Chapter 17: The Big Gay Realization
Sam woke to pressure and absence.
A slow, sliding pull deep inside him, a thickness retreating. His body clenched weakly around it, a sleepy protest. Morning light cut through the gaps in the blinds, painting bars of gold across the wreckage of the room. He was on his stomach, face mashed into a pillow that smelled like Damon and sex. Every muscle ached with a deep, savory exhaustion.
The plug came free with a soft, wet pop.
A rush of cool air hit the exposed, tender ring of muscle, and Sam made a small, confused sound into the pillow. The emptiness was immediate and profound, a startling vacancy that left him feeling hollowed out and oddly adrift. He shifted, and the sensation of being open, really truly open, made his cheeks burn even before his brain was fully online.
A warm, calloused palm smoothed over the curve of his ass. “Morning, baby.”
Damon’s voice was a gravelly rumble, thick with sleep and something else. Sam turned his head, blinking crust from his eyes. Damon was propped on an elbow beside him, naked, his tattooed torso a landscape of shadow in the striped light. He held the small black plug between his fingers, dripping steadily onto the already-stained sheet. He had a look on his face—focused, possessive, amused.
“You kept it in all night,” Damon said, his thumb stroking over the fluttering entrance he’d just emptied. “Slept like a baby, didn’t you? My good boy.”
Sam’s throat was dry. “M’sleepy,” he managed, his voice a crack.
“I know you are.” Damon leaned down and kissed the base of Sam’s spine, a soft press of lips that felt like a brand. “But I promised you something last night. Remember?”
Before Sam could form a question, he felt it. The blunt, insistent pressure of something much larger than the plug, hot and unyielding, pressing right where the emptiness ached. There was no preamble, no gentle stretch. Damon’s cockhead-notched against him, a threat and a promise in one.