Chapter 1: Tracing the Marks
The whiskey bottle on the nightstand was half-empty, a silent testament to the kind of day it had been. Tommy lay sprawled across the sun-bleached sheets, one arm thrown over his eyes. The bleached ends of his hair were dark at the roots against the pillow, and the muscle of his chest, covered in a dusting of dark hair, rose and fell with a tension that hadn’t eased since he’d gotten home.
Chanse let the bedroom door click shut behind him. He’d heard the whole thing, the slammed cabinet, the frustrated sigh that was more of a growl. He set the glass of water he’d fetched on the nightstand, next to the whiskey.
“They’re fucking idiots,” Chanse said, his voice a low rasp in the dim room. He didn’t ask. He just knew.
Tommy’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Yeah..."
"But you're good still..." Chanse pointed out, perching on the edge of the bed. His fingers, deft and sure, found the knot in Tommy’s shoulder, working it with a firm pressure.
"Yeah.." Tommy finally moved his arm, looking up at Chanse. His brown eyes were weary. “I just wanted to come home and forget how to think for a few hours.”
Chanse understood the translation. His thumb stroked the side of Tommy’s neck, over a faint, purpling bite mark he’d left there last night. “I know you do, baby. But you’re still sore. I can feel how tense you are. I’m not fucking you raw again tonight.”
A flash of petulance crossed Tommy’s face, the charismatic leader replaced by a man who wanted to be overtaken. “I don’t care. I can take it.”
“You could,” Chanse agreed, his voice dropping as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Tommy’s ear. “But I care. So we’re gonna take things slow tonight.”
He moved before Tommy could protest, swinging a leg over him to straddle his hips. The denim of Chanse’s jeans was rough against Tommy’s sweatpants. He pinned Tommy’s wrists to the mattress, not with violence, but with an unyielding certainty. Tommy’s breath hitched, a submission that was more profound than any struggle.
“Look at you,” Chanse murmured, his hazel eyes sharp in the lamplight. He released one wrist to trace the constellation of marks along Tommy’s collarbone, his pectoral. His thumb brushed a nipple, feeling it peak instantly under the cotton of Tommy’s shirt. “All marked up. All mine. And you’re so wound up you’re vibrating.”
Tommy arched up, seeking friction, but Chanse held him down, a firm hand on his abdomen. “Chanse—”
“Easy, baby,” Chanse whispered, the command softened by the kiss he placed on Tommy’s sternum. “Just let me make you feel good. Let me take take care of you."
He didn’t wait for permission. He hooked his fingers under the hem of Tommy’s shirt and peeled it up, over the broad expanse of his stomach, his chest, tossing it aside. The air was cool on Tommy’s skin, raising goosebumps that Chanse followed with his mouth. He worshipped the landscape of him—the trail of hair leading down from his navel, the heavy muscles of his pecs, the sensitive dip of his armpit. He was slow, methodical, a deliberate counterpoint to the frantic energy thrumming through Tommy.
Tommy’s protest dissolved into a ragged whimper when Chanse’s teeth grazed his inner thigh, just shy of where he wanted him most. His hands fisted in the sheets. “Please.”
“Please what?” Chanse asked, his breath hot against the taut skin. He nuzzled the thick bulge in Tommy’s sweats, inhaling the scent of him—salt, clean cotton, that faint citrus aftershave. “Use your words, big man.”
“Want your mouth,” Tommy choked out, his hips giving a helpless little jerk.
Chanse smiled against him, a predatory, pleased thing. He mouthed him through the fabric, slow and wet, feeling the rigid length of him. “Demanding tonight.” He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Tommy’s sweats and his briefs, dragging them down in one smooth pull.
Tommy’s cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. Chanse didn’t take it immediately. He held Tommy’s gaze, watching his face flush, seeing the anxiety melt into pure, desperate need. He leaned down and licked a broad, flat stripe from his balls to the tip, tasting the bitter pre-come.
“Fuck,” Tommy gasped, his head pressing back into the pillow.
Chanse took him in, his mouth a slick, tight heat. He went slow, burying his nose in the coarse hair at the base, then pulling back until just the head rested on his tongue. He set a rhythm that was pure torture—deep, sucking pulls followed by languid strokes of his hand where his mouth couldn’t reach. His other hand slipped beneath Tommy, fingers skating over his perineum, finding the hot, clenched pucker of his hole.
Tommy cried out, his whole body tensing. It was swollen, sensitive, just as Chanse knew it would be. He circled it with a spit-slick fingertip, applying just the faintest pressure.
“Shit, Chanse, shit—“
Chanse released his cock with a pop. “Too much?”
“Don’t you fucking stop,” Tommy begged, his voice broken.
So Chanse didn’t. He swallowed him down again, his throat working, as he pressed the pad of his finger firmly against Tommy’s entrance. Not inside, just steady, unrelenting pressure right on the aching nerve. The dual sensation—the wet, rhythmic suction on his cock and the persistent, maddening pressure on his sore hole—drove Tommy towards the edge and got his thighs trembing. A string of filth, of prayers, fell from his lips.
Chanse felt the telltale tightening in Tommy’s abdomen, the jump of his cock on his tongue. He pulled off, jerking him slowly with his hand. Feeling himself aching inside his own jeans.
Chanse felt himself aching inside his own jeans, the denim tight and restrictive, but he ignored it, his focus entirely on Tommy's writhing form beneath him.
"Please, Chanse, just a finger, fuck me with it, I need it," Tommy begged, his voice ragged and desperate, hips canting up into nothing. "I can take it, come on, just a little."
Chanse shook his head, his curls damp with sweat. "It's too sensitive, baby. You're all worked up and sore." He leaned down, his breath hot against Tommy's ear. "But I could do something else."
He moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the inside of Tommy's naked thighs, the skin trembling under his lips. His tongue soothed over the heated flesh, then dipped lower, worshipping Tommy's sore hole with his mouth.
He let his tongue slip past the swollen rim, and Tommy screamed, a raw, broken sound that tore through the quiet room.
Tommy thrashed around, hands scrabbling at the sheets, but Chanse held him firm, his mouth attached, tongue working deep. Chanse rarely got to eat his ass, too self-conscious usually, but now Tommy was too gone to care, lost in sensation. The wet, intimate slide of Chanse's tongue against his most private part drove Tommy wild, his protests melting into incoherent moans.
Chanse licked and probed, savoring the taste, the tight heat, the way Tommy's body yielded to him. Tommy's cock jerked, leaking onto his stomach, as Chanse sucked gently at the rim, then plunged his tongue back in. "Fuck, yes, right there, don't stop," Tommy babbled, his back arching off the bed.
Chanse increased the pressure, his tongue fucking Tommy in slow, deliberate strokes, one hand gripping Tommy's hip hard. The sensation was overwhelming, the direct stimulation on his oversensitive hole sending shocks of pleasure through Tommy's entire body. He felt the orgasm building, a tidal wave starting deep in his guts, coiling tight.
With a final, desperate cry, Tommy came, his cock pulsing jets of come across his chest and stomach, his whole body seizing.
The shuddering subsided, leaving Tommy boneless and gasping, his vision speckled. Before the haze of completion could fully claim him, Chanse was moving, kissing up the trail of spend on his stomach, licking a stripe through the mess on his pectoral. “That was pretty,” Chanse murmured against his skin, his voice rough with want. “But you’re not done, are you?” Chanse’s mouth was back on his, kissing him deep and filthy, letting Tommy taste himself.
Chanse’s mouth was back on his, kissing him deep and filthy, letting Tommy taste himself.
Tommy responded by shaking his head no. He could feel it, the knot of need in his stomach still burning.
A small smile finally appeared on his lips, as he reached for the button of Chanse’s jeans, shoving them down his thighs to release Chanse’s straining thick cock. “Fuck, you’re hard baby,” Tommy whispered, and kissed Chanse again, harder this time as he was jerking Chanse’s cock slowly with his hand. Tommy feeling his own cock swell again between their stomachs.
“You’re fucking relentless,” Chanse gasped against his mouth, but his hips stuttered forward into Tommy’s fist.
“Need you inside,” Tommy said, the words raw. “Need to feel you. Fuck the sore.”
Chanse stilled his hand, his expression tightening. “Tommy.” The name was a warning and a plea.
“I know my body,” Tommy insisted, guiding the head of Chanse’s cock, slick with pre-come, back to his tender entrance. He pressed it against the pulsing ring of muscle. A sharp, bright pain lanced through him, followed by a wave of dizzying fullness as the tip breached him. He groaned, long and low, his head falling back.
“Jesus Christ,” Chanse hissed, his control snapping. He sank in, a slow, brutal inch at a time, the hot clench of Tommy’s body a vise. “Too much?”
“Don’t stop,” Tommy commanded, his voice guttural, nails biting into Chanse’s shoulders. “Give me all of it.”