Page 48 of Confession
“You’re gonna make me fall asleep,” he says.
“We could try somnophilia.”
“So you’re going to fuck me?”
“You know I’m going to fuck you.”
I turn my attention to his very nice calves and hamstrings then work my way to his ass. He moans when I start to knead his glutes.
They’re so round and firm. Gorgeous. I pour fresh oil into my hand, slick my cock, then part his cheeks to expose his tight hole. He makes a needy little sound when I start to massage it. I push in. He opens easily for me because I’ve been fucking him so much. He relaxes and accepts it.
I love fucking him roughly, I really do. But I love this too. He’s different when he’s soft like this.
I pull him halfway onto his side and nudge his leg up. I wrap my arms around him and slow fuck him until he’s whining. I reach around his hip and take hold of his leaking dick. He’s hard enough that he should come, but he’s not going to, not from something this loving. So I grip his throat and I bite his neck until he cries out, but I just keep slow fucking him until his mindshuts down and his body is mine. I feel it happen, the way he simultaneously yields to me and tightens.
I’m so focused on him that I’m not really thinking about coming myself, but when he seizes on my cock, when he cries out and bucks against me, I bury myself deep and fill him with my cum.
And I don’t let go. I just hang onto him and let the candles burn down.
I think I’ve been lonely too.
***
The last candle is still weakly burning when I hear a door close and my eyes partially open. It takes a moment for me to figure why I have a sense of wrongness. I reach across the bed, hunting.
I sit up and stare at where Quinn is supposed to be. I look across the dim room to the bathroom, but it’s dark. I look around on the floor for his shorts, but they’re gone.
I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. He’s so damn frustrating.
I lie in bed for a long while, stewing and waking up beyond any hope of falling back asleep. I get up and use the bathroom.
Emerging, I eye the TV and the bed, but neither look inviting. I put on some sweats and head downstairs.
There’s a light on in the kitchen. I move that direction, hoping it’s Quinn and that maybe he was going to come back.
It’s not Quinn. It’s Roman.
He’s leaning over the sink breathing hard. I know he’s heard me because he hears everything, but I still hang back. He runs the water and rinses his mouth.
He’s wearing black sweats that hang low on his hips. The whip scars on his back are bleached under the above-sink light, but they show more prominently when he straightens.
He takes his time washing his hands before he turns to face me. I walk into the kitchen now that I’m not behind his back. I go to the fridge and grab one of Sasha’s vitamin waters.
“You want one?” I ask, holding it out. Roman takes it from me. I grab another.
We both go to the table. Roman takes the end seat that he always chooses, the one that no one can walk behind. I sit on the long side with a chair between us, giving him space.
He uncaps the bottle. His hands are still bruised and abraded from when he lost his temper after the takedown at the old barn.
“Where’s Lucas?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to wake him. I wake him too often.” He scrubs a hand over his skull-trimmed hair.
“Are you having nightmares?”
Roman drinks some of the water. “I never did, in prison. I don’t understand why I’m having them now.”
There are so many things I want to say. They run through my head.
