Chapter 43: The Loft Window
The deep, black quiet of the cabin was absolute. Michael swam up from it, not to light or sound, but to a pressure against his lips. Warm. Insistent. He blinked, disoriented, the world resolving into the moon-washed planes of Nathan’s torso hovering above him. Nathan was on his knees, one hand braced on the headboard, the other guiding the thick, hot crown of his cock to Michael’s mouth.
No words. Just the silent, dark expectation in Nathan’s hooded eyes.
Michael’s lips parted. He accepted the weight, the silken skin over iron hardness. He tasted sleep and salt and the musky, essential flavor of the man. Nathan let out a slow, controlled breath as Michael took him in, his tongue flattening against the underside. He went deeper, his body moving on an instinct older than fear or fame. His throat opened, relaxed, and he took Nathan in until his nose pressed into the coarse blond hair at the base. He gagged, a deep, convulsive reflex that made his eyes water, but he didn’t pull back. He held. Swallowed. Breathed through the strain.
“Fuck,” Nathan whispered, a ragged exhalation. His fingers threaded into Michael’s dark hair, not yanking, but cradling his skull, holding him in place. “Just like that. Take it all.”
Nathan began to move, shallow thrusts that fucked into the wet heat of Michael’s mouth. The pace was relentless, measured. Michael’s jaw ached. Spill gathered at the corners of his lips. He looked up, his vision blurry with tears, and met Nathan’s gaze. The rapper’s expression was one of fierce, almost painful concentration, watching himself disappear between those famous lips. It was a violation and a consecration, and Michael welcomed both.
When Nathan finally pulled back, it was with a slick, popping sound. He was breathing hard. “Turn over.”
Michael moved, his body sore from earlier, every muscle whispering its complaint. He got onto his hands and knees, the worn sheet cool beneath his palms. He heard the rip of fabric—a long, tearing sound that seemed to scream in the silent loft. Nathan was tearing another strip from the bottom sheet.
The anticipation was a live wire in Michael’s gut. He offered his hands behind his back without being asked. Nathan’s hands were swift, efficient. He looped the rough cotton around both wrists, crossing them, pulling the bindings tight. The knot was compact, biting. Then Nathan guided him down, so his chest was against the mattress, his bound hands resting in the small of his back, his ass raised. Completely presented. Utterly helpless.
Nathan’s hand, broad and warm, rubbed over the curve of his ass, then dipped between his cheeks. He traced the pucker, still loose and sensitive from their earlier fucking. He pushed a finger in, a ruthless intrusion. “Still so open for me,” he muttered. “Still mine.”
He added another finger, scissoring them, stretching him. The burn was sharp, glorious. Michael pushed back against the sensation, a low moan trapped in his throat.
“You want it?” Nathan’s voice was gravel.
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
“I want your cock. Please, Nathan. Need it.”
The fingers withdrew. He heard Nathan spit, a wet sound, then felt the blunt, slick head of his cock press against him. No more preparation. Just possession.
Nathan sheathed himself in one long, brutal stroke.
The air left Michael’s lungs in a punched-out gasp. It was a burn that bordered on agony, a fullness that threatened to split him open. Nathan didn’t pause. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, each drive forward slamming Michael’s bound hands into his own back, each withdrawal a vacuum of cold air. The bedframe slammed against the log wall in a timed, wooden percussion.
“This,” Nathan grunted, his voice strained with effort, “is what you are. This is all you are right now. A hole for me to fuck. My fucking hole.”
Each word was a hammer blow, driving the truth deeper than his cock could reach. Michael buried his face in the mattress, his screams muffled by the fabric. He was unspooling, unraveling under the assault. The pain transmuted, melting into a raw, blinding pleasure that originated in the core of his being and radiated outward, setting every nerve alight.
Nathan’s pace grew frenzied, animalistic. His hands gripped Michael’s hips hard enough to bruise, holding him in place for the savage piston of his hips. The sound of skin slapping against skin, of Nathan’ guttural curses, of Michael’s ragged sobs, filled the small space.
“Gonna cum,” Nathan snarled, his rhythm fragmenting. “Gonna fill this tight ass up. Mark you inside.”
The promise triggered Michael’s own climax. It tore through him without a hand ever touching his cock, a seismic wave of pleasure that left him shaking and blind, his cries dissolving into unintelligible whimpers against the mattress. The clenching of his body around Nathan’s driving cock pulled the rapper over the edge.
With a final, deep roar, Nathan slammed home and held, his body rigid. Michael felt the hot, liquid surge of his release, pulse after pulse flooding him. Nathan collapsed forward, his sweat-slick chest pressed against Michael’s bound back, his weight a final, crushing seal.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their heaving breaths and the creek’s distant murmur. Nathan’s softening cock slipped out, followed by a slow, warm trickle of cum. Nathan shifted, his fingers going to the knot at Michael’s wrists. He undid it with clumsy, tired fingers, then rubbed the red marks left behind.
He rolled onto his side, pulling Michael with him, spooning his trembling body. He didn’t speak. He just pulled the ragged sheet over them and wrapped his arms around Michael’s chest, holding him as if against a storm. His lips pressed once, softly, to the junction of Michael’s neck and shoulder.
In the silence, in the lingering, aching fullness, Michael felt something settle. The screaming in his head, the static of a million watching eyes, was gone. Here, there was only the weight of the man behind him, the smell of sex and sweat, the brutal, uncomplicated truth of being used and, in that usage, being seen. Not as an icon, but as a body. A man. His.
As dawn’s first grey light began to bleed into the loft, etching the lines of Nathan’s forearm where it lay across his chest, Michael closed his eyes. For the first time in a decade, he felt real.