Chapter 2: Taken in Front of His Crush
The hollow feeling was a vacuum, and nature abhors a vacuum. It was filled instantly by a sharper, more brutal reality. Derek’s finger curled inside him, a rough beckoning. Tucker’s mouth was a relentless, sloppy pump on his cock. Chad was rutting against his thigh, groaning.
Then the pressure around him vanished.
It happened in a blur of shouts and stumbling bodies. A large shape moved with a violence that cut through the party haze. Marcus was a force of nature, shoving Chad aside so hard he spilled over a folding chair. A fist grabbed a handful of Tucker’s shirt and hauled him off his knees, sending him sprawling onto the concrete. Derek turned, a protest forming on his lips, but Marcus was already in his space, a forearm like an iron bar slamming into his chest, driving him back with a whoosh of air.
“Mine.”
The word wasn’t shouted. It was low, guttural, a seismic rumble that undercut the blaring music. It wasn’t for the brothers. It was for Finn, a statement of fact that burned through the fog of cheap liquor and communal hands.
Marcus turned to him. Up close, his eyes were black pools, his jaw rigid. He smelled of cold air and a sharper, more expensive whiskey. Without a word, he closed the final distance, his body a wall of heat and tension. His hands, big and rough, framed Finn’s face for a startling second, a gesture almost tender in its intensity. Then they slid down, over his shoulders, his chest, leaving trails of fire on his sweat-slicked skin, before clamping onto the full, round curves of his bare ass.
The grip was proprietary, crushing. He lifted Finn as if he weighed nothing, pinning him back against the damp concrete wall. Finn’s legs automatically wrapped around Marcus’s waist, his own hard cock trapped between their stomachs.
“You like being their little party favor?” Marcus hissed, his mouth an inch from Finn’s ear. His breath was hot.
Finn, breathless, defiant, drunk on sensation, shook his head. “I like… I like what I want.”
“And what do you want right now?”
“You,” Finn gasped. It was the truth, stripped bare and ugly. “Fucking you.”
A dark, satisfied smile touched Marcus’s lips. He shifted, one arm banding around Finn’s back to hold him aloft. With his other hand, he fumbled with his own jeans, button and zipper giving way. Finn heard the rustle of denim, felt the heavy, hot weight of Marcus’s freed cock slap against his own, then press lower, seeking.
There was no preparation, no fake courtesy. Marcus spat into his own palm, slicked himself with two rough strokes, and then the broad, flared head was pressing against Finn’s stretched, wet hole. The brothers had opened him a little, but this was different. This was purposeful, immense.
“Look at me,” Marcus commanded.
Finn’s eyes, wide and glazed, locked onto his.
Marcus pushed.
It was a brutal, unforgiving invasion. The stretch was breathtaking, a white-hot spear of pain that made Finn’s vision splinter. He screamed, a raw, ragged sound that tore from his throat. His nails dug into Marcus’s shoulders, through the fabric of his shirt.
“Fuck! Marcus, God—“
“Shut up,” Marcus grunted, but it held no malice. It was a demand for focus. He held there, buried to the hilt, letting Finn’s body clench and spasm around him, a vise of tight, hot flesh. The burn was everywhere, consuming. Then, slowly, it began to transmute, the pain melting into a deep, shocking fullness that touched something primal in Finn’s core.
Marcus began to move.
He set a punishing, possessive rhythm from the start. Long, withdrawing strokes that almost pulled him out completely, followed by deep, driving thrusts that slammed Finn’s back into the wall. Each impact knocked the air from Finn’s lungs in a choked gasp. The wet, filthy sound of their coupling was loud in their immediate vicinity, a lewd counterpoint to the distant music.
“This,” Marcus panted, his own composure fracturing, “this is what you wanted. Not their fingers. Not their mouths. This cock. Claiming you. Ruining you for them.”
Each word was punctuated by a devastating thrust. Finn could only cling on, his mind obliterated by the sheer physical onslaught. The stretch was relentless, the friction brutal and perfect. His own cock, trapped and leaking between them, jerked with every inward drive.
“You see them?” Marcus growled, not breaking his pace. “You see them watching?”
Finn managed to turn his head. Chad, Tucker, Derek. They weren’t gone. They stood in a semi-circle, a few feet back, drinks forgotten. Their faces were masks of shock, arousal, and a dawning understanding. They were spectators now. This wasn’t a party game anymore. This was a takeover.
The humiliation of it, mixed with the violent pleasure of being so thoroughly used, sent a new jolt through Finn. He came suddenly, with a broken cry, his cum painting hot stripes between their stomachs. His hole clenched and fluttered wildly around Marcus’s driving cock, milking him.
Marcus cursed, a raw, filthy sound. His thrusts became erratic, animalistic. He buried his face in Finn’s neck, biting down on the tendon there as his hips hammered forward one last, final time. Finn felt the hot, pulsing rush deep inside him, a flood of possession that seemed to go on and on.
They stayed like that, locked together, panting against the wall. The world seeped back in—the thumping bass, the distant laughter, the stale smell of the basement now layered with the pungent scent of sex and sweat.
Marcus slowly lowered Finn, his legs wobbly and barely able to hold him. The sudden emptiness was a shock, a cool ache. Finn leaned against the wall, trembling, jeans and underwear still tangled around his thighs. Marcus turned, tucking himself away with a grimace, zipping his jeans. He looked at the three brothers, his gaze flat and challenging.
No one spoke. After a beat, they just muttered and shuffled away, melting back into the party’ shadows.
Then Marcus looked back at Finn. The raw fury was gone from his eyes, replaced by something more complicated—a weary intensity, a hint of self-loathing. He reached out and with a startling gentleness, wiped a smear of sweat from Finn’s brow with his thumb.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m taking you out of here.”
He didn’t ask. He stated it. And Finn, his body humming with aftershocks and a strange, hollow ache, found he had no will to argue. He just nodded, pushing his shaking hands through his hair, and reached for his clothes.