Page 57 of A Mistake of Worth
Michael’s smile went wicked and fond. “That, I can work with.”
He rose and pulled Henri from the stool, guiding him to the couch. Michael sat and drew Henri into his lap, one arm around his back, the other sliding between his cheeks to the base of the plug.
“Breathe,” he said.
Henri did. Michael twisted a fraction and drew it out slowly. The first ridge dragged over the tight ring, and Henri’s mouth fell open. Stretch giving way to glide. A slick, obscene sound as the toy retreated, the vibration fading to a whisper and then—
—air.
The last ridge slipped free with a soft pop. Coolness hit sensitive flesh; his rim fluttered around nothing. The ache flipped inside out into a hollow that made his stomach drop. Empty. Hungry. His cock kicked hard against his belly, leaking.
“Michael,” he gasped, thighs shaking. His body tried to clench the absence closed, tried to pull something back in.
“I know,” Michael murmured, palm warm at the small of his back, holding him steady. He set the toy aside. “You’re open for me.”
The emptiness throbbed, need burning low and insistent. Henri’s hands fumbled at Michael’s zipper, frantic now, desperate to trade the vacancy for heat and weight. “Please—inside—”
“Ask me,” Michael said, voice rough and pleased.
“Please, Michael,” Henri begged, almost sobbing with it. “Fill me. I need you.”
Michael freed himself; the blunt heat of his cock nudged at Henri’s slick rim. He kissed Henri’s throat, breath hot. “You’re mine,” he whispered. “Only mine.”
He slid the head in and held there until Henri’s body fluttered and pulled for more.
“Yes,” Henri breathed, and sank down.
Michael’s hands locked on his hips—iron and sure—and Henri wanted the promise of it. He tried to rise; Michael held him in place and ground up, slow and deliberate. Henri groaned.
His thighs trembled around Michael’s hips. Breath caught. His body kept clutching down, trying to keep Michael deeper. Keep the moment.
Michael went still.
A small, broken sound slipped out of Henri. He pressed his palms to Michael’s chest, needing the confirmation that he was held.
Thumbs stroked his hips. “Beg.”
“I already—”
“No.” Lower now. “Not to come. To move. Beg to ride my cock.”
“Please,” Henri said, hips already trying to shift. “Please let me ride you.”
“More.”
Henri’s throat worked. He felt foolish and fierce at once. The words burned on the way out. “I want… your marks.” His eyes flooded. He nodded, hard, like that could push the shame past. “Please bruise me. I want to see you on my skin. I want to wear you.”
Michael’s breath hitched. He gentled his voice. “You want bruises?”
“Yes.” A sob slipped free, humiliating and true. “Please. Your handprints. Your bite. My hips, my thighs—here.” He guided one of Michael’s hands to the sharp curve of bone. “Don’t hide it.”
“Look at me,” Michael said. Henri did. “Stop means stop. If you change your mind, you tell me.”
“I will.”
“You want my marks on you, baby?”
“I want them,” Henri said, tears bright. “I want you.”
