Chapter 4: Pressure
The word ‘please’ dissolved into a guttural cry as another contraction claimed him, bowing his spine against the leg of the chair. Roman looked down, his face a mask of sweat-slicked intensity. The removal of the sound had left him nakedly, vulnerably hard, every nerve ending screaming for the release Reese’s mouth had twice denied.
He didn’t speak. He acted.
His hands hooked under Reese’s arms, hauling him up from the floor with a grunt of effort. Reese was a dead weight, his body contorted around the pulsing agony in his core, his feet stumbling on the slick marble. Roman half-dragged, half-carried him the short distance from the dining table to the long, low obsidian slab that served as a sideboard. Ancient carvings of twisted forms ground against Reese’s back as Roman laid him out on the cold stone.
The shift in position made the eggs drop lower, a heavy, precipitating shift that drew a thin whine from between Reese’s teeth. Roman shoved the forgotten plates aside with a crash of china. He positioned himself between Reese’s thighs, which fell open with a helpless, weighted gravity.
There was no preparation. Roman was still stretched and slick from the plug, a persistent, full ache that now sang in tandem with his own desperate need. He pressed into Reese in one long, brutal stroke.
Reese screamed. It was a raw, shattered sound that echoed off the high ceiling. The invasion was a solid line of white-hot friction against the overwhelming, internal pressure of the descending eggs. It was too much. It was everything.
Roman buried himself to the hilt and froze, his own breath escaping in a sharp, pained hiss. The obsidian plug within him was driven to a new, perfect depth by the act of sheathing himself in Reese. The dual sensation—the intense, clinging tightness of Reese’s laboring body around his cock, and the deep, unyielding fullness of the plug in his own ass—short-circuited higher thought. His hips gave a minute, involuntary jerk.
“Don’t stop,” Reese choked out, his head thrashing side to side on the stone. “Don’t you fucking stop.” It was a command, a plea, a curse.
Roman began to move. It was not making love. It was not even fucking. It was a mechanistic, piston-driven response to dual overloads of sensation. Each thrust slammed Reese’s body into the unyielding slab, jolting the eggs. Each withdrawal dragged a muffled sob from Reese’s throat. Roman’s rhythm was relentless, a steady, driving pace that ignored the clenching waves of Reese’s contractions, instead using them, riding the alternating tension and release of Reese’s inner muscles.
“You feel that?” Roman gritted out, his voice strained. Every word was punched out by the motion of his hips. “That’s you. That’s them. And it’s me.” He punctuated the last word with a particularly deep thrust. The plug inside him hit a spot that made stars burst behind his eyes.
Reese could only claw at the stone, his back arching. The sensations were merging into one unbearable frequency: the deep, splitting ache of impending birth, and the sharp, bright burn of Roman filling him, over and over. They weren’t opposites; they were the same note played on different instruments, a dissonant chord that vibrated in his very bones.
Roman’s control was a fraying wire. The coil in his gut, tightened over hours of denial, was springing loose. The plug provided a constant, internal counterpoint to Reese’s heat, stretching him in a way that made every nerve sing. His thrusts lost their mechanical precision, becoming erratic, desperate.
“I can’t—" he growled, but it was too late.
His orgasm ripped through him with a force that was almost violent. It was wrenched from him by the combined vice of Reese’s body and the unrelenting pressure inside his own. He came with a shout that was half agony, shuddering, emptying himself in deep, pulsing waves. For a second, the world went blissfully, silently white.
But he didn’t stop.
Even as the aftershocks trembled through him, even as the sensitivity tipped into pain, he kept moving. Slower now, deeper, grinding into Reese with a newfound, trembling urgency. He was oversensitized, every movement a fresh shock, the plug now a brutal, uncomfortable presence. He did it anyway.
“Why…” Reese panted, tears streaming into his hairline. “You came…”
“Did I?” Roman murmured, his voice hoarse. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the slab on either side of Reese’s head. His thrusts were shallow, persistent. “It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t stop this.” He drove in again, making them both gasp.
The contractions were coming faster, longer. Reese’s body was no longer his own; it was a vessel governed by a relentless, biological imperative. He could feel the eggs, vast and solid, pressing down, demanding exit. But Roman’s body, still joined to his, was a barrier. A beautiful, torturous cork in the bottleneck.
The pain changed. It sharpened, concentrated into a specific, impossible point of pressure. It was no longer an ache, but a renderin, a tearing open. Reese’s cries became continuous, a low, animal keening.
“Roman, stop. Please, you have to stop,” he begged, his hands fluttering against Roman’s chest, pushing weakly. “They’re coming. I can’t—it’s blocked. It hurts, it hurts too much.”
Roman stilled, buried deep. He looked down at Reese’s face, tear-streaked and terrified, at the monstrous, heaving curve of his stomach. A slow, sadistic smile touched his lips. It was a dark, triumphant thing.
“Is that what you need?” he whispered. “For me to get out of the way?”
Reese nodded frantically, sobbing in relief. “Yes. Please.”
Instead of withdrawing, Roman shifted his weight. He brought one hand down from the slab and placed it, flat and firm, on the dome of Reese’s stomach, right over the apex. He felt the hard, distinct shape of an egg just beneath the stretched skin. He waited.
The next contraction built like a tsunami. Reese’s body went rigid, a strangled scream locked in his throat. His insides clamped down, a mighty, expulsive force focused on the obstructive pressure within him.
At the peak, as the pain crested into a white-hot singularity, Roman pressed down.
He leaned his weight into his hand, a steady, increasing force that compacted the space within. The descending egg was forced against Roman’s own trapped cock, and simultaneously shoved back up, crowding the others in a brutal, internal rearrangement.
Reese’s scream broke free, ragged and endless. His back arched off the slab, every muscle in his body locked in a spasmodic, shocking contraction. The pain was obliterating. It erased the world.
And then, from the very core of that pain, a shockwave of pure, involuntary pleasure detonated.
It was his incubus nature, a reflexive, primal response to the overwhelming intensity of sensation. His nerves, overloaded with agony, short-circuited into blinding, debilitating ecstasy. He came, hard and dry, his body convulsing around Roman in a series of frantic, pulsing clenches. No release, just the seismic shock of it, wracking through him, merging with the pain until they were indistinguishable.
He collapsed back onto the stone, boneless, trembling violently. The contraction eased, leaving him hollow and shattered.
Roman, still inside him, still pressed against the aftermath of that brutal climax, let out a shaky breath. He’d felt it all—the tectonic shift within Reese, the violent muscle spasms, the terrifying, beautiful fusion of suffering and rapture. His own spent body resonated with it.
He slowly withdrew his hand from Reese’s stomach. He didn’t pull out. He simply held himself there, watching as Reese twitched and shuddered beneath him, tears leaking from closed eyes.
The scent of sex, sweat, and something darker, more metallic, filled the air. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant, eternal drip of water on stone somewhere in the Sanctum’s depths.
Roman leaned down, his lips brushing the pointed shell of Reese’s ear. His voice was a soft, rough scrape.
“Next time,” he whispered, “ask nicely.”