Chapter 4: The First Claim
Diego’s mouth was a revelation. It moved from Matthew’s lips, down the line of his jaw, to the frantic pulse at his throat, where he lingered, sucking gently until Matthew gasped. Then lower, charting a slow, deliberate course over the landscape of Matthew’s chest. His tongue swirled around a nipple, teeth grazing the pebbled flesh before he soothed it with a kiss. He paid equal, devastating attention to the other, his large hands pinning Matthew’s hips to the bed with an effortless strength that made Matthew feel both powerless and incredibly seen.
“So fucking perfect,” Diego murmured, the words a hot vibration against Matthew’s sternum. His goatee traced a tantalizing path down the rigid planes of Matthew’s abdomen, following the trail of hair that led south. Matthew’s own cock strained upward, leaking against his stomach, but Diego ignored it for now. He was a man who appreciated the entire journey.
He kissed the inside of Matthew’s thighs, his thumbs pressing the muscles apart. The vulnerability was absolute. Matthew trembled, not from cold, but from the intensity of the focus being lavished on him. After a week of being an afterthought, this single-minded attention was a drug.
“Diego…” Matthew breathed, his voice shaky.
“Shhh,” Diego whispered, looking up from between his legs. The candlelight caught the dark glitter of his eyes. “This is mine. My time. You just feel.”
And then Diego’s mouth was on him, not on his cock, but lower. A hot, wet, open-mouthed kiss pressed against his entrance, and Matthew jolted as if electrocuted, a broken sound tearing from his throat. Diego’s tongue was relentless, a slow, circular pressure that melted tension into liquid fire. Matthew’s head thrashed against the pillows, his fingers fisting in the dark silk sheets. It was obscene. It was exquisite. It was a level of intimacy Jack had never offered, had never even considered.
Diego worked him with a patient, filthy expertise, until Matthew was pushing back against his mouth, wordless pleas falling from his lips. Only then did Diego reach for the bottle on the nightstand. The click of the cap was loud in the room.
The cool drizzle of lube made Matthew gasp. Diego’s fingers, thick and sure, replaced his mouth. One, then two, sliding in with a smooth, stretching burn that made Matthew’s toes curl. Diego watched his face, his own breath coming harder.
“You take it so well,” Diego said, his voice rough. He scissored his fingers, crooking them, and Matthew saw stars, his back arching clean off the bed. “So tight. So strong for me.”
A third finger stretched him further, the fullness intense but not painful. Diego was methodical, thorough, preparing a canvas for a masterpiece. Every stroke, every twist, was calibrated to draw pleasure, to expand and excite rather than simply open. Matthew was panting, sweat sheening his fair skin, his cock a neglected, aching line against his belly.
“Please,” Matthew finally begged, the word raw. “Diego, now. I need…”
Diego withdrew his fingers, the sudden emptiness a shock. He slicked himself, the sound thick in the quiet room. He was fully hard now, a fearsome, beautiful sight that made Matthew’s mouth go dry all over again. The sheer size of him, veined and curving upward, seemed impossible. The intimidation flared, bright and hot, but beneath it roared a need so profound it drowned everything else out.
Diego moved over him, bracing his weight on his powerful arms. He lined himself up, the broad, slick head pressing against Matthew.
“Look at me,” Diego commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.
Matthew dragged his gaze from where their bodies were about to join, up the carved abdomen, the heavy chest, to find Diego’s eyes. They were black pools of intent, holding his.
“This is yours,” Diego repeated, the promise from before now a searing truth. “You command this. You tell me to stop, I stop. You understand?” It wasn’t a question. It was a vow.
Matthew nodded, unable to speak. He wrapped his legs around Diego’s waist, locking his ankles. An invitation. An anchor.
Diego began to push.
The initial pressure was immense, a stunning, full-body stretch that stole the air from Matthew’s lungs. He gripped Diego’s biceps, his knuckles white. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath.
Diego froze, buried just an inch inside. A vein pulsed in his forehead. “Breathe, cariño. Breathe for me.”
Matthew forced a shuddering exhale, and as he did, Diego pressed forward another devastating inch. It was a slow, inexorable conquest. Matthew felt every ridge, every pulse of him as he entered. The stretch graduated from shocking to intense, a burning fullness that edged right up to the line of pain but was meticulously kept from crossing it by Diego’s glacial control.
“Fuck,” Matthew choked out, his eyes squeezed shut. “Oh, fuck, Diego.”
“Open your eyes,” Diego gritted out, his own restraint evident in the trembling of his arms. “See who’s fucking you.”
Matthew obeyed. Saw Diego above him, a god in shadow, consumed by the effort of holding back. The sight was as potent as the feeling. He was doing this. He was taking this man, this impossible thing.
Diego sank deeper, and deeper still, until finally, after an eternity of gradual, shattering penetration, he was seated fully. Their hips met. There was no more inch to give. Matthew was impaled, utterly filled, a feeling so complete it bordered on madness. He felt crammed, rearranged, owned. A high, wounded noise escaped him.
Diego dropped his forehead to Matthew’s, their breaths mingling, both of them panting.
“You okay?” Diego whispered, his voice strained.
Matthew could only nod, a frantic little movement. He was more than okay. He was obliterated. The feeling of absolute fullness was translating, synapse by synapse, into a pleasure so profound it was almost religious. He flexed internally, experimentally, and felt Diego throb inside him, a low groan ripping from Diego’s throat.
“Don’t do that,” Diego warned, but he was smiling, a savage, proud smile. “Not unless you want this to be very short.”
“Move,” Matthew begged. “Please, move.”
Diego began to withdraw, an even slower slide out that made Matthew whimper at the loss, before driving back in. The rhythm he set was deep, punishing, and perfect. Each thrust was a lesson in anatomy, touching places in Matthew that had never been touched. Each stroke dragged against his prostate, a relentless, building percussion that had sparks flaring behind his eyelids.
The bed began to rock, the frame giving a soft, rhythmic complaint. The sounds were obscene: skin on skin, wet, sliding friction, their ragged breaths punctuated by Matthew’s punched-out moans and Diego’s guttural curses in Spanish.
“That’s it,” Diego grunted, his hands shifting to grip Matthew’s thighs, pushing them wider, driving even deeper. “Take it. You’re taking all of me. Fuck, Matteo… you feel like heaven.”
Matthew was unraveling. The pleasure was a coil tightened to its breaking point in his gut. He’d never been so full, so completely used and yet so worshipped. Diego’s eyes never left his face, watching every flicker of pleasure and pain. This was the antithesis of how Jack had been with him—transactional, hurried, self-focused. This was communion.
His own cock, trapped and rubbing between their sweat-slicked stomachs, hadn’t been touched once, yet it wept steadily, an ache secondary to the monumental sensation of being fucked. The climax, when it hit, wasn’t a crescendo he saw coming. It was a seismic event.
One particularly deep, grinding thrust struck a nerve cluster that lit up his entire nervous system. His vision whited out. A strangled cry was torn from him as his body seized, back bowing, heels digging into Diego’s ass as if to keep him buried there forever. Hot stripes of come painted both their stomachs, pulsing out of him in a helpless, uncontrollable rhythm that squeezed and fluttered around Diego’s cock.
The intense, rhythmic milking was all it took. Diego’s control shattered. With a raw, victorious roar that seemed to shake the room, he slammed home one final time and held, his body going rigid. Matthew felt the hot, pulsing flood deep inside him, a possessive claim that completed the feeling of being utterly full.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths. Diego, careful even in his collapse, shifted his weight to the side, pulling Matthew with him so they lay tangled on the soaked sheets, still intimately joined. He nuzzled into the sweat-damp hair at Matthew’s temple, placing a soft, lingering kiss there.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The smell of sex and sandalwood. The cool air on his overheated skin. The profound, aching fullness between his legs. And the weight of what had just happened.
Matthew trembled, a fine, post-climax shiver that was part exhaustion, part emotional freefall.
Diego’s arm tightened around him. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “I’ve got you.”
But Matthew’s mind, clearing of its pleasure-fog, was already turning. He could hear the vague, city-night sounds through the window. Somewhere in the apartment, or perhaps soon to return to it, was Jack. His boyfriend. The man who had asked for an open relationship but had never, not for a second, imagined Matthew would walk through the door he’d opened.
The candle on the nightstand guttered, the flame dancing wildly before steadying. It cast long, moving shadows across Diego’s satisfied face and the beautiful, chaotic ruin of his bed. Matthew’s body hummed with a satisfaction so deep it felt like a new blueprint for his nerves. But beneath it, cold and slick, a new tension was coiling.
He wasn’t sorry. He was terrified.
And he wanted to do it all over again.