And I loved it.
“So”—I nipped at the side of his jaw, squirming between his hands—“did it turn you on? Watching me totally failing to fuck you?”
His eyes flashed. “It turned me on watching you try.”
“You’d better not be trying to teach me a life lesson right now.”
He gave me a mean squeeze, starbursts of sensation flaring beneath his fingers, and I squeaked. “The key to success, Arden, is the realization that failure is a temporary condition.”
“What’s that supposed to mea—”
Before I could finish, he pulled me down upon his cock and the rest of my question vanished into a strangled shriek. I flailed wildly, clutching at his shoulders, shock and excitement and a splash of panic blending into a unique and special cocktail. But he only breached me. He didn’t force me. He left the descent under my control—that sweet-harsh glide that burned so very beautifully.
I took him all—took the pain and the pleasure, the stretch and the pressure, the whole gorgeous invasion of it—and he let me see. For once he let me see. The helpless flutter of his eyelashes. The creep of heat across his cheeks. The way his lips parted on a soundless groan. He looked…vulnerable, and a little bit wrecked, softness in his eyes along with the haze of passion.
I threw back my head, full of savage triumph, because I’d made this happen. And this flawless, unreachable man—with all his mysteries and his sadness and his strength—was mine.
He pressed his mouth to my throat, warm and wet, with the scrape of teeth, and I rode him like a rodeo cowboy. Yee-fucking-haw. I was alive with small hurts, aches inside and out, but they felt like fireflies in my skin, barely recognizable as hurt at all. Because everything was igniting into bliss. His hands, his lips, his cock driving into me, rough and hard and fucking perfect. The noises he was making against my skin: reciprocal ecstasy shuddering out of him. And, oh, words. Fierce, tender, slightly muffled words becoming their own prayer: “Arden, oh Arden, my Arden.”
I didn’t really have breath or brain to reply but my answer was everywhere: in the pulse that beat for him and the body that yielded to him and the pain I’d borne for him. Yours yours yours yours yours.
Sweat was slicking down me, gathering in the creases of my groin and behind my knees. And I was probably going to have to take up yoga again or do something about my core strength because—as much as my arse was loving the adventure—the pace was getting punishing. But then Caspian gave this harsh and shattered cry, his hands dragging me down and pinning me in place, his cock so deep in me it felt practically embedded. I screamed, my prostate launching its own little hallelujah chorus as Caspian’s teeth plunged into the bit where my neck met my shoulder.
It was the aggression that undid me—seeing him so lost to it, so utterly out of control—the final riff in my sex-rock anthem of rapture. Next thing I knew was a full-body-shaking, mind-obliterating orgasmic white-out—static snowflakes behind my eyes, every nerve I had electric—and my cock went off like a party popper, extravagant ribbons of come shooting between us.
When I was next capable of anything, I said: “Ow ow ow ow ow.”
Because suddenly everything that had hurt in a good way was starting to hurt in a bad way. Particularly my arse, which was sore and sticky and throbby, and had a cock in it.
Caspian, who was still trembling, gentled me before I could freak out, since the need to not be in pain had become really rather urgent but my coordination wasn’t up to the task. And then he very carefully eased himself out of me.
I tried to stand, only to discover I was head-to-toe spaghetti.
Thankfully Caspian caught me before the floor did, wrapped me up in the scarily pristine cream blanket that had previously been draped over the arm of the sofa, and drew me back onto his lap, somehow managing to position me so I wasn’t resting too much weight on my poor bum.
I meant to protest because I was a mess and the blanket was lovely, but it was all soft and cozy, I couldn’t quite muster the will. I tucked my head under Caspian’s chin and he brushed his fingers against the nape of my neck, so lightly I thought it was an accident at first. But, no, it was a caress. One that carefully roused my sensation-battered flesh to shivers of softly tingling pleasure. If he’d been holding me less tightly I’d have arched greedily into his touch…and probably made a million bits of me immediately start hurting again. But he didn’t let me. Just kept me safe and helpless, his kindness as ruthless as his cruelty, and the sweetness of his touch running in rivulets across my skin.
Since my mouth was the only bit of me capable of movement, it opened and emitted a weird, drunken purring.
Caspian’s breath stirred the damply curling hair at my brow in a nearly-kiss. “You’re as delightful in pleasure as you are in pain.”
“I’m good with both,” I mumbled.
“You are good.” He pushed his hand into my hair, his palm curving to fit the base of my skull. “So good.”
I was vaguely aware we were talking nonsense to each other. But it didn’t matter. The words were less important than the exchange of them. Frankly, he could have been telling me “wibble kerplunk gargle blip” as long as he did it in that tone of dazed admiration.
My brain was cottage cheese at this point so I stopped trying to make it do things. And let myself float off on the magic carpet of his care.
“Arden?” he asked, after a moment or two. At least, I thought it was a moment or two. I might have been asleep. “You are…you are all right, aren’t you?”
“Whu?”
“You aren’t…” He cleared a trace of huskiness from his voice. “I mean, I didn’t…”
“You hurt me, then fucked me, now you’re holding me. What more could a boy want?”
He laughed—or made some shaky sound close to a laugh, anyway—partially muffling it against the side of my head.
