Chapter 12: Mouth Service
The silence after the storm was a living thing. It pulsed in time with the dull, aching throb between Reese’s legs, a phantom echo of the violence that had just been visited upon his body. He lay on his side, facing Roman, his breathing still uneven. The deep, hollow ache where the eggs had been was a strange new emptiness. The sharper, raw burn of his overstimulated cock was a more familiar torment.
Roman watched him, his expression unreadable in the gloom. His thumb stroked absent circles on the small of Reese’s back, a gesture that felt almost affectionate. It was a lie. Reese knew it was a lie. The calm was just the eye of the hurricane.
“You’re still hard,” Roman observed, his voice a low rumble. His gaze drifted down Reese’s body. Despite the brutal, repeated climaxes, despite the sensitivity that made the brush of the sheets feel like sandpaper, Reese’s cock lay against his thigh, half-hard and twitching pitifully. The berries’ curse was a slow burn in his veins, an unrelenting itch beneath his skin that no amount of pain or release could fully extinguish.
“It’s the berries,” Reese muttered, turning his face into the pillow. “You know it is.”
“I know,” Roman said. He shifted, sitting up. The bed dipped. “And an itch demands to be scratched. But we’ll do it my way.”
Reese heard the soft, deliberate sound of a drawer opening. The clink of something being selected. He didn’t look. Fear, cold and slick, coiled in his hollow gut. He was so tired. So utterly spent. The thought of another assault made his muscles quiver with weak protest.
Roman’s hand returned, cool against the feverish skin of Reese’s hip. He urged Reese onto his stomach. Reese went, boneless, his body obeying out of a deep, ingrained instinct. Submission was easier than resistance. It hurt less. Usually.
A slick, cold touch against his entrance made him flinch. Not oil. Something else.
“What is that?” Reese’s voice was muffled.
“A remedy,” Roman said, his tone light, almost conversational. “For the emptiness.”
Before Reese could process the words, Roman pressed forward. The object was large, blunt, and unyielding. It wasn’t a cock or a toy. It was… fibrous. It burned.
Reese jerked as the thing—a thick, knobby root—was pushed past his clenched ring of muscle. It was too dry, despite the slickness Roman had used. It stretched him, a rough, unforgiving invasion. Then the heat began.
It started as a warm tingle, deep inside where he was still tender and raw from the eggs’ passage. Within seconds, the warmth became a low burn. Then a fierce, radiating heat that spread through his pelvic floor, a seeping, chemical fire.
“Fuck! Fuck, what is that?” Reese gasped, pushing up on his elbows.
Roman settled his weight across Reese’s thighs, pinning him. He leaned down, his lips close to Reese’s ear. “Ginger. A fresh piece. It’s called figging. It’s… enlightening.”
The burn intensified. It wasn’t the sharp tear of pain, but a deep, pervasive, eating heat. It felt like he’d swallowed a coal and it was lodged in his ass. His body clenched instinctively, a spasm of panic, and the contraction only ground the root deeper, spreading the fiery oils, making the sensation a hundred times worse.
“Get it out!” Reese cried out, his back arching. “Roman, please, it burns, get it the fuck out!”
“No.” Roman’s hand smoothed over the curve of Reese’s ass, a mockery of a soothing gesture. “Feel it. Let it remind you who you belong to, even when I’m not inside you.”
The heat was maddening. It was everywhere. It flooded his senses, a brutal counterpoint to the aching emptiness. And yet, traitorously, his cock, which had softened to a state of sore misery, began to stir. The burn was intense, overwhelming, but it was sensation. It was a focus for the restless, itching energy the berries had left behind. A dull throb of blood returned to his spent shaft.
Reese buried his face in the sheets, a long, shuddering moan torn from his chest. It was a sound of agony, but threaded through it was a wire of unwanted, undeniable arousal. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk, seeking friction against the bed, and the movement shifted the ginger root. Fresh fire lanced through him. He cried out again, his fingers twisting in the bedding.
“See?” Roman purred. He rocked his hips, his own hardening cock dragging against Reese’s ass cheek through the fabric of his trousers. “Your body knows what it needs. Even when your mind protests.”
The burn settled into a constant, roaring flame. Reese panted, shaking, tears of frustration and sensory overload pricking his eyes. He was a mess of conflicting signals: the deep burn, the hollow ache, the persistent, hungry throb of his cock. He felt flayed open, every nerve ending screaming.
He needed an anchor. Something to focus on besides the fire in his guts.
With a strength born of pure desperation, Reese pushed back against Roman’s weight. He twisted, managing to roll partially onto his side. Roman allowed it, his dark eyes curious.
Reese looked up at him, his own eyes glassy with pain and a defiant, glittering heat. He reached up, his hand trembling, and fisted it in the front of Roman’s shirt. He pulled him down.
The kiss was nothing like their previous clashes. It wasn’t a battle. It was an offering. Reese’s lips were soft, pleading. He opened his mouth, inviting Roman in, and when Roman’s tongue met his, Reese poured himself into it.
It was a trick. A diversion. But it was also real.
As their tongues tangled, Reese focused inward, past the burning in his ass, past the soreness in his cock. He tapped into the core of what he was. An incubus. A conduit for desire. He drew the scattered, painful echoes of his own arousal and wove them into something potent, something seductive. He pulled the sensation from his own nerves—the biting heat, the frantic need—and transformed it. He filtered it through the kiss, flooding it into Roman.
It was a slow, insidious invasion. A corruption in reverse.
Roman stiffened above him. He tried to break the kiss, a growl forming in his throat, but Reese clung to him, sucking on his lower lip, his hands coming up to cradle Roman’s face. He poured more energy into the connection, not as a blast, but as a steady, dripping stream. The erotic charge was laced with Reese’s own defiance, his pain, his unwilling surrender. It was complex and dark and irresistible.
Roman’s resistance crumbled. A shudder wracked his powerful frame. He kissed Reese back, deeper, his hands coming up to tangle in the incubus’s silver-white hair. He was being seduced by his own victim, and the irony of it, the sheer gall, only seemed to fuel his response.
Reese moved his mouth away from Roman’s lips, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the demon’s jaw to the strong column of his throat. He found the pulse point and sucked, hard, flooding more of that crafted energy into the bloodstream so close to the surface. Roman’s head fell back with a ragged groan.
“You little witch,” Roman breathed, but his hands were pulling Reese closer.
“You’re burning me alive,” Reese whispered against his skin, his voice husky with pain and power. “Let me burn you, too.”
He moved lower, nuzzling open the front of Roman’s shirt. He found a flat, dark nipple and took it into his mouth. He didn’t bite, not yet. He laved it with his tongue, then sucked, drawing the nub into a tight peak. With each pull of his mouth, he sent another concentrated pulse of that addictive, darkly sweet energy into Roman’s body.
Roman’s composure was fracturing. His carefully maintained control was being gently, relentlessly unraveled by the very creature he’d just broken. His fingers tightened in Reese’s hair, not to pull him away, but to hold him there. His hips bucked, his cock now fully hard and straining against his trousers, pressing against Reese’s stomach.
“Fuck,” Roman hissed, the word torn from him.
Reese smiled, a small, victorious thing against Roman’s skin. He switched to the other nipple, giving it the same torturous, energy-flooding attention. He was an artist, and Roman’s body was his canvas. He painted it with need, with a rising, clawing desperation that mirrored his own.
He could feel Roman trembling. He could feel the ancient demon’s formidable will bending under the onslaught of pure, distilled eros. Reese was empty of eggs, but he was full of power—power he’d drawn from his own suffering.
One of Reese’s hands slid down Roman’s chest, over the trembling muscles of his abdomen, to the prominent bulge in his trousers. He palmed it, feeling the thick, hard length jump under his touch. Roman’s breath hitched.
“Let me,” Reese murmured, his lips brushing a feverish path back up to Roman’s ear. “Let me take you to the edge. Just like you do to me.”
Roman’s only answer was another low groan. He was leaning into Reese’s touch, his eyes closed, his jaw tight with the effort of maintaining any semblance of command.
Reese expertly undid the fastenings of Roman’s trousers, freeing his cock. It was impressive, thick and heavy, the head already gleaming with pre-cum. Reese’s own cock, forgotten for a moment, gave a sympathetic, painful throb. The ginger still burned, a relentless backdrop to this fragile, stolen control.
He didn’t take Roman into his mouth. Not yet. He wrapped his fingers around the base, his grip firm, and began to stroke. It was a mirror of Roman’s own merciless rhythm from before, but slower, more deliberate. Each upward drag of his hand was accompanied by a soft push of that incubus energy, a psychic caress that made Roman’s thighs tense.
“You’re close already,” Reese whispered, watching the play of agony and ecstasy on Roman’s face. “I can feel it. All that power, and you’re shaking for me.”
“Don’t,” Roman warned, but it was weak. His hips were fucking up into Reese’s fist in tiny, aborted motions.
“Don’t what?” Reese tightened his grip on the upstroke, his thumb smearing the pre-cum over the swollen head. “Don’t make you lose control? Don’t make you scream?” He leaned in, his breath ghosting over Roman’s lips. “Too late.”
He increased the pace, his hand a slick, tight tunnel. He poured everything he had left into the connection—the memory of the eggs, the burn of the ginger, the ache of his denied, overstimulated flesh. He weaponized his own degradation and fed it back to Roman as the purest, most dangerous aphrodisiac.
Roman’s back bowed. A strangled, guttural sound was ripped from his throat. His hands flew to Reese’s shoulders, claws digging in deep enough to bruise, to draw blood. His entire body went rigid, teetering on the precipice.
Reese held him there.
Reese held him there, on that knife-edge of pleasure, for three brutal heartbeats. He watched the torment in Roman’s clenched jaw, the flutter of his eyelids. The power was a live wire in Reese’s own chest, bright and terrifying. Then he loosened his grip, just slightly.
It was a mistake.
The fragile inversion of control shattered. Roman’s eyes flew open, black and blazing with a kind of crazed hunger Reese had never seen. The incubus magic hadn’t sated him; it had poured gasoline on the smoldering embers of the berries’ curse still in his own blood. He was not a man being teased. He was a primal thing, ensnared.
“You think you play games with me?” Roman’s voice was shredded gravel.
He moved faster than thought. One hand knotted in Reese’s hair, yanking his head back. The other shoved Reese face-first down into the mattress. Reese gasped, the burn from the ginger flaring anew with the violent movement. Roman’s weight settled over him, crushing.
Reese felt fingers, slick and ruthless, dig into him. They clawed at the burning root, hooking around it. With a single, brutal pull, Roman extracted the ginger. The ragged, fiery drag was obscene. Reese screamed into the sheets, his body bowing.
The relief from the burning was instantaneous. It was replaced a second later by a much thicker, much harder pressure. Roman didn’t prepare him. He didn’t even use the oil. He just positioned the blunt, weeping head of his cock at Reese’s stretched, throbbing entrance and shoved.
The dry, brutal penetration stole the air from Reese’s lungs. It was a white-hot tear of pure friction, a violation so complete his mind blanked. He scrabbled at the sheets, a raw, broken sound the only protest he could manage.
Roman sheathed himself to the hilt in one punishing thrust. He held there, buried deep, his body trembling with the effort of his own restraint. Reese felt impossibly full, split open on a different axis than the eggs. This was sharper, more personal.
“You want to flood me with need?” Roman growled into his ear, hips grinding in a slow, cruel circle. The burn of the stretch was already mutating, blending with a deeper, internal spark of stimulation. “Now feel what you’ve made.”
He withdrew almost completely and slammed back in.
Reese cried out. The pain was receding, burned away by the frantic pace Roman set. It was not loving. It was not even purely brutal. It was desperate. Roman fucked him with a frantic, driving rhythm, his hips pistoning, his balls slapping against Reese’s abused flesh. Each impact drove Reese forward on the bed.
“Clench,” Roman commanded, his breath hot and ragged. His hand snaked around Reese’s hip, finding his overstimulated cock. He didn’t stroke it. He squeezed the base, hard. A bolt of agonizing pleasure-pain shot through Reese’s nerves.
Reese obeyed, his inner muscles spasming tightly around the invading thickness. The sensation wrenched a choked moan from Roman. “Again.”
Reese clenched, releasing, clenching again, milking the cock fucking him raw. He was a tool for Roman’s release, and the sheer usefulness of it, the degradation, sent a perverse thrill through his own exhaustion. The masochist in him sang, even as his body wept.
Roman’s rhythm faltered. His thrusts became jagged, erratic. A raw, animal noise tore from his throat, guttural and lost. He buried himself deep and came. Reese felt the hot, urgent pulse of it inside him, a flood of wet heat that seemed to go on and on.
Roman collapsed over him, sweat-slick and heaving.
The silence lasted only a moment. Reese felt the demon’s cock, still hard, still impossibly full, twitch within him. The magical sensitivity was a feedback loop with no off switch. Roman made a pained, furious sound against Reese’s shoulder.
He pulled out. The loss was a cold shock. Reese whimpered.
Roman rolled him over roughly. His face was a mask of tortured need, his eyes wild. He didn’t speak. He hauled Reese up off the bed, dragging him across the room. He shoved Reese against the nearest stone wall, the impact knocking the wind from Reese’s lungs.
Before Reese could slump, Roman hooked his hands under Reese’s thighs and lifted him, pinning him to the cold stone. Reese wrapped his legs around Roman’s waist on instinct, his back scraping against the rough surface. Roman thrust upward, finding his entrance again with a brutal, unerring accuracy, and sank back in.
“Fuck,” Reese gasped, his head thudding back against the wall. The position was deeper, more consuming. Roman hammered into him, the force of each drive threatening to crack his spine against the unyielding stone.
Reese sought an anchor. He latched his mouth onto Roman’s neck, sucking the salt-damp skin, biting down. He flooded another weaker, thinner stream of energy into him, not to control, but to feed the frenzy.
Roman shuddered violently. His pace became punishing, a frantic race. He came again, a shorter, sharper climax that made him shout into the space between Reese’s neck and shoulder. His cum, fresh and hot, mixed with the first inside Reese.
He did not stop. He did not soften. He kept moving, his thrusts now wet and slick with his own spend, the sound obscenely loud in the room.
“Again,” Roman rasped, the word barely intelligible. He was begging his own body, commanding it. He fucked Reese through the oversensitivity, his own face a grimace of torturous pleasure.
He carried Reese to the heavy oak table, sweeping a crystal decanter to the floor where it shattered. He bent Reese over it, the wood cold and unyielding against Reese’s stomach and aching cock. He re-entered him from behind, one hand fisted in Reese’s hair, the other braced on the table.
This climax was quieter, a shuddering, endless pulse that left Roman panting, his forehead pressed between Reese’s shoulder blades. Reese was so full, so used, he could only tremble.
To the sofa. A different angle, Reese on his back, legs pushed nearly to his chest. Roman’s eyes were unfocused, seeing only the need. He drove into him, over and over, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come. When he came this time, it was with a broken sob, his body convulsing.
He pulled Reese to the adjoining bathing chamber, into the large shower of black marble. He turned the ice-cold water on full. It shocked Reese’s feverish skin. Roman pinned him against the wet, slippery wall, the water sluicing between their bodies. The chill did nothing to dampen the fever.
Roman’s thrusts were slower now, weighted with exhaustion but no less desperate. He fucked into Reese with a deep, grinding rhythm, his face buried in Reese’s neck. He came for a fifth time, a weak, draining spill that seemed to leach the strength from his bones. He slumped against Reese, his hard cock still lodged inside, still twitching with a persistent, maddening life of its own.
Both of them trembled violently under the cold spray. Overstimulation was a net holding them both, a shared, shivering agony. Reese’s body was a universe of aches: the deep, bruised feeling of relentless use, the raw sting of his entrance, the hollow, oversensitive throb of his own untouched cock.
Roman’s breathing was ragged, his powerful frame shaking with aftershocks. He turned his head, his lips finding Reese’s ear. His voice was shattered, stripped of all its earlier menace, raw with a truth he could no longer conceal.
“It doesn’t stop,” he whispered, the words a confession of defeat. The magical charge, a curse of his own making amplified by Reese’s kiss, was a fire in his marrow. His hips gave another feeble, involuntary rock, seeking friction inside Reese’s well-used body. He was trapped in a cycle of his own desperate making, and the only anchor, the only conduit he had, was the ruined incubus pinned beneath him against the cold, streaming stone.