Chapter 1: Rainy Window Fuck
The rain whispered against the windowpane, a steady rhythm that matched the frantic beat of Leo’s heart. He fumbled with his keys, the metal slipping in his damp fingers, before the lock finally gave with a soft click. He pushed the door open, stumbling back into the warmth of his own apartment, and Marcus was on him before it had even swung shut.
A large, calloused hand splayed across Leo’s stomach, yanking him back against a solid, immovable wall of muscle and heat. The door thudded closed, sealing them in the dim, cozy clutter. Leo’s bag of groceries dropped to the floor with a thump, a sweet potato rolling under the table.
“Wait—” Leo breathed, but it was swallowed by Marcus’s mouth crashing down on his.
This wasn’t a kiss of gentle exploration. It was a claiming. Marcus’s tongue delved deep, tasting of bourbon and a raw, unchecked hunger that made Leo’s knees buckle. He was supported only by the iron band of Marcus’s arm around his waist. Marcus’s other hand came up, tangling in Leo’s honey-blond curls, gripping just shy of painful, tilting his head back to take the kiss even deeper.
Leo melted into it, a soft, wanting sound vibrating in his throat. He’d seen this man across a crowded, smoke-hazed bar, a giant with tired eyes and sawdust in the seams of his jacket, looking profoundly out of place and utterly compelling. Their conversation had been brief, charged. Leo had invited him for a nightcap. He’d meant tea.
Marcus clearly had other ideas.
Marcus broke the kiss, his breath a ragged gust against Leo’s wet lips. He didn’t speak. With a ruthless efficiency, he spun Leo around, facing him toward the large window that looked out over the glistening, rain-smeared city. He pushed him forward, until Leo’s slender hands were flat against the cool glass.
“Marcus,” Leo gasped, his breath already fogging a small circle on the pane.
“Don’t talk.” The command was gruff, a low rasp that went straight to Leo’s core. He felt Marcus’s hands at his waist, then the rasp of a zipper. His trousers were shoved down his thighs in one rough motion, the cool air of the apartment kissing his exposed skin. Then Marcus’s heat was back, pressing against him.
Leo heard the sound of Marcus spitting, a wet, filthy sound in the quiet room. A second later, he felt it—a warm, slick smear against his hole. He jolted, a shocked gasp catching in his throat.
“Told you,” Marcus growled, his voice thick with lust as he positioned the thick, blunt head of his cock at Leo’s entrance. “No talking.”
He didn’t wait. He didn’t ask.
He pushed in.
The stretch was intense, brutal, a white-hot spear of pure sensation that ripped a ragged cry from Leo’s lungs. His fingers scrambled against the glass, leaving smeared trails in the condensation. Marcus was enormous, and he gave no quarter, sinking deep with a single, relentless drive until his hips were flush against Leo’s ass.
“Fuck,” Marcus groaned, his forehead dropping between Leo’s shoulder blades. “Jesus Christ. You’re so fucking tight.”
He didn’t move for a long moment, just stayed buried to the hilt, both of them panting, absorbing the shock of the connection. Leo felt impossibly full, split open and speared. The initial burn was already softening, melting into a deep, aching throb of need.
Then Marcus drew back, almost all the way out, and slammed home again.
Leo saw stars. His vision fractured at the edges, the neon lights of the city below blurring into streaks of color. Marcus set a punishing pace from the first stroke, no warm-up, no gentle build. It was all-consuming, a piston-driven fuck that rocked Leo’s whole body forward with every thrust. The window rattled softly in its frame.
“This what you wanted?” Marcus grunted, his hands gripping Leo’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Huh? You invited the big bad wolf in, sweetheart. You get what you asked for.”
Leo couldn’t form words. Pleasure, sharp and coarse, was sandblasting through every nerve ending. Each slam rubbed his own cock against the cold glass, a maddening friction. He was panting, drooling a little, his cheek now pressed to the wet pane.
“Gonna ruin this pretty little hole,” Marcus whispered, bending over him, his lips against the shell of Leo’s ear. His thrusts became shorter, harder, deeper. “Gonna fuck you so deep you feel me for days. Gonna make it so you can’t sit without thinking of my cock.”
The filthy words, delivered in that gravel-dark voice, were the final spark. Leo’s orgasm detonated without warning, without a hand ever touching him. It ripped through him violently, a silent scream tearing from his throat as his release shot out, streaking the window with opaque, pearled lines. His body clamped down on Marcus’s cock in vise-like pulses, milking him.
The sensation tipped Marcus over the edge. With a gutteral roar that was more animal than man, he buried himself as deep as he could go and came. Leo felt the hot, sudden flood fill him, pulse after pulse, a claiming as primal as the act itself.
For a minute, the only sounds were their heaving breaths and the relentless tattoo of the rain.
Slowly, carefully, Marcus pulled out. Leo winced at the sensitivity, the sudden, empty ache. He would feel that tomorrow. He would feel all of it.
He expected Marcus to leave. To pull up his jeans, mutter something awkward, and vanish into the night. It was what usually happened.
Instead, he felt large, surprisingly gentle hands pull his trousers back up, fastening them with a tenderness that contradicted everything that had just occurred. Marcus turned him around. His expression was unreadable, his brown eyes dark and shadowed in the low light. He looked at Leo’s face, then down at the mess on the window.
Without a word, Marcus walked to the small kitchenette, wet a dishcloth under the warm tap, and came back. He carefully, methodically, wiped the cum from the glass. Then he raised the cloth to Leo’s cheek, wiping away the damp tracks there, too.
Leo just watched him, stunned, his body humming and wrecked.
Marcus finally met his gaze. He looked wrecked, too. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice rough.
“I wanted you to,” Leo replied, his own voice a thin whisper.
“That’s the problem.” Marcus tossed the cloth toward the sink. He ran a hand through his own hair, making it stand on end. He looked around the apartment, at the cozy chaos of books and art supplies, as if seeing it for the first time. It was the polar opposite of his own ordered, empty workshop.
“You got a shower?” Marcus asked, not looking at him.
“Through there.”
Marcus nodded. He started to turn, then stopped. He looked back at Leo, a storm of conflict in his eyes. “You coming?”
It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t a declaration. It was just a question, hanging in the space between them, as fragile and insistent as the rain on the glass.
Leo took a shaky breath, and nodded.