Chapter 3: The Bedroom Unfolds
The “now” that Ethan uttered wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command, ripped from a place of long-starved need.
His hands, those carpenter’s hands that had built shelves and fixed faucets and once, gently, held Taichi’s mother, were anything but gentle now. They fumbled with the button of Taichi’s jeans, the fabric still damp from the rain. The zipper gave way with a harsh rasp. Ethan shoved denim and briefs down Taichi’s hips in one rough motion, letting them pool around his thighs. The cool air of the bedroom hit Taichi’s feverish skin, raising goosebumps. He was achingly hard, his cock jutting out, neglected and leaking.
Before Taichi could process the exposure, Ethan spun him around. The world tilted. His palms slapped against the heavy quilt covering the bed, the fabric soft and worn under his fingers. Ethan’s weight pressed behind him, a solid, overwhelming heat.
“Ethan—” Taichi’s voice was muffled against the bedding.
The answer was not words. Ethan’s hands gripped the swell of Taichi’s ass, fingers digging into the muscle, spreading him open. Taichi had a split second to tense, to wonder, before he felt it—the hot, wet stripe of Ethan’s tongue, licking a brutal, direct path from his perineum straight up over his hole.
Taichi cried out, a shocked, ragged sound. His fingers twisted in the quilt, knuckles white. Ethan did it again, slower this time, a broad, flat press of his tongue against the most intimate part of him. Then the tip of Ethan’s tongue probed, insistent, circling the tight ring of muscle before pushing inside.
“Oh, God.” Taichi buried his face in the bed, his whole body trembling. The sensation was obscene, wetter and more invasive than anything he’d imagined. Ethan ate him out with a frantic, desperate hunger, his tongue fucking in and out, his beard scratching the sensitive skin of Taichi’s inner thighs. The sounds were filthy—slick, sloppy, and animalistic, punctuated by Ethan’s low grunts.
It was worship and defilement all at once. It was Ethan, on his knees, breaking himself against Taichi’s body. Taichi could do nothing but take it, his hips pushing back instinctively, seeking more of that shocking, divine friction. Pleasure coiled hot and sharp in his gut, completely different from the feel of a hand or a mouth on his cock. This was deeper, dirtier.
Ethan pulled back suddenly. Taichi whimpered at the loss, the cool air hitting his spit-slicked hole. He heard the thick, wet sound of Ethan gathering saliva in his mouth, then felt the warm splatter of it directly on his exposed entrance.
“You want this?” Ethan’s voice was gravel, stripped raw. He wasn’t asking for permission. He was demanding confession.
“Yes.” The word was a sob. “Please. Ethan, please.”
The broad, blunt head of Ethan’s cock pressed against him. It wasn’t a gentle nudge. It was a claiming. Taichi tried to relax, to breathe out, but his body was tight with anticipation and fear. This was really going to happen.
“Say it again.” Ethan’s hand wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding himself. He pressed forward, just an inch, the stretch a burning, impossible fullness.
Taichi choked. “Fuck me. Please, fuck me. Do it.”
Ethan drove forward the rest of the way in one relentless, brutal thrust.
The air left Taichi’s lungs in a punched-out gasp. The burn was searing, a white-hot line of pain that blurred his vision. He was stretched wider than he’d ever been, filled to a depth that felt shocking. Ethan was still, buried inside him to the hilt, his body shaking with the effort of holding back.
“Christ,” Ethan breathed, his forehead dropping between Taichi’s shoulder blades. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Then he moved.
He pulled back almost all the way and slammed home again. The pain fractured, splintering into a sharp, bright pleasure as Ethan’s cock dragged over something deep inside him. Taichi shouted, a broken, wordless sound.
Ethan set a punishing rhythm, each thrust a deliberate, powerful piston stroke that knocked Taichi further up the bed. His grip on Taichi’s hips was iron, sure to leave bruises. The bedframe knocked against the wall in a steady, thudding counterpoint to the wet slap of skin on skin, to their ragged breathing.
“This what you dreamed about?” Ethan grunted, his pace never faltering. “All those years? Me fucking you like this? Ruining you?”
“Yes,” Taichi gasped, pushing back to meet every drive. The pain was gone, consumed by a mounting, desperate need. Each impact sent jolts of electricity up his spine. His own cock, trapped between his belly and the quilt, rubbed with every jolt, a tight, neglected friction. “Only you. Always you.”
Ethan’s hand snaked around Taichi’s waist, calloused fingers wrapping around his leaking cock. The touch was rough, his stroke uncoordinated and too tight, but it was everything. The dual sensation—Ethan pounding into him from behind, Ethan’s hand pulling him off—was too much. Taichi felt his climax coiling, a spring wound to its breaking point.
“Ethan, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” Ethan snarled into his ear, his thrusts becoming erratic, deeper, harder. “Come on my cock. Show me.”
It was the growl in his voice, the possession in it, that undid Taichi completely. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and blinding. He cried out, his back arching as he painted the quilt beneath him in hot, desperate stripes, his body clamping down around Ethan’s invading length.
The sudden, tight convulsing pulled Ethan over the edge. He buried himself as deep as he could go, a raw, broken shout tearing from his throat as he came, pumping his release hot and deep inside Taichi. They stayed locked like that, joined, both shuddering through the aftershocks, Ethan’s weight a heavy, comforting anchor.
Slowly, the world leaked back in. The smell of sex and sandalwood. The patter of rain against the window. The painful, steady thump of Taichi’s heart.
Ethan softened and slipped out of him. The loss felt profound, an emptiness where there had been a devastating fullness. Taichi didn’t move, his cheek pressed to the damp quilt. He heard Ethan move behind him, then felt the dip of the mattress as Ethan sat on the edge of the bed.
For a long time, there was only silence. Heavy. Laden.
When Ethan finally spoke, his voice was hollow, all the earlier heat gone. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
Taichi closed his eyes. He didn’t turn. “Which part?”
“All of it.” A rustle of fabric. Ethan was pulling his clothes back on. “I’m… Christ. I’m sorry.”
The word was a bucket of ice water. Taichi pushed himself up, wincing at the soreness between his legs, the sticky mess on his stomach. He turned to look at Ethan, who was staring at the floor, his profile carved in shadow and regret.
“Don’t,” Taichi said, his own voice hoarse. “Don’t apologize for the one true thing that’s happened in this house in years.”
Ethan looked at him then, his green eyes haunted. “It’s a sin, Taichi. In every way that matters.”
“Then let me burn for it,” Taichi whispered. “But don’t you dare leave me alone in the fire.”
Ethan stood, a tall, tired silhouette against the dim light. He didn’t answer. He just walked out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft, final click. Taichi was left alone in the ruined bed, the scent of their act clinging to him, the deep, aching throb inside him the only proof it hadn’t been a dream. He reached back, his fingers brushing the tender, bruised skin where Ethan had held him, where Ethan had been. Outside, the Seattle rain fell, washing nothing clean.