Chapter 1: Marked and Begging
The air in Tommy’s bedroom was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and that stupidly expensive cologne he wore. Chanse hovered above him, a silhouette cut from gold and shadow in the lamplight, his hazel eyes tracking a bead of sweat as it slid down the column of Tommy’s throat. Beneath him, Tommy was a wreck—a beautiful, straining wreck. His big body was pinned, muscles coiled and trembling, the bleached-blond strands of his hair stuck to his damp forehead.
Chanse’s fingers, long and deliberate, traced over a faint yellowing bruise on Tommy’s hip. A souvenir from two nights ago. He dipped his head and licked a stripe over it, tasting salt, before sealing his mouth over the spot and biting down. Not hard. Just enough.
Tommy arched off the bed with a shattered gasp, his hands flying up to grip the wrought-iron headboard. The silver bracelets on his wrist clinked softly against the metal.
“You belong like this, don’t you?” Chanse murmured against his skin, his voice a low, rough thing. It wasn’t really a question.
Tommy’s answer was a ragged exhale. His cock, thick and flushed and painfully hard, lay against his stomach, leaking steadily onto his skin. It had been like that for an hour. Untouched. A fucking torture device of Chanse’s exact design.
Slowly, watching Tommy’s face, Chanse reached down and wrapped his fingers not around Tommy’s cock, but around his own. He gave himself a lazy, tight stroke, a low groan catching in his throat. The sight of it—Chanse’s hand moving on himself, his eyes locked on Tommy’s—made Tommy whimper. The sound was pure, undignified need.
“Look at you,” Chanse said, his rhythm on his own cock never faltering. “Look at this fucking mess I made.”
“Chanse…” Tommy’s voice was broken glass.
“What?” He leaned closer, his breath hot on Tommy’s mouth. “Use your words, baby.”
Tommy’s hips gave a helpless, aborted jerk, seeking friction that wasn’t there. He spread his legs wider, the silent plea obvious in the tense lines of his thighs.
A slow, wicked smile spread across Chanse’s face. “You’re so desperate.”
“It’s your fucking fault,” Tommy challenged, but it was weak, all air and no fire. “You haven’t touched me for an hour.”
“Haven’t I?” Chanse dragged his teeth over Tommy’s nipple, making him jolt. “I’ve touched every other part of you.” He shifted then, kneeling up, his own need prominent and ignored. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, the click of the cap obscenely loud. “Bet I can fuck you until you come untouched.”
Tommy’s eyes widened, a mix of dread and wild hunger darkening them. “You’re an asshole.”
“Your asshole,” Chanse corrected, voice dripping with a possessive sweetness as he slicked his fingers.
He didn’t prepare him slow. There was no gentle, teasing stretch. Chanse knew what Tommy could take, what he needed. He pushed two fingers inside him in one deep, relentless thrust, curling them immediately.
Tommy cried out, his back bowing, his knuckles white on the headboard. “Fuck! Yes, right there, god, right there—”
Chanse fucked him with his fingers, scissoring, stretching, painting his insides with slick, burning heat. He watched Tommy’s face unravel, watched the confident, sarcastic man he loved outside this room dissolve into a pleading, wanton thing beneath him. He added a third finger, and Tommy’s mouth fell open in a soundless scream, his cock jumping and spitting another pearl of pre-come onto his stomach.
“You ready?” Chanse’s voice was strained, his control fraying at the edges. He needed to be inside him now.
“If you don’t fuck me, I’m going to kill you,” Tommy gritted out, hips circling frantically on Chanse’s hand.
Chanse withdrew his fingers. He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing against Tommy’s entrance. He held himself there, not pushing, just letting Tommy feel the insistent pressure. “Tell me.”
Tommy’s brown eyes were glazed. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me who you belong to.”
A shudder wracked Tommy’s frame. He hated this. He loved this. “Chanse… please.”
“Say it.”
“You.” The word was torn from him. “I belong to you. Now fuck me.”
Chanse slammed home in one brutal, perfect stroke.
The air punched out of Tommy’s lungs. It was too much, it was everything, it was a blinding stretch of pure sensation. Chanse didn’t give him time to adjust. He set a punishing pace from the start, each drive of his hips snapping the bedframe against the brick wall. The sound was obscene—skin slapping against skin, their mingled grunts and curses, the metallic rattle of the headboard.
Chanse bent over him, capturing his mouth in a wet, biting kiss. “You take me so good,” he growled against Tommy’s lips. “Look at you. My big, strong man, coming apart on my cock.”
Tommy could only moan, his legs locking around Chanse’s waist, pulling him deeper. Every nerve was on fire, the coil in his gut winding tighter and tighter with each relentless thrust. Chanse was hitting that spot inside him with unerring accuracy, lighting him up from the inside.
“Gonna come,” Tommy warned, the words slurred. “Chanse, I’m gonna—”
“Not yet,” Chanse commanded, slowing his hips to a deep, grinding roll. He reached between them and wrapped his hand around Tommy’s throat, not squeezing, just holding. A claim. “You come when I say. When I feel you milking my cock. Not a second before.”
The denial was agony. Tommy sobbed, his entire body trembling on the edge. Chanse fucked him through the desperation, his own rhythm starting to stutter, his breath coming in sharp gasps against Tommy’s neck.
“Now,” Chanse snarled, the word guttural and final. He pistoned into him, hard and fast and deep.
It was all the permission Tommy needed. His orgasm ripped through him without a single touch to his cock, a violent, crashing wave that left him blind and deaf to everything but the feeling of Chanse emptying into him, the hot pulse deep inside echoing his own contractions. He chanted Chanse’s name, a broken litany, as he spasmed helplessly around him.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Chanse collapsed on top of him, a warm, heavy weight, his face buried in Tommy’s sweat-damp neck.
Slowly, reality seeped back in. The feel of the cool sheets against his back. The crooked photo on the brick wall, watching them. The sticky mess between them.
Chanse finally rolled off, pulling Tommy with him, keeping him close. He traced the fresh, blooming marks on Tommy’s throat and chest.
Tommy’s mind was fuzzy, blissfully blank. Then he felt Chanse press a soft kiss to his shoulder, heard the quiet, shaky exhale that followed it.
He turned his head. Chanse was looking at him, his usual sharpness gone, replaced by something raw and unbearably open.
The words were out before Tommy could stop them, before he could armor up again, whispered into the space between their mouths.
“I love you.”
The silence that followed was louder than anything that had come before. Chanse’s breath hitched. He didn’t smile. He didn’t look away. He just stared, his hazel eyes searching Tommy’s, as if trying to find the trapdoor, the joke, the exit.
He didn’t find one.
Tommy’s heart, so recently pounding from exertion, began to hammer for a whole new reason. The momentum of the night, of the years, had just hurtled them off a cliff. And they were still in the air, waiting to see how they’d land.