Page 55 of Tortured Eyes
I climb back up his body, one hand going to the place I want it and the other pulling on his to get him to my dick. He’s rigid in my grip, the solid length of him showing both me and God that this is everything it should be and more. He’s mine now. Just for me to enjoy. And I want to enjoy it. I want to look into these blue eyes as he takes hold of what he wants and lets me do the same.
He tugs me hard, just like he always does, twisting my length and ruining all thoughts of women. This man knows how to handle dick. His fingers are rough and agile, winding me up quickly the way only he can. I grunt and let my hand fall away from him, my body rolling onto the bed so he can go exactly where he wants to. The sheets shift in seconds, his frame gliding downwards under them. My eyes close at the feel of his lips trailing over my skin, soft sighs coming out of them. Fuck. I’m lost again, my head floating away to places only he takes me. And the feel of those lips eventually sinking down over my dick, consuming it and pulling it deep into his throat, makes my stomach buckle.
“Jesus,” I pant, eyes opening under the pressure.
I shove the sheets out of the way, needing to watch him on me. Dirty blonde hair moves, the muscles in his neck twisting to draw me in deeper. So fucking deep. Everything’s warm and wet, fucking hot. My eyes roll, hands grabbing for his head to keep him going deeper still. It’s all I’ve got to stop the come exploding out of me because I don’t want that yet. I want inside him, want his voice calling out my name.
The moment he draws upwards, I push him away from me, pleased to see the filth his blue eyes are suddenly filled with. He grabs at my hands, trying to push me back so he can carry on. No. I use my strength to overpower him, putting him exactly where I want him, and brace against the fight he puts up. It’s always the same once the priest inside abandons him. He becomes belligerent, aggressive even. Real.
“Fuck,” he spits out.
My hands turn him, fingers grabbing in hard to get him on his knees. Still, he fights, somehow managing to get up in my face again to press his lips against mine. Everything in me loosens again at the feel of them, his tongue finding parts of me no one else finds. His hands tangle in my hair, tugging it and angling me downwards. Clever fuck. I chuckle into his mouth and break his hold, spinning his body so quickly he grunts at the impact and gets tossed to the bed again.
“Stay down,” I mutter, covering the back of his neck with my forearm.
He bucks and thrashes, growled words and aggression coming back at me. I smile the entire time, willing those curses and antagonism out of him some more. He’s hot as fuck like this. Always is. My priest. Mine.
My fingers slide down his back, two of them tapping the trail to his ass. He’s got about ten seconds more of that fight, and then I’m inside him, reminding him who he belongs to. God? I lick across his spine, still pinning his weight down. God doesn’t have a thing on me when he turns like this. This is all male aggression and attitude—the reality beneath the veil.
I bite into his hip bone, hard enough that he grunts and tries flinging his hand at my head again. Fuck that. I line my dick up as he tries again and thrashes some more and press my thumb at his ass. Another bite, this time into his ribs to get me higher on him, and I surge straight in, balls deep. He stills instantly.
“You done now?” I mutter.
He groans in reply, pulling his hands up the bed away from me. I watch them flex out, watch them relax and then grip into the sheets. My hips roll into him, letting him feel how hard I am because of him. Until her, until that red, fucking hair, there wasn’t another who ever got the same reaction from me.
“Tell me you want me,” I grate out. He nods into the sheets, mumbling something. It makes me pull his hips back to me, lifting him until he’s on his hands and knees. “I want to hear it all, Samuel. All of it. Remind me what I'm missing."
My dick shunts home again, slowly drawing out and then ramming in with everything I’ve got. I want hard and fast, and I want all his words condemning me while we do it. It’s not like his damn mouth doesn’t have the right to chastise me if he wants to.
I spread his legs wider and drive in again, eyes closing as he starts muttering and spitting filth at me. It’s all there ready to come out. Fuck me. I hate you. Touch me. More. Everything’s sanctimonious, his mouth filled with some divine rite of passage, as I touch things I shouldn’t be allowed to. My fingers hold on to his dick, letting the familiarity of it ease me back to feeling something like love. It’s all so damn seamless with him. Always is. As if we know exactly how to bring each other off without words. But I like the words. They charge me, make me see the differences between us and enjoy it all the more because of them.
His head turns, his mouth reaching for mine as I keep driving in. It’s the fucking kissing that brings me off quicker than anything, the feel of those heavenly lips letting me anywhere near them. I groan and push in as deep as I can, letting him cleanse the last fuck knows how many murders out of me with his tongue. His teeth nip and suck, pulling more and more thoughts of closeness out of me. He’s got it without trying. He’s further inside me than anyone. His thoughts, his mind. His hands. He’s always there, guiding me somehow.
The rush of come starts pulsing through me, and my hand pulls his towards his dick. I want together, want that heaven-sent come to pour out of him as I pour my version of sin in. The mental imagery makes me grunt and listen to his words again, waiting for the sound of my name to become too loud for this sacred ground to bear.
“Logan. Fuck,” he pants, his body rigid beneath me. “I can’t...”
I push him downwards, muffling his mouth into the sheets to keep him quiet here. I don’t want to. I want my name loud and screamed when he comes, but I keep him down for him. Respect forces me there because of who he is to his people and the possibility of someone hearing him.
The jolt of his body and the low groan of pleasure beneath me flood me with my own need to come. I burrow in again and again until I feel like smothering my own damn mouth. Fuck quiet. I want noise and growls, words shouted, raw and primal. He stills beneath me, letting me have my way as roughly and harshly as I like, until the fierce build of it makes me bite into him to stave off my own yell.
It's just quiet then. Gentle again. Nothing but the feel of myself inside him, the wheezed sound of his breath combined with mine, and my hands holding him fast to the sheets. I'm not moving. Don't want to. I want my weight on him. My scent all over him. And my damned lips hovering on his spine until he tells me I'm too heavy. I don't even care if I am in reality, but I'll probably move if he asks me to. Maybe.
Either way, we're staying like this for a while.
Fucking some more when I get my breath back.
And I'm not thinking.
* * *
“You never did tell me why you did this,” he says softly.
I keep my cheek propped on the back of my hands and stare out into the moonlight, still unable to talk about it with any clarity. I did it because it meant something to me, to him. He traces over the area lightly, one finger drawing patterns over the intricate cross stretched over my back, and sighs. I frown at the sound of it and turn to look at him over my shoulder, wondering what he’s got to be unhappy about. He’s just been fucked. I’m here in his bed, where he's wanted me for three weeks. And he’s still got his priestly job. Sounds like the best of all worlds if you ask me.
“I did it for you,” I mutter, turning back to look out the window. I guess I did, anyway. A nod to his influence. It’s not like the actual cross means anything other than his need for it. Maybe I thought it might make him more comfortable with us. More accepting of me. “That what you want to hear?”
“I don’t know what I want to hear,” he whispers.
