurable and intimate off their lists because one fuckwad ruined it all. That’s not going to happen to Allie. I won’t let it.
When the elevator pings and the doors slide open on our floor, I gesture him out and admire the way the muscles bunch in his back and shoulders under that goddamn shirt. I hope he can feel the way I’m looking at him. If he can’t, it’s not for lack of trying on my part. If intensity were heat, I would’ve burned his clothes off by now. I want him feeling the weight of my gaze, how heavy it is with my desire for him. Preferably without a whiff of how much responsibility is settled on my shoulders.
I’m going to be his first, and it’s a charge I don’t take lightly.
The way he stops at the door and waits for me to slip my keycard out of my pocket is somehow charming, and I let my hand drift to his lower back as I usher him inside. Clicking on the Do Not Disturb signal, I take the only deep breath I’m going to permit myself. It’s go-time, and I need him not to sense my nerves. Not that many people do. There aren’t a lot of benefits to not being able to sweat, but muting a symptom of tension is one of them.
“Naked and face-down on the bed, Hart.”
There’s only the briefest hesitation before he’s moving on my soft command. No questions, no protests, and it swells my heart with happiness. A measure of the trust I’ve earned. He’s anxious but I don’t think afraid, and he trusts me enough to allow me this incursion into his very core. The sound of clothes dropping on the floor is music to my ears, as is the faint rustling of bed linens and the whisper of skin sinking into the plush duvet.
When I walk through the door, he’s lying as instructed, and I take some time to admire him. The perfect arch of his buttocks, the pleasing curve of his calves, and how his legs are slightly spread instead of clenched together. Lovely.
I take off my watch and empty my pockets, drape my coat over a chair, eyeing him the whole time. He’s not watching me, but he’s straining for any sound. I toe off my shoes, not being quiet about it because I don’t mind giving him some hints, and then I roll up my sleeves. Retrieving the things I’d like from the bathroom, I come back to where Allie’s still lying prone on the bed, keeping his breaths carefully measured.
The moment he hears the small snick of me opening the bottle in my hands, he tenses. For nothing, but he doesn’t know that.
Straddling his hips, I let my weight sink down on him protectively. I pour some oil on my hands and reach for his shoulders, slicking my hands over his hard body. He makes a startled noise, and I shush him.
“Relax, Hart. I’m going to make you feel good. I promise.”
So I do, kneading his muscles carefully, feeling out the grooves and knots. Working at the tense places and smoothing out the fibers until they’re loose and pliant, how I’d like him. He feels good under my hands, and it gives me the opportunity to study all of the ink he’s branded with. I do my utmost to keep the massage moving apace so he doesn’t notice how closely I’m studying the pictures, the patterns. He must know I’m looking, but perhaps not that I’m memorizing, obsessing. What does it all mean?
The amateur ones among the numerous marks reek of butchery and improvised, no doubt unsanitary tools, and I use the feel of his ribs rising and falling leisurely beneath me to mark my breath so he doesn’t know how agitated I’m getting, thinking about how he got those. Possibly what he had to do to earn them. My gentle Allie, unwinding so beautifully at my touch. It’s hard to imagine him engaging in unnecessary and excessive violence.
On the other hand, it fits. Hart’s got loyalty pumping through his veins and a need to please. His gang and the military both offered a certain thing: rules. He could make sense of his world and do his best to do what was right in that space. Which may or may not have been within the bounds of the law.
Loyalty, though—that’s one of the qualities I prize most highly. I want him to swear allegiance to me, adopt my rules as his code. I want to be the one he wants to please. To have him regard me as his authority, as someone worthy of following into battle. Or perhaps more importantly, into the extraordinary world of submission.
After I’ve worked my way up for the first time from his hips to the back of his skull, I slip my hands back over his now-glistening skin to just above the rise of his ass.
“Have we gone over the rules, Hart?”
He turns his head to the side. “There are rules for anal sex?”
His lazy drawl of a question makes me smile. “I wasn’t talking about those rules, but as a matter of fact, there are. Only three: lube. Lube.”
“And the third thing?”
“More lube.”
He snickers, his muscles momentarily convulsing. “Got it. What are the other rules?”
I dig my thumbs into some particularly stubborn spots alongside his spine, and he groans. “I won’t go over them all right now, but you ought to know the first at least.”
“Rey Walter’s Rules of Conduct for Polite Society?”
He says it in a posh accent that makes me shake my head. “Hardly. These are rules for my clients.”
“I’m not your client.”
“True,” I say, easing the slight tightening around his shoulders. “Clients and lovers, then. You like rules, Hart?”
I appreciate the beat of consideration he takes before answering. “I like knowing expectations.”
Ah, yes.
“That’s convenient because I like setting expectations.”
“So what are these rules of yours?”
“Rule number one: You never have to do anything you don’t want to do.”
His ear twitches. “Never?”
“Within reason, of course. There are going to be things I ask you for that you don’t particularly want to give, but you’ll hand them over anyhow because you want to please me.”
“Then how—”
“I said within reason. If there’s ever anything you’re absolutely dead set against, you’re allowed to have boundaries. As am I.”
“Like not getting fucked?”
My jaw tightens involuntarily, and I have to consciously loosen it. “Sure. Like that. The point is you’re allowed to say no and you’re allowed to change your mind. If something upsets you, I want to know. No one—not anyone—has the right to force you into anything. Do you understand?”
“Not even you?”
He’s teasing, so I reach behind and pinch his firm buttock.
“Not even me. Of course it’s fun to play that way sometimes, which is why god invented safewords. So you can yell and whine and protest—‘please, no, anything but that’—because it’s fun, and still I’ll ‘force’ you to do it.” I’ve put verbal air quotes around force so he gets it. From the slight shift of him underneath me, he more than gets it. “Does that sound like fun?”
“Maybe,” he grants and shifts more.
“So would you like to pick a safeword?”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” he mumbles from where he’s pressed his face into the pillow.
“A lot of people use colors. Red stops everything immediately, yellow means you’re approaching your limit or you need to check in, and green means go. We could start there.”
“’Kay.”
He’s silent for a few minutes. Is he regretting this already? What’s going through that head of his? He’s not gone rigid so he’s not terribly upset, but it’s sending me into a fit of pique not to know.
“What’s on your mind, Hart?”
“Just thinking about rules.”
Interesting. I wait for him to expound, to give me more of the information I so desperately crave, but he stays silent, pensive. I’m generally excruciatingly patient, but I don’t get the feeling he’s withholding on purpose, merely not convinced I’d be interested. I am. Very much so. “And?”
“Your rules are different from the ones I’m used to.”
I’d hope so. I’ve been accused of leading a cult, but surely my rules are preferable to the ones he’s experienced before. “Tell me.”
“When I was a kid, the first thing I learned from the guys I ran with was, if someone messes with you, you fuck them up so bad they won’t even think about doing it again.”
That tidbit pulls me up short, and I hope he doesn’t feel the stutter of my hands over his body. I don’t ever want him to think he’s surprised me. I don’t want him to ever feel as though he can’t share something with me because I’ll be horrified. No, it’s important not to blink.
And it makes so much sense.
“What else did you learn?”
“Don’t look people in the eye. Don’t smile. If someone yells your name, you sure as hell don’t stop. Especially after dark, especially if you’re not on your own territory. Learn the geography of the neighborhoods and keep track of where people are—dealers, clients, cops. Never act scared, and whatever you do, don’t back down.”
What a world. If everyone followed those rules, it could only end badly. I get the feeling Allie expected to die young. Like he’s living on borrowed time. Much as I am. I want to give him some structure, some expectations, because he does well knowing where the limits are. Not that he’ll always follow them, but I hope he will.
“Well, how about for now you just follow mine?”
“You’ve only given me one.”
“Let’s start there. You remember what it is?”
“I never have to do anything I don’t want to do.”
“That’s right. I hope you take it seriously because I need to trust you to tell me so. I won’t ever harm you on purpose, you have my word. But though I like to pretend I’m omniscient, I’m not actually, so you’ve got to help me out. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Now that’s settled, let’s get started.”
I climb off him and disrobe. Not a teasing strip, but not in a hurry either. Solid, confident. I try to project it from every pore. I’m experienced and adept. Believe in me. When I’ve stripped down to my skin, I grab a couple of pillows and direct him to raise his hips so I can slide them under, covered with a hand towel from the bathroom. A touch humiliating, perhaps, to have his ass elevated and exposed, but it’s not for shame’s sake. In all my years of deflowering assholes, this is what seems to work the best, how many of my clients and lovers seem to think is most comfortable. I want to make this easy on him.
“Tell me how you’re feeling.”
“Nervous. Embarrassed.”
“Why embarrassed? There aren’t a whole lot of things that have turned me on more than knowing I’m going to get to work my way into that ass. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.”
I stroke his neck, the back of his head, run a thumb behind his ear, and he stretches so I have more space to pet him. Lovely. When he’s practically purring, I settle myself behind him again, press my hips, and yes, my erection, against his nicely spread cleft. I rock against him, enjoying the choked whisper of a gasp he lets out.
“Does that feel good?” I ask, though I know the answer perfectly well.
“Yeah. Yeah.” His voice is feathery with strain and desire, so I give him more. Press harder with longer, firmer strokes. Give him a better idea of what he’s in for. It’s not so long before he’s pressing back against me, and I know if I were to reach underneath him, he’d be hard and perhaps slick with pre-come. The idea that he’s making a mess on the hand towel draped over the pillow because he’s literally dripping with want, well… If I want to get to the headliner of this evening’s performance, I need to stop dicking around with the opening act.
As I withdraw, he whines, and I reflexively smack the side of his ass, hard, producing another choked inhale. Oh, my Hart likes to be hurt. How could he be more perfect? “You can complain if you like, just know that’s what’s going to happen when you do.”
I’m almost sorry when he doesn’t make another sound. Perhaps something else he’s afraid to admit? Maybe those tats weren’t so painful after all. Though it probably depended on the circumstances. Masochists are tricky creatures, though some would argue not half as tricky as sadists. Possible, but sadists are my people. I can’t even fathom the other side, but god bless masochists. I’d just be a monster without them. With them, though, I get to be a teacher, a mentor, a patient and thorough instructor.
Now it’s time for my latest pupil’s lesson. I reach for the lube and a finger cot, slipping the thing on before greasing it up and then anchoring his hip with my other hand. Then, then, I rub my fingertip over his hole, stroking the tightly closed bud.
“There are a few things that will make this easier,” I instruct, trying to sound more like a lover than a professor, though I’ve given this lecture dozens of times.
“Three things?”
I’m amused he remembers from earlier, but… “Not just that, though I will be using copious amounts of lube, I assure you. No. What will make this easier is if you relax for me. Take deep breaths. Make yourself soft, accepting. Let me in. Some people say to bear down, but—” He squeaks, and I smirk. “Yes, that’s why I don’t like to say that.”
It raises the humiliation factor, probably because you’re reminding your penetratee you’re putting something in where they’ve traditionally only had things come out. Not pretty things. A muffled sentence comes from the pillow Allie’s buried his head in.
“What was that, Hart?”
He turns to the side and huffs, squirming a bit against where I’m still stroking him with one finger.
“Isn’t it…gross?”
Ah, yes. A concern a lot of people have, though I wasn’t sure if Hart was so self-conscious he’d be one of them.
“Well, I will be putting my fingers and my cock up your ass. So is there sometimes shit involved in this process? Yes.”
He groans and not in a sexy way, returning his face to where it had been obscured by the down of the pillow.
Before he can protest or try to roll over and stop this before it starts, I continue. “However, you don’t need to worry, for a bunch of reasons. First, I’ve seen more bodily effluvia in my line of work than you’ll see in your lifetime. Piss, shit, tears, vomit, blood, saliva, sweat, breastmilk, some things I won’t name. I’ve literally seen it all. So the odd smear of poop isn’t going to bother me. Second, I’ll be wearing a condom when I fuck you and I’ve got finger cots for before that. They’re like condoms for your fingers.”
I press against his slick hole to emphasize my point and also to see how tense he really is about this. Not bad. “Third, it’s not going to turn me off if that’s what you’re worried about. The idea that you’re literally letting me inside of you is far too hot to let anything wither the hard-on I currently have for you. I could go on, but that should be sufficient.”
He nods into the pillow. I could press him more, browbeat my acceptance into him, but the best thing to do is to prove it. He’ll believe me if I prove it. So I add more of the lubrication to my finger, slicking it over his cleft until he’s about as slippery as I can get him from here. Then it’s time to ease inside.
I press gently but insistently at his entrance until he relaxes enough to let me in, and then I work my way forward by an inch, enjoying the sight of my finger inside him and knowing no one else has ever had the privilege.
“That’s good, Hart. You’re doing really well.” I lavish him with more praise while I keep working in, adding more lube whenever my path feels anything but slick. Back and forth, easing him into the feeling of being penetrated and the movement of being gently fucked. When he’s taking me inside easily, his deep breaths getting shallower, I check in with him again.
“How are you doing?”
“Fine, sir.”
Oh, this is better than I’d hoped for. Some of the bottoms I know tell me this makes them feel delightfully submissive. Perhaps that’s how it’s affecting Hart. That usually comes hand in hand with making them feel intensely vulnerable as well, so I’ll need to keep that in mind. I’ll have to hold him carefully. Demonstrate his trust isn’t misplaced, and if he shows himself to me, I’ll treasure him.
“Fine?”
“Good, sir. It feels good.”
“Who’s making it feel that way?”
“You, sir.” He’s practically panting now and does that ever make me hard for him. “You’re making me feel good.”
Damn straight.
That’s when I choose to cover and slick a second finger to ease inside of him. He’s so slippery inside now that it’s not so difficult, but I still go slowly and add more lube because I’m not taking any chances. I want to earn his pleasure and, more importantly, his trust. He tenses slightly but not for long, especially when I murmur encouragement and kind words. Slutty for praise—I’ll have to remember that.
“It’s two, Hart. You can take it. Breathe for me.” I settle a hand on his lower back and feel for the expansion of his torso as he does as he’s been instructed. He loosens around my fingers, though he still feels wonderfully tight. He’s going to feel phenomenal on my cock.
After a few minutes during which he slips back to panting and clutching the linens, he begins to press back against me, and I take that as an invitation. I don’t always do three before I fuck someone, but with beginners, usually, yes. The third is the most work, but it somehow goes easier, likely because he’s horny as a sailor docking after a six-month voyage. Except he’s gone his whole life without feeling this, not six months.
“That feels good,” he volunteers, and the simple words swell my head and my heart. Gratitude, desire, trust. It’s all there in that most basic of sentiments.
I completely withdraw my fingers, stripping the cots off and discarding them on a tissue I’d left on the bedside table before taking up a condom and rolling it over my dick—so hard, it’s near to bursting. “Then this is going to feel even better.”
Before I penetrate him, I rub still more lube over the condom, because I wasn’t lying when I said you can never have enough lube. I wipe my hands off on a hand towel so I’ll be able to grip him while I press inside of him, and then it’s time. Resting a hand on his hip, I use a hand to help work my hardness inside of him. Mother of all things holy does he feel divine. Tight and hot and slick. I push gently and withdraw, going deeper with each tender thrust until I’m two-thirds of the way inside.
“All of you,” he pleads, his voice tense and desperate. “I want all of you now. Please. I’m ready, I swear, just…please fuck me.”
Though I don’t generally take kindly to orders, this is one I’m glad to follow. I dig my fingers into the flesh of his hips and push the rest of the way inside of him, not stopping until my hipbones are resting flush against his ass. If that’s not heaven, I’ll happily go to hell.
I have to grit my teeth against the urge to spill inside him already because this is his first time, not mine. When I’m firmly under control, I draw out and then fuck deeply back inside of him, enjoying the feel of him around me and the way he presses back. After a few more measured strokes, I change the angle and Hart cries out, much as I’d thought—had hoped—he would.
“Problem?”
“What the fuck was that?”
I press inside him again, hitting the same spot, and he bucks against me, all self-consciousness gone. “That?”
He gasps his response, all tight muscle and heat surrounding me. “Yeah, that.”
“That, my friend,” I say, punctuating with another thrust and driving a desperate gulp out of him, “is your prostate.”
“Fucking hell. No wonder they liked it.” The mention of previous partners doesn’t bother me, and bully for Allie for making his other lovers feel good. I’d like to say it’s a pity he’s never experienced it before now, but it delights me I get to have this first of his as well.
I keep rocking against the bundle of nerves until he’s outright panting and writhing beneath me, his pleasure driving him higher and higher until I’ve got him on the edge and I want to push him over. I’m not so far from the precipice myself.
“Are you going to come for me, Hart? I want you to come with me inside you.”
I’m almost certain there’s little in this world that would give me more satisfaction than the feeling of Hart pulsing around my dick. When his muscles start to contract around me, god, am I right. I hold out for as long as I can to prove to myself I’m able to, and when I feel as if I’ve waited long enough, I let go. And go and go, my fingers digging into his flesh. I make a guttural sound in my throat that could’ve come from an animal instead of a man.
It’s possible fucking Hart is a greater pleasure than him sucking me off, and that’s saying something.
I brush my lips against the rise of bone at the juncture of neck and spine and lick some of the sweat that’s gathered there as well. He smells of exertion and sex, and I wish I could save the sheets to smell when I’m having a shitty day to remind myself of the good things in this world. Like Hart and how fucking amazing he is, how goddamn good he feels.
As much as I’d like to stay inside of him, breathing him in and caressing and teasing him until we both get hard and I can fuck him all over again, I shouldn’t. He’s probably feeling good now, but soon enough—and certainly by tomorrow—he’ll be feeling sore, perhaps a bit abused. I should get him into the bath.