Chapter 15: Stopped
The stale scent of Erica’s uneaten pizza still hung faintly in Derek’s dorm room days later, a persistent reminder of the awkward interrogation. He was hunched over his physics textbook, the equations blurring into meaningless symbols. His neck still prickled under the collar of his hoodie, the fading bruises a phantom sensation – and a constant, humiliating signal flare to anyone who looked too closely, especially Erica. He kept replaying Peter’s low, possessive "He's mine". It should have felt like a cage. Instead, a forbidden heat pooled low in his belly every damn time.
The heavy thud of footsteps and the boisterous laughter of athletes echoed down the hallway outside his door. Hockey practice ending. Derek’s pencil snapped. He froze, listening intently. Shuffling gear, locker doors slamming, voices fading as teammates headed towards the showers or the dining hall. Then, the distinct rhythm of a single set of footsteps – heavier, purposeful, accompanied by the faint jingle of keys. Peter.
Derek’s breath hitched. He knew Peter’s routine. He’d walk past Derek’s door to get to his own room down the hall. Derek fought the urge to bolt the lock, to hide. Instead, a reckless, desperate energy surged through him, overriding his usual anxiety. The memory of Peter sweaty and powerful, pinning him in the communal shower, flooded back with startling clarity. The salt tang of exertion, the heat rolling off his skin, the sheer dominance of his body. Derek hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. He craved it again. Craved the obliterating focus of Peter’s attention, the surrender.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly. Before he could second-guess himself, he was at the door, pressing his ear against the cool wood. The footsteps grew louder, closer. The sharp, clean scent of fresh sweat, mixed with the lingering ozone tang of the ice rink, seeped under the door. Derek’s cock stiffened instantly, straining against his jeans. His palms were slick.
The footsteps paused right outside. Derek could almost feel the heat radiating from the other side. He yanked the door open.
Peter stood there, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed from exertion. He wore only damp practice shorts and a thin, equally soaked athletic tank top that clung obscenely to the carved planes of his chest and abdomen. Rivulets of sweat traced paths down the powerful cords of his neck, over the defined ridges of his six-pack, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts. He looked primal, powerful, radiating a heat Derek could feel from two feet away. A hockey bag was slung over one massive shoulder.
Peter blinked, surprised, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face as he took in Derek’s flushed expression and dilated pupils. "Hale? What's up? Need help with Newton?" His voice was rough, breathless.
Derek didn't answer. He couldn't form words. His gaze raked over Peter’s sweat-slicked body, lingering on the sheer size of him barely contained by the thin fabric. The scent, that potent mix of male exertion and Peter, filled Derek’s senses, short-circuiting his brain. He grabbed the front of Peter’s damp tank top and yanked hard, pulling the bigger man off-balance into the room.
Peter stumbled forward with a surprised grunt, dropping his bag just inside the threshold. "Whoa, easy there—"
Derek slammed the door shut with his foot and threw the lock with a decisive click. It was the only sound besides their ragged breathing. He pushed Peter back against the closed door. The damp fabric of Peter’s top felt hot and slick under Derek’s knuckles. Peter’s eyes, wide with momentary shock, darkened instantly, understanding dawning. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
"Fuck, Derek," Peter breathed, his voice dropping an octave. He didn't resist the push. "Something on your mind?"
Instead of answering, Derek surged forward, crushing his mouth against Peter’s. It was messy, desperate, fueled by days of pent-up tension and the visceral trigger of Peter’s sweat and strength. He tasted salt and adrenaline. Peter groaned, a deep, hungry sound, and instantly took control. His hands, still radiating heat from practice, came up to fist in Derek’s hair, pulling his head back at a sharp angle, deepening the kiss brutally. His tongue plunged into Derek’s mouth, demanding, possessive. Derek whimpered, melting into the hard plane of the door, his own hands fumbling over the sweat-slick skin of Peter’s sides, his back, feeling the powerful muscles shifting beneath damp cotton.
Peter tore his mouth away, breathing hard. His eyes were pure predatory heat. "Been thinking about this, pretty boy? Thinking about my sweat on you? My cock?"
"Yes," Derek gasped, shivering as Peter’s teeth scraped his earlobe. "God, yes." The admission was raw, stripped bare. He pawed at the hem of Peter’s tank top. "Off. Get this fucking off."
Peter chuckled darkly, a sound that vibrated through Derek’s body. He released Derek’s hair just long enough to grab the back of his own tank top and haul it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. Derek’s breath caught. Peter’s chest glistened, sweat highlighting every defined abdominal muscle, the powerful swell of his pecs, the dark trail of hair leading down. He smelled overwhelmingly male, rich and musky. Derek leaned in, unable to resist, and licked a stripe up the center of Peter’s chest, tasting the salty tang. Peter hissed, his fingers digging into Derek’s shoulders.
"Fuck, you’re eager," Peter rasped. He spun them, slamming Derek hard against the door instead. The impact knocked the air from Derek’s lungs. Peter’s knee shoved between Derek’s thighs, pressing firmly against his erection. Derek cried out, bucking against the pressure. "That’s it," Peter murmured, grinding his knee. "Show me how much you want it." His hands went to the waistband of Derek’s jeans, popping the button, yanking the zipper down. "Get these off. Now."
Derek scrambled, pushing his jeans and boxers down his hips in a frantic tangle, kicking them off his ankles. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking. Peter’s gaze raked over him, lingering on Derek’s flushed, exposed cock. He licked his lips.
"Turn around," Peter ordered, his voice thick with lust. "Hands on the door."
Derek obeyed instantly, a tremor running through him as he pressed his palms flat against the cool wood. He heard the rustle of Peter’s shorts hitting the floor, the distinct rip of a condom packet. His heart hammered against his ribs. The cool slick of lube touched his entrance a moment later, Peter’s thick finger circling him, teasing, making Derek gasp and push back.
"Please," Derek whimpered, pressing his forehead against the door. "Peter, please. I need it. I need your cock."
"Shhh," Peter soothed, his voice rough. "I know you do, baby. Taking what’s mine." The blunt, insistent pressure replaced the finger. Peter gripped Derek’s hips hard enough to bruise, fingers biting into the flesh. "Breathe out. Take it."
He pushed. Slowly, inexorably. Derek cried out as the thick head breached him, the stretch intense, almost painful, but exactly what he craved. Peter didn’t stop, pressing forward with relentless strength until he was buried to the hilt. Derek felt impossibly full, pinned, every nerve ending screaming. Peter held himself there, buried deep, his sweat-slicked chest pressed against Derek’s back, his breath hot on Derek’s neck. He could feel the powerful throb of Peter’s cock inside him.
"Fuck, you’re tight," Peter groaned, his voice strained. "So goddamn tight around me." He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, the drag exquisite torture, then slammed back in with brutal force.
Derek yelled, his knuckles white against the door. Peter set a punishing rhythm from the start, each deep, powerful thrust driving Derek harder against the wood. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the small room, loud and obscene. Sweat dripped off Peter’s brow onto Derek’s back. Derek could feel every ridge, every vein of Peter’s massive cock carving its path inside him. He pushed back, meeting each thrust, the sheer force of it threatening to buckle his knees, the pleasure a sharp, blinding counterpoint to the ache. Peter’s hands tightened on his hips, guiding him, using him.
"Yeah," Peter grunted, his breath coming in harsh gasps. "Take that cock, Derek. Take it all. Feel how deep I am. Claiming you." He punctuated his words with a particularly vicious thrust that made Derek see stars. "Mine. Every fucking inch of you is mine."
The words, combined with the relentless pounding, the overwhelming scent and feel of Peter, the sheer ownership radiating from him, shattered Derek’s control. His orgasm ripped through him violently, untouched. He came with a ragged, broken shout, thick spurts hitting the door, his body clenching hard around Peter’s still-driving cock.
"Fuck! Yes!" Peter snarled, feeling Derek’s tight channel convulse. He fucked him through the aftershocks, his thrusts becoming erratic, brutal. "Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna mark you inside too." With a final, guttural groan, Peter slammed deep, grinding his hips against Derek’s ass, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself into the condom.
They slumped against the door, slick with sweat, breathing ragged. Peter’s weight pressed Derek hard against the wood, trapping him. He nuzzled the sensitive skin where neck met shoulder, teeth grazing the fading bruises. Derek trembled, utterly spent, pinned, overwhelmed by the raw power and the potent aftermath. The scent of sweat and sex was thick in the air.
Peter’s phone, somewhere in the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, buzzed insistently. Then again. And again.
With a sigh, Peter finally eased back, pulling out slowly. Derek whimpered at the sudden emptiness. Peter turned him around, his gaze heavy-lidded but intense. He cupped Derek’s cheek, thumb brushing over the flush high on his cheekbone.
Peter’s phone buzzed again, vibrating against the floorboards. Derek glanced down, seeing Erica’s name flashing on the screen. Multiple texts.
Peter followed his gaze, a smirk playing on his lips. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he looked back at Derek, his thumb still tracing the fevered skin. "So," he murmured, his voice a low rasp still thick with satisfaction. "We should probably talk about this." He gestured vaguely between them, encompassing the locked door, the discarded clothes, the lingering musk of sex. "And maybe... what Erica’s gonna say." He didn’t sound worried. He sounded amused. Possessive. Derek’s stomach clenched, the bliss momentarily pierced by the sharp edge of reality. The buzzing phone felt like an alarm.