Page 46 of The Company We Keep

Carrow’s muscles tensed at the wordboss, as if it were a particularly rare piece of dirty talk.

He pressed a third finger into Dust, who whined and rutted against his hand, ready to demonstrate just how much he wanted all that Carrow had to offer.

Carrow took his mouth deep once more, kissing into Dust as he finger-fucked him, pressing his weight down, pinning him to the mattress in a way that was becoming more and more satisfying. And then he was gone, sitting back on his heels, opening a foil packet with his teeth, and rolling a condom down his generous length.

“We can stop — anytime you want to. Say the word.”

Dust puffed a laugh there in the dark.

“I don’t want to stop.”

And then the bigger body was back, above him in the dark, a hand lifting him by the hip as if he weighed nothing, another one guiding Carrow’s cock to his entrance. Dust was glad for the prep then, feeling the first taste of what the reality of taking Carrow’s hard-on would be like. They both sighed at the contact, the inadvertent teasing as Carrow lined himself up.

In an instant, he was pressing in. The sensation was overwhelming: too much and not yet enough, painful and at the same time so pleasant that there were starbursts behindDust’s eyes as he squeezed them shut, willing his body to relax, to take Carrow’s length without resistance.

“With me?” Carrow said, his voice a half whisper. He sounded panicked.

“You’re good,” Dust said, opening his eyes again and catching Carrow by the back of the neck. “We’re good.”

Carrow nodded and continued to move, sinking slowly as he felt Dust going pliant under him. It was maddening waiting for his body to adjust and all the while wanting more.

Finally, then, after a few short strokes that almost felt like a question, Carrow sank in completely, his hips pressed against Dust. They paused like that, the air pulsing between them, Carrow looking at Dust like he was a rare gift and Dust unsure of what piece of this turned him on the most: Carrow’s physical power or his tenderness in that moment. He sighed, squeezing the back of Carrow’s neck and simply appreciating the sensation of being filled and claimed and safe here in the quiet, cool bedroom, his back against the strange comforter, a man above him in the dim light he’d only met the week before but who Dust knew so much about — who Dust wanted to knowinfinitely moreabout.

Dust couldn’t take it. He started moving his hips under Carrow, working his body up against him, urging the other man to move. Carrow issued a moan that was half growl, rolling his hips to meet Dust’s urgent little movements as he ducked down to suck a fresh mark into his neck. Each slow thrust had Dust yielding more, and he felt less and less as if he were balanced on the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain. As Carrow’s movements grew steadier, the pleasure swelled until Dust was grabbing for purchase along the muscles of his back, along his hips, doing anything to gain traction and work himself up against the other man.

Carrow was struckfor what felt like the millionth time by how goddamned perfect Dust was — not only in that moment, but in all moments since they’d met, in the way he’d handled himself with The Company and made himself indispensable, with the way he’d been a salve for the wounds Carrow had caused by his carelessness in handling Short, with the way he’d been eager and hungry for everything Carrow had to offer.

His sounds alternated between broken moans of desperation and full, throaty appreciation as he took Carrow, went pliant under him. Carrow couldn’t recall a time when any body seemed to fit so wonderfully against his own — not Leta, not any of the men or women before her. The way their bodies worked together was heady and intoxicating and amplified by every noise Dust made, by every needy grasp of his hands, by the way he rolled his hips up to take Carrow deeper.

Carrow sat back, spitting neatly into his hand and snaking it between their bodies to stroke Dust, twisting around his length like it was something they’d done together a hundred times before that night.

It had been so long since he’d felt this opportunity for openness, for release, that he was quickly close to the edge, the pleasure already washing over him in waves, gathering in the pit of his stomach. He would’ve felt like a failure if it weren’t for Dust’s enthusiasm and the way his moans broke open at the touch of Carrow’s hand.

Dust was lostfrom the moment that Carrow began to touch him.

There was something like regret in the back of his mind and a kernel of fear. Was this the only time that they wouldcome together? Would the man still want him when the smoke cleared and the adrenaline wore off?

Dust didn’t realize he’d been squeezing his eyes shut again, lost in the feeling of Carrow inside him, in the man’s hand on him. His eyes fluttered open to be met by Carrow’s, the dark brown irises catching just right in the limited light.

He looked so open. Human. Gone was the powerful predator, the boxer with untold strength. Carrow was just a man, and a million things seemed to be wrapped up in that look — all on display and there for the taking if Dust could just interpret them. Ansel Carrow wasn’t holding back in that moment, wasn’t shielding any part of himself. It made Dust bolder, steadier. It made him speak his deepest desire.

“Tell me this isn’t the last time.”

Carrow’s mouth dropped open, shocked maybe, and he shook his head. Their bodies worked slower as both tried to process this new layer of meaning.

“I need you to say it,” Dust begged, the words needier than he wanted, almost painful to hear in his own voice — but there was no taking them back. “Please, Ansel.”

Carrow slowed to a complete halt at the bottom of a stroke.

“If you don’t change your mind, this isn’t the last time,” he said, seriously. “I’m not going to force it on you.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Dust said.

Carrow kissed him then, and it was different than it had been before. Dust’s own desperation was mirrored there, the kiss steady but hungry. He felt — in some way that Dust would never be able to articulate — as if Carrow were making him a promise. He would take Dust and accept him and claim him for as long as Dust would allow it.

His own orgasm swelled until he was throbbing, unable to determine the beginning of his release but knowing that it had started and couldn’t be taken back. He tensed aroundCarrow, pushing the other man over the edge abruptly. Carrow said his name once — a desperate, staccato syllable issued into the darkness — and then groaned, gutturally and gravelly but never missing a beat as he stroked Dust adeptly, coming hard into the body beneath him. Dust could feel the heat of his release even through the thin condom, the almost painful and surreal sensation of being filled even more, just past his limit as Carrow throbbed inside of him and Dust painted his own belly with hot streaks.

The orgasm was something beyond release. Dust felt as if, at last, he was taking off his disguise.

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