Chapter 10: Morning Wood
Consciousness returned in a slow, syrupy drip. First, it was the warmth. A solid, encompassing heat beneath him and wrapped around him. Then, the weight. An arm like a steel band across the small of his back, holding him close. The scent—sweat, salt, that distinct, expensive cologne, and underneath it all, the musky, intimate smell of skin and sleep.
Sam’s face was pressed into the hot valley between a neck and a shoulder. His leg was hooked over a hip. He was plastered against another body, and his own was responding, thick and heavy with a drowsy, persistent thrum.
In the haze, the dream still clung to him. A confused, tactile memory of friction, of his own hips moving against something firm and yielding, a deep, building pleasure that had nothing to do with Mia and everything to do with a feeling of being utterly, perfectly full. A low sigh escaped him, and his hips gave a tiny, unconscious roll, seeking that phantom pressure.
He found it. A solid ridge of heat against his own aching cock, separated only by thin layers of cotton—his boxers, Damon’s sweats. The contact sent a jolt of pure, electric sensation straight to his groin. He pressed again, a slow, seeking grind, a moan catching in his throat.
Reality detonated.
His eyes flew open. Grey morning light sliced through gaps in the blackout curtains, illuminating the chaos of the room—clothes on the floor, a bottle of lube on the nightstand, the stark black and grey of the sheets. And the body beneath him. Damon’s chest, a landscape of ink and sinew, rising and falling in steady sleep. The arm trapping him. The hard length he was rutting against.
No.
The memory of the previous night crashed over him—the silk, the kisses, the brutal, humiliating climax on Damon’s fingers, the way he’d sobbed and let himself be held afterward. He’d fallen asleep here. He’d stayed. He’d woken up hard and grinding on a man like some desperate, practiced bottom.
Horror, cold and slick, poured through his veins. He jerked back as if electrocuted, scrambling to get off, to put space between his skin and Damon’s.
The arm around his waist tightened instantly, effortlessly. Damon hadn’t even opened his eyes. A low, sleep-rough chuckle vibrated through his chest and into Sam’s. “Whoa there, cowboy.” His voice was a gravelly rumble. “Where you going?”
“Let go,” Sam gasped, panic making him shrill. He pushed against Damon’s chest, but it was like pushing a wall.
“You got yourself all worked up,” Damon murmured, his eyes still closed, a lazy smile spreading across his face. He shifted his own hips, a deliberate, rolling thrust that made Sam’s breath hitch. His body, the traitor, arched into the contact for a split second before Sam recoiled again.
Damon’s eyes finally opened, dark and focused and utterly amused. He took in Sam’s wide, horrified expression, the frantic beat of the pulse in his throat. “Easy,” he soothed, but his hands were anything but, one sliding down to clamp on the back of Sam’s thigh to still his struggling.
His other hand moved to Sam’s hip, holding him firmly in place against that relentless friction. “I didn’t satisfy you last night, huh?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble. He gave another deliberate, rolling shift of his pelvis, grinding them together through the fabric.
A bitten-off sound escaped Sam’s lips. “I need to go.”
“Were you dreaming about me?” Damon pressed, ignoring him. His grin was wolfish. “Having a nice little fantasy all by yourself? Is that why you’re all worked up and humping my leg like a puppy?”
Sam’s face burned, a scalding wave of shame. "Let me up.”
Damon didn’t stop the slow, idle motion of his hips, a torturous rhythm that sent shocks of pleasure up Sam’s spine. Sam’s own body pulsed in time, betraying him completely. "Were you dreaming about this cock?”
“No,” Sam gasped, twisting again, but the movement only made him rut harder against Damon’s thigh. A choked groan escaped him.
“Liar.” Damon’s hand slid from Sam’s hip around to his ass, gripping hard through the cotton of his boxers. He yanked Sam down sharply, intensifying the friction. Sam’s hips stuttered, a full-body tremor running through him. “Your body’s telling the truth. It’s begging. It remembers how good it felt to be used.”
The words, paired with that relentless grinding, unraveled something in Sam’s chest. He went still, panting, defeated by the dual assault of sensation and memory. He could smell last night on their skin. “I shouldn’t have stayed,” he whispered, more to himself.
Damon’s grip softened, turning almost… comforting. He brushed Sam’s sweaty hair back from his forehead. “Where else were you gonna go, sweetheart?” His voice dropped, losing its edge for something dangerously close to tenderness. “You were a wreck. Crying, shaking. All used up and confused.”
He leaned up, his lips grazing Sam’s ear. “I’d never let my good boy go home in that state. Not when he needs me.” The endearment was a velvet-coated trap. “You needed to be held. You needed to know you were mine. You still do.”
Sam shook his head, but the protest was weak, dissolving in the heat between them. The evidence was pressed insistently against his stomach. He was so hard it ached.
“See?” Damon murmured, kissing his jaw, his stubble scratching. “You woke up hard for me. You dreamt it. Now you’re embarrassed.” He chuckled, the sound warm and dark. “It’s okay. I like it. I like knowing I’m in your head, fucking you even in your sleep.”
His hand slid under the waistband of Sam’s boxers, palming his bare ass. Sam jerked, a gasp torn from him. “Damon—”
“Shhh.” Damon claimed his mouth, not with force, but with a deep, proprietary surety. His tongue swept in, tasting him. Sam’s resistance crumbled into a muffled sound of surrender. He kissed back, his hips moving again in small, desperate circles.
He kissed back, his hips moving again in small, desperate circles. The last of his resistance bled away, leaving only a raw and shaking need. Damon’s hand tightened on his ass, fingers digging in, accepting the surrender.
“Oh, it was so mean of me,” Damon whispered against his mouth, the words a hot, slick confession. He pulled back just enough to watch Sam’s face. “To not give you any cock yesterday.” His thumb hooked into the waistband of Sam’s boxers, tugging them down just an inch. “When I could feel how bad you needed to get fucked. How empty you were.”
The explicit words, voiced in that tender, mocking tone, made Sam’s skin shrink. He hid his face in Damon’s neck, a shiver running through him. “Stop talking,” he mumbled into the salty skin.
Damon laughed, a low, genuine sound of delight. “Make me.” He rolled them, pinning Sam to the mattress with his full weight. The morning light was cruel, illuminating every fleeting expression on Sam’s face. Damon just looked down at him, his gaze fond and hungry. “Look at you. All blushing and hard. So fucking cute.”
So fucking cute.” Damon dipped his head, kissing the flushed skin over Sam’s collarbone. His hand slid from Sam’s ass around to his hip, then down, his knuckles brushing the stiff, leaking length trapped in Sam’s boxers. Sam’s whole body jerked.
“You’re a mess,” Damon whispered, his breath hot against Sam’s throat. He didn’t pull the boxers off. He just traced the shape of Sam through the damp cotton, a feather-light, maddening touch. “All this, just from a little grinding. From a few words.” He pressed the heel of his hand down, and Sam arched off the mattress with a choked sound. “What would happen if I actually fucked you?”
Sam couldn’t answer. He could only pant, his fingers digging into Damon’s biceps. The need was a physical ache, a hollowed-out feeling low in his gut that the frantic dry-humping had only intensified. He needed pressure, fullness, the brutal anchor of being taken. He turned his face away, eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me.” Damon’s voice was quiet, but it wasn’t a request. Sam’s eyes fluttered open. Damon was watching him with a focused, unnerving intensity. The morning light caught the silver in his stubble, the dark pools of his pupils. He looked amused, and possessive, and utterly certain. “You want it.”
It wasn’t a question. Sam gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, his cheeks burning.
“Say it.”
Sam’s mouth worked. The word stuck in his throat, glued there by twenty years of a different life. He swallowed. “Please.”
Damon’s smile was slow, victorious. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Sam’s boxers and his own sweats, pushing them down in one rough shove. The cool air hit Sam’s skin, then was gone, replaced by the overwhelming heat of Damon settling back between his thighs. Their cocks slid together, bare and slick, and Sam cried out, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“Not that,” Damon murmured, leaning down to kiss him, deep and wet and distracting. He reached across to the nightstand, fumbling for the bottle without breaking the kiss. The click of the cap was loud. The gel was cold as Damon smoothed it over himself, then between Sam’s cheeks, his fingers impersonal and efficient.
Sam tensed, expecting the immediate, stretching burn. Instead, Damon just rubbed circles against him with a slick fingertip, kissing him all the while. His other hand cradled the side of Sam’s face, thumb stroking his cheekbone. The contrast was devastating—the filthy promise of that pressing finger against the almost romantic hold on his face.
“Relax, baby,” Damon breathed into his mouth. He pushed the tip of his finger in, just past the tight ring of muscle, and Sam gasped, his legs falling open wider. “That’s it. Just open up for me. You know how.” He worked the finger in slowly, to the knuckle, then out, the slide easy from last night’s use. Sam’s hips rocked down, seeking more.
Damon added a second finger, crooking them, and Sam saw stars, a white flash behind his eyelids. “There’s that spot,” Damon cooed, rubbing it relentlessly. “You came just from this last night. Remember?” Sam nodded frantically, mind unraveling. He was already close, nerves singing, and Damon had barely touched him. “You gonna come again before I even get my cock in you?” Damon chuckled, the sound dark with pleasure. “What a little slut I’ve made.”
He withdrew his fingers. The emptiness was immediate, agonizing. Sam made a broken, wanting noise, his hips chasing the loss. Damon shushed him, kissing him again, swallowing the sound. He positioned himself, the blunt, slick head pressing where Sam needed it most. He didn’t push. He just held there, a torturous promise.
“Look at me, Jamie.” Sam’s eyes, glazed and desperate, found his. Damon held his gaze, his own expression fierce with ownership. “This is what you needed, isn’t it?”
Then he pushed in, one slow, inexorable thrust that stole the air from Sam’s lungs. The stretch was immense, shocking, a burning fullness that obliterated every other thought. Sam wailed, a high, ragged sound that echoed off the walls. His back arched, his nails scraping down Damon’s back.
Damon sank all the way in, hips flush against Sam’s ass, and stilled, buried to the hilt. A ragged groan tore from his own throat. “Fuck,” he breathed, his composure cracking for a second. He looked down at Sam, who was trembling, overwhelmed, full in a way that felt terrifyingly right. “Yeah. That’s what you needed, baby. All along.”
He began to move then, not with the punishing pace of a performance, but with a deep, rolling rhythm that felt like it was reshaping Sam from the inside out. He kept kissing him, their mouths meeting in slick, gasping unions. He held Sam’s face with both hands, his thumbs wiping at the tears that leaked from the corners of Sam’s eyes.
“My good boy,” Damon murmured against his lips, his own breath coming in hot bursts. “Taking me so deep. So perfect.” His thrusts were long and slow, each one dragging over that devastating spot inside Sam, building a coil of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
Sam could only moan, a continuous, helpless sound. He wrapped his legs around Damon’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, the wet sounds of their joining, the coarse brush of sheets beneath his back. The morning light painted stripes across Damon’s shoulders, across their tangled bodies, making everything feel hyper-real and dangerously intimate.
He was floating, mind utterly blank, possessed by sensation. Every nerve was alive, singing for this man who was wrecking him so thoroughly. Damon’s dirty talk washed over him, a warm, degrading rain. “Yeah, just like that. Milk me. Squeeze that greedy little ass. You wanna come, don’t you? You wanna come on your man’s cock?”
Sam nodded, frantic, so close he was trembling with it. His own cock was trapped between their stomachs, leaking a slick mess between them.
His own cock was trapped between their stomachs, leaking a slick mess between them. Damon’s rhythm was a relentless, driving thing now, each thrust punching a broken sound from Sam’s throat. Time blurred, measured only in the slap of skin and the creak of the bedframe. Sam’s mind had short-circuited, dissolving into a white static of pure, screaming feeling.
He was just a body, being used perfectly, climbing a peak he never wanted to come down from. A high, keening moan was ripped from him with every plunge. “Fuck, fuck, Damon—”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Damon growled, his own voice strained, sweat dripping from his chin onto Sam’s chest. His pace was brutal, perfect, aimed with deadly accuracy. Sam’s legs were locked around him, holding him deep. He was babbling, nonsense, pleas, yes, god, right there.
“You’re so fucking gone for it,” Damon panted, a wild, triumphant laugh in his words. He drove in hard and stayed there, grinding, forcing Sam to feel every inch. “Look at you. Completely wrecked. And you know what’s the best part?”
Sam could only whimper, his hips trembling, chasing the friction. He was so close.
“We’re not even filming.” Damon’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, hot against Sam’s ear. His hips began moving again, that deep, punishing rhythm. “No camera. No paycheck. Nothing.”
The words landed like stones in the muddled soup of Sam’s brain. He blinked, dazed.
“You just woke up,” Damon continued, his thrusts never faltering, “and wanted to get fucked this morning. Didn’t you?”
Reality, cold and sharp, speared through the pleasure. Sam’s eyes flew open, meeting Damon’s dark, amused gaze. His rhythm stuttered for a second, his mind scrambling. No camera. No contract. He’d just… he’d woken up grinding on him, and now he was getting pounded into the mattress, begging for it.
It just felt natural.
The thought was a bucket of ice water. A violent, confusing shiver wracked him. Oh god. What was he doing?
Damon saw the panic flash across his face. He smiled, a slow, wicked curl of his lips. He slowed his pace to a maddening, shallow rock. “Hmm? What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He pulled almost all the way out, hovering at the edge. “Should I stop? Should I pull out?”
The sudden emptiness was a physical agony. A raw, animal noise of protest tore from Sam’s throat before he could stop it. His body arched, seeking that fullness again, his mind screaming in conflict. He shook his head wildly, his face burning with a humiliation so deep it felt like his skin was peeling off.
“No?” Damon teased, his voice dripping with faux concern. He didn’t move. “You sure? Seems kinda weird, doesn’t it? Straight boy like you, just taking it for free. No excuses.”
“Please,” Sam gasped, the word shattered. He was blushing so hard it hurt. He couldn’t think. He just needed. He grabbed at Damon’s hips, trying to pull him back in.
“Since you asked so nice.” Damon sheathed himself in one smooth, devastating thrust, knocking the air from Sam’s lungs. He set a ruthless, perfect pace again, snapping his hips with a force that made the headboard slam against the wall. “God, you’re needy. You love this. You love getting dicked down.”
He leaned down, capturing Sam’s mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, swallowing his moans. “I turned you,” he whispered against his lips, each word a thrust. “My straight boy. My horny little bottom. All mine.”
The confession, the relentless fucking, the kiss—it was too much. The coil snapped. Sam came with a choked, shattered cry, his body seizing, pulsing untouched between them. Pleasure electric and endless tore through him, wringing every drop.
Damon kept fucking him through it, extending the agonizing waves, whispering “That’s it, give it to me,” until Sam was sobbing, oversensitive and raw.
A minute later, Damon’s rhythm faltered. He pulled out abruptly, his hand a blur. He came in thick, hot stripes across Sam’s stomach and chest, marking him with a low, guttural groan. “Mine.” He watched his own release paint Sam’s trembling skin. He scooped a finger through it, bringing it to Sam’s lips.
Sam, mind blank and exhausted, took it into his mouth without hesitation, the bitter taste a final anchor.
In the heavy, gasping silence that followed, the reality of what just happened crashed down. Sam turned his head, hiding his face in the pillow. The scent of sex and sweat and Damon was everywhere. He felt sticky, claimed, and utterly confused.
“I broke up with my girlfriend,” he blurted into the fabric, the words muffled and too loud. “Yesterday. So I’ve just been… you know. More horny than normal lately.” It was a feeble defense, a pathetic attempt to explain the unexplainable.
Damon was silent for a beat. Then Sam heard the low, smug chuckle. A hand, large and warm, settled on his damp hair. “Okay, baby,” Damon said, his voice rich with knowing amusement. He didn’t argue. He didn’t have to.
He slapped Sam’s thigh. “Up. Shower. You’re a sticky mess.”
In the steamy bathroom, under the hot spray, Sam tried not to look. Damon washed him with a casual, proprietorial efficiency. Sam’s gaze flickered, against his will, downwards. Damon was soft now, but still impressive, resting thick against his thigh.
Damon followed his glance. A slow grin spread across his face. “Jesus. Insatiable.” He turned Sam around to rinse his back. “I’m worn out for the day, kid. You drained me.”
He turned the water off and handed Sam a towel. His tone was casual, offhand. “But you can come back after class. If you need to.”
Sam froze, towel clutched to his chest. The offer hung in the steam. It wasn’t about filming. It wasn’t about money. He stood there, dripping, flustered to his core, unable to form a single word.
Damon kisses him at the door and he just takes it. What the fuck.