Chapter 2: On His Knees
The words “God help me” were still hanging in the air, a broken prayer, when Ethan’s mouth crashed down on his.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.
Ethan’s hands tangled in Taichi’s damp hair, gripping hard, tilting his head back to deepen the angle. The noise he made was pure animal want, a low growl that vibrated through Taichi’s bones. Taichi met him with equal hunger, his own hands scrambling over the solid wall of Ethan’s back, fisting in the wet cotton of his henley. He tasted of coffee and the faint, metallic hint of the rain. His tongue was demanding, rough, and Taichi opened for him, a shudder of pure need racking his lean frame.
Ethan broke the kiss only to shove him backward. Taichi’s hips hit the edge of the kitchen counter, the old burn mark digging into the small of his back. He didn’t care. Ethan’s eyes were wild, dark with a desire that had shed its last restraint. He looked at Taichi like he was something to devour.
“This can’t be undone,” Ethan rasped, his breath hot against Taichi’s mouth.
“I don’t want it undone.”
Ethan kissed him again, slower this time, but deeper, his hands moving from Taichi’s hair to frame his face. The tenderness in the gesture was its own kind of violence, more devastating than the shove. Taichi felt his control splinter. He pushed at Ethan’s chest, just enough to create a sliver of space.
“Wait.”
Ethan froze, his body rigid, panic flashing in his green eyes. “Tai—”
“Shut up.” Taichi’s voice was thick. He dropped his gaze, his own fingers trembling as they went to the worn leather of Ethan’s belt. The buckle was cold under his touch. He worked it open with deliberate, shaky slowness, the rasp of the prong loud in the humming quiet of the kitchen. He popped the button of Ethan’s jeans, tugged the zipper down. The bulge beneath the denim was heavy, unmistakable.
He didn’t look up as he sank to his knees on the cool linoleum.
The view from here was different. The worn seams of Ethan’s jeans. The old scuffs on his work boots. The powerful thighs, tense and shaking. Taichi looked up through the dark fringe of his lashes. Ethan was staring down at him, his expression one of raw, shattered awe.
“I need this,” Taichi said, the words barely a whisper. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of Ethan’s jeans and briefs and tugged them down just enough. Ethan’s cock sprang free, thick and already fully hard, the head flushed a deep, angry red. A bead of moisture glistened at the tip. “I need you to fuck my throat, Ethan. Use me.”
Ethan choked. A full-body tremor went through him. His hand came up, not to push Taichi away, but to cradle the back of his head. His fingers were calloused, immense. “Jesus Christ.”
Taichi didn’t wait for permission. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over the heated skin. He opened his mouth and took the head inside, licking away that first salty taste. Ethan’s hips jerked involuntarily. A ragged groan tore from his throat.
The weight on his tongue was obscene, perfect. Taichi relaxed his jaw, letting saliva pool, and took more, sinking down until his nose pressed into the coarse, dark hair at the base. He breathed in Ethan’s scent—sweat, sawdust, pure male musk. It was the most familiar, most forbidden smell in the world.
“Fuck,” Ethan hissed, his fingers tightening in Taichi’s hair. “Oh, fuck, Tai.”
Taichi pulled back, slicking the length with his tongue before driving down again, establishing a rhythm that was hungry and wet. He gagged once, tears springing to his eyes, and Ethan tried to pull back.
“No,” Taichi gasped, releasing him just long enough to speak, a string of saliva connecting his lips to Ethan’s cock. “Don’t you fucking stop. I told you. Use me.”
The command shattered Ethan’s last hesitation. A sound somewhere between a sob and a snarl ripped from his chest. He took control, his hips pistoning forward, fucking into the wet, tight heat of Taichi’s mouth with a force that was neither gentle nor careful. It was pure, frantic need.
Taichi let him. He yielded, his throat opening, letting Ethan set the brutal, deepening pace. His own cock was painfully hard, straining against his jeans. Each thrust hit the back of his throat, a punishing, perfect rhythm that made his eyes water and his world narrow to this single, filthy point of connection. The sounds were lewd—guttural grunts from above, the slick, choking noise of penetration, the creak of Ethan’s boots on the floor as he steadied himself.
“You have no idea,” Ethan was panting, his voice ragged, “no fucking idea what you’ve done to me. What you’ve always done to me.” His thrusts became sharper, more desperate. “Your mother would—“
Taichi reached up and grabbed Ethan’s ass, digging his fingers into the hard muscle, pulling him deeper, swallowing around him. The unfinished sentence died in a choked cry.
Ethan was close. Taichi could feel it in the twitch of his cock, the tightening of his thighs. He looked up, meeting Ethan’s gaze. Tears tracked through the stubble on his own cheeks. He held the look, letting Ethan see him like this—on his knees, used, wrecked, utterly complicit.
“Come in my mouth,” Taichi mumbled around his cock, the words slurred and filthy. “Do it. I want to taste it.”
It was the final push. Ethan’s head snapped back, a cord standing out in his neck. A series of ragged, helpless groans punched out of him as he came, pulsing hot and bitter down Taichi’s throat. Taichi swallowed, again and again, taking every drop, until Ethan was spent, shuddering, his grip in Taichi’s hair turning almost painful before finally going slack.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing. Ethan slowly slipped from Taichi’s lips. Taichi stayed on his knees, his forehead resting against Ethan’s trembling thigh. He felt hollowed out and yet more full than he’d ever been.
Ethan’s hand, surprisingly gentle now, smoothed over his sweat-damp hair. “Get up,” he murmured, his voice wrecked.
Taichi rose, his knees protesting. They were face to face again. Ethan’s expression was one of profound shock, as if he’d been struck by lightning. He reached out a thumb and wiped a stray bit of come from the corner of Taichi’s swollen mouth.
Without a word, Ethan pulled his clothes back into place, his movements stiff. He then took Taichi’s hand, his own grip still unsteady, and led him from the kitchen, past the silent living room, and up the creaking stairs into the dark hallway. He pushed open the door to his own bedroom—a room Taichi had rarely entered. It smelled like him—like clean linen, wood, and now, sex.
Ethan stopped in the middle of the dark room, still holding Taichi’s hand. In the faint light from the streetlamp filtering through the window, his face was a mask of conflict.
“Now what?” Taichi asked, his own voice raw.
Ethan didn’t answer with words. He brought Taichi’s hand to his own fly, pressing it against the renewed hardness there. A broken, desperate sound escaped him.
“Now,” Ethan said, his voice thick and dark, “we finish what we started.” He began undoing Taichi’s jeans, his movements urgent, his earlier guilt momentarily submerged beneath a fresh, rising wave of hunger.