Page 28 of Atlas and the Traitor

Atlas groaned, caught between turned on and frustrated, melting and fighting. As was usually the case with Robin, the latter won, Atlas taking over the kiss by sucking Robin’s tongue deeper into his mouth and pulling him impossibly closer, forcing that big body to stretch the length of his as he leaned back over the arm of the barstool.

They slid together—tongues, bodies, desire.

Short-circuiting reason and filling empty caverns Atlas hadn’t realized existed.

When Robin withdrew his tongue for a gulp of air, Atlas let him have two before grabbing the front of his shirt and exerting more control, yanking him back close and taking his turn in Robin’s mouth, tongue sweeping through. He tasted wild and hungry, as irresistible as Atlas had always feared. The sadness—the guilt—underpinning it all dreadfully familiar. Atlas wanted to erase it as much for Robin as for himself.

Fuck, this was a terrible idea, and yet Atlas had zero will to stop it, no idea how to even do that. He went back for more, over and over; the first real kiss he’d had in ages—not a show, not an act, not a hold your nose until it’s over farce—was making his head spin, his insides tangle, and his cock ache.

He rolled his hips, chasing friction, and when Robin rolled his back, cocks rutting together, Atlas tore his mouth away and panted, just shy of a whine. “Robin, I need...” The rest of his words died on a groan, Robin clasping one of his ass cheeks and jerking him higher, a thigh between his legs for Atlas to grind down on, giving him what he needed. He let his head fall back, eyes slipping closed as he rutted. Harder as Robin licked a stripe up his throat. “Fuck yes.”

Atlas threaded his fingers through Robin’s rusty blond locks, and damn if they weren’t softer than they looked. He palmed Robin’s scalp, holding his face against his neck as he rode his leg, regretting his pants more with each thrust.

“Last time I’m going to say this,” Robin rumbled against his neck, the movement of his rough lips on skin giving Atlas goose bumps and all sorts of mental images. “No more suits.”

“But what if I need?—”

He shoved back against Atlas’s hand, righting his head and looking him dead in the eye. “Wouldn’t you rather be humping my leg bare right now?”

Atlas pressed his lips together rather than tell the asshole he’d read his mind.

Robin smirked. “You can’t give me anything, can you?”

“I’m about to give you my hole.”

And smirk gone, replaced by pure fire in his golden eyes. The suit was practically gone a second later, Robin ripping the shirt down the middle, sending buttons flying, before he likewise ripped the pants from the waist to the middle of one leg. “This isn’t even a good one,” he snarled.

“I stole it from the motel room two over,” Atlas said, as he ditched the remains of the shirt. “I had to make do.”

Robin splayed a hand on his chest, fingers drifting across his pecs, from one nipple to the other, making Atlas quake in his arms. “The next time I fuck you?—”

“Getting ahead of yourself?—”

Robin’s leg disappeared, Atlas lost his words in the drop back to his heels, then lost his breath when Robin spun him toward the barstool and, hand in the middle of the back, forced him to bend over the seat. “The next time I fuck you,” he repeated, “I want to flip up your kilt”—he ripped the pants the rest of the way off—“suck your cock”—the sucking sound he made around what Atlas glanced over his shoulder to see were two fingers shoved in his sinful mouth—“then fill this hole”—which he then shoved into his hole, Atlas gasping with pleasure and pain—“with your own come before I fill it with mine.” Atlas melted over the barstool. “And when I’m done, I’m going to tongue fuck you until you come again.”

And melted some more, his mind supplying the pictures to go with Robin’s words, his knees weak at the thought alone, his rock-hard cock leaking precome down the inside of his leg.

“Now, are you gonna wear a suit again?”

Atlas shook his head, words too hard to come by.

“And you better be bare under that kilt for me.”

“If I mean to have sex.” The reply came reflexively, as did the gasp when Robin added another finger, stuffing him full.

“You gonna turn this down?” He pumped inside him, and Atlas keened, so close to the edge, pushing back on Robin’s fingers for more. But it wasn’t enough, wasn’t what he needed to fill all the empty caverns.

“Robin, I need...”

As if reading his thoughts again, Robin hauled him off the barstool and spun him around, holding him by the throat until he was steady on his feet. Only to coast his hand down, along the center line of his chest, over his abs, and along the trail of coarse hair that led to the thatch of dark blond curls around his cock. He curled his fingers around the base of Atlas’s cock, then made a long, agonizing stroke down the length of him, fingers trailing off at the end, precome dripping from his fingertips. “Not helping,” Atlas grumbled, knees weak again.

Robin chuckled. “Not much longer, I promise.” He turned on his heel, shedding clothes as he made his way across the room. He was naked when he lowered himself onto the chaise, in that same fucking relaxed posture that had driven Atlas mad all week. Arm stretched across the chaise back, legs spread, his fat cock ready and waiting. “Come here,” he rumbled, and not even fate’sI told you socould have stopped Atlas from crossing that room, especially not when Robin spit in his hand and stroked himself, spreading moisture down his length, getting himself ready.

Atlas didn’t hesitate to crawl onto his lap, knees on either side of his hips, fingers coasting through the dusting of red-gold hairs on his broad chest. He leaned forward to nip at the freckled skin that had so tempted and teased him, that was even warmer than he’d imagined. “That was mean.”

Robin stopped him short, hand holding him by the face again, the pressure exactly right this time. “I’m not a nice person,” he said. “Neither are you. We accept that about each other.”

“So how mean are you going to be?”

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