Page 38 of The Vines Between Us
"I need to be inside you," he growled against my throat, his teeth scraping sensitive skin. "Need to feel you around me."
"Yes," I hissed, spreading my legs wider in invitation, beyond pride or hesitation. "God, yes."
He reached into the bedside drawer, producing a small bottle of oil. The momentary separation as he prepared himself was almost unbearable. When he returned, coating his fingers liberally, he circled my entrance with teasing pressure.
"Look at me," he said, waiting until our eyes locked before slowly pushing one finger inside me.
The intrusion burned slightly—it had been years since I'd been with a man—but the discomfort quickly gave way to pleasure as he found that spot inside me that made my vision blur. All the while, he watched my face, reading my reactions with the same attentiveness he showed his precious vines.
"More," I demanded, pushing back against his hand, desperate for the fullness only he could provide.
He added a second finger, then a third, stretching me with exquisite care despite our mutual desperation. By the time he withdrew his fingers, I was writhing beneath him, my cock leaking steadily onto my stomach, my body aching with need.
Hugo positioned himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Our eyes locked as he pushed forward, breaching me slowly, inexorably. The stretch and burn were exquisite—pain and pleasure so intertwined I couldn't separate them.
"Fuck," I gasped as he bottomed out, filling me completely. "Hugo, move. Please."
He began to thrust, each stroke precise and devastating, angling to hit that spot inside me that made stars explode behind my eyelids. I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper, harder. The sound of our bodies coming together—skin against skin, wet and rhythmic—filled the room, punctuated by our gasps and moans.
"Touch yourself," Hugo commanded, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I want to watch you come apart."
I obeyed, wrapping my hand around my aching cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations were overwhelming—his thick length pounding into me, my hand working my own shaft, his eyes devouring every reaction on my face.
"I'm close," I warned, my voice breaking as pressure built at the base of my spine.
"Come for me," he urged, increasing his pace, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Let me feel you."
My orgasm crashed through me with stunning force. I cried out his name as hot ropes of cum painted my chest and stomach, my body clenching around him in pulsing waves. The sight of my release pushed Hugo over the edge. He drove into me one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he came with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing deep inside me.
He collapsed onto my chest, both of us gasping for breath, our bodies slick with sweat and cum. After a moment, he carefully withdrew, drawing a whimper from me at the sudden emptiness. He disappeared briefly, returning with a warm, damp cloth to clean us both with tender attention.
Afterward, we lay tangled in Hugo's sheets, my head on Hugo's chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. The afternoon light painted the room gold, dust motes dancing in the air above us. His fingers traced lazy patterns on my skin, occasionally dipping lower to where I was still sensitive and open from his possession.
"I've thought about this," Hugo murmured, his voice rough. "Finding you again. Being with you. For fourteen years, Alexandre."
I closed my eyes, savouring the moment, committing it to memory—the warmth of his skin, the scent of him mixed with our lovemaking, the perfect weight of his arm across my body.
"I never stopped loving you," he continued as he tenderly nibbled on my collarbone. "Even when I tried."
I should have said it back. The words were true—I had carried Hugo with me through every empty meaningless relationship, every solitary night, every moment I'd denied myself what I wanted most. He had been the standard against which all others failed to measure, the one that got away, that I couldn't have.
Yet as Hugo's lips traced my collarbone, a memory crashed over me with devastating clarity.
I was seventeen, home for Easter break. My father had found a letter Hugo had written me—innocent enough, but signed "with love." The beating that followed had been methodical, calculated to cause maximum pain without visible marks.
"You think you love him?" My father's voice, cold with disgust. "Love makes you weak. Vulnerable. It gives people power over you." Each word punctuated by another blow. "Is that what you want? To be someone's weakness?"
But worse than the beating was what came after. He'd lockedme in my room and gone to find my mother. Her crying had echoed through the house for hours. When she finally came to tend my bruises, her own face bore fresh marks.
"I'm sorry, Maman," I'd whispered.
"Non, mon chéri," she'd replied, her voice broken. "I'm sorry. Sorry you can't be who you are without us all paying for it."
The memory threatened to shatter my arousal like ice water. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing my father's voice to fade.Not here. Not now.I focused on Hugo's warmth, his scent of earth and rosemary, the gentle pressure of his lips against my skin.
I kissed him again, harder this time, deliberately drowning my father's words in the taste of Hugo's mouth. We made love a second time, slower now, with me straddling his hips, riding him with deliberate care as his hands gripped my thighs hard enough to bruise. When we came together this time, his name was a prayer on my lips, and the look in his eyes nearly broke me open.
Sleep claimed us eventually, wrapped in each other's arms.
