Chapter 13: What Would It Be Like?
Luke leaned in, hugging Scott protectively. The scent of Scott’s shampoo, something clean and faintly herbal, filled his senses as Scott’s quiet sobs dampened his shirt. He held him until the shaking stopped, until the breaths evened out into something resembling calm. The cracked phone on the floor was a dark eye, a silent witness to the violation Luke had sworn, for now, to allow.
Weeks passed in a taut, watchful silence.
Luke functioned, but a new current hummed beneath his skin, a restless energy he couldn’t discharge. Scott’s confession had opened a door, and through it Luke saw not just Ethan’s sickness, but the blinding, suffocating truth of his own want. It was a physical ache, a knot of need in his gut that tightened every time Scott smiled at him trustingly, every time he recalled the word love from Melissa’s furious mouth. He needed to understand the shape of this desire, to map its territory with something, someone, that wasn’t the singular, impossible focus of it.
The bar was a mid-week ghost town, all dim lights and stale beer. Luke sat at the end of the counter, a mountain of tension in a black t-shirt, his massive frame making the stool seem childish. He wasn’t here to drink. He was hunting a feeling. His eyes scanned the few patrons, dismissing them until they landed on a lone figure by the jukebox. Slim build. Light brown hair that fell into nervous eyes. A certain hesitant slope to the shoulders.
Luke’s pulse kicked. He finished his whiskey, the burn doing nothing to soothe the deeper fire, and walked over.
“This thing ever play anything from this century?” Luke asked, his voice a low rumble.
The man turned, eyes widening slightly at Luke’s size, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Doubt it. It’s mostly for show.”
“Figures.” Luke extended a hand. “I’m Luke.”
“Patrick.”
His hand was slight in Luke’s, his grip tentative. The resemblance wasn’t perfect, but it was there in the way he looked up through his lashes, in the quick, shy smile. It was a sketch where Scott was the finished painting, but the lines were enough. An hour and two more drinks later, Luke leaned close, his breath stirring Patrick’s hair. “My place is five minutes away. You should come see it.”
In the harsh fluorescence of Luke’s bathroom, Patrick looked even more like him. Same delicate collarbones, same way of holding himself like he expected a blow. Luke pushed him against the cold tiles, crushing their mouths together. It wasn’t gentle. It was conquest. He tasted of cheap lager and mint, a wrongness that only fueled Luke’s hunger. He stripped Patrick’s clothes off with rough, efficient tugs, fabric tearing at the seams.
“Fuck, you’re huge,” Patrick breathed, his eyes wide as he stared at Luke’s naked body.
Luke was a monument of muscle and dark, curling hair that spanned his chest, coated his thick arms and powerful legs. His cock, fully hard, was a heavy, thick length that curved upward from a dense thatch of black hair, his balls a substantial weight beneath. He looked like he could break Patrick in half.
“On the bed. On your hands and knees,” Luke commanded, his voice leaving no room for debate.
Patrick scrambled to comply. Luke stood behind him, one large, hairy hand spreading Patrick’s pale cheeks. He spat, the wet heat landing directly on Patrick’s hole. Patrick jerked at the crude intimacy.
“Relax,” Luke muttered, though it wasn’t a comfort. He used his fingers, first one then two, working them in without ceremony, stretching him open. He was methodical, brutally efficient, his gaze fixed on the body before him but seeing another. Seeing Scott’s back, Scott’s submission.
He slicked his own cock with a rough palm, the pre-cum beading at the tip mixing with the spit. He notched the broad head against Patrick’s entrance. “This is gonna hurt for a second,” Luke grunted, a facsimile of care. Then he pushed, a relentless, unforgiving invasion.
Patrick cried out, a sharp, choked sound, his knuckles white on the sheets. Luke sunk in to the hilt in one deep, burning stroke, his heavy balls slapping against Patrick’s skin. The tight, clenching heat was extraordinary. Luke swore, a guttural “Fuck,” as he began to move.
He set a punishing rhythm, each powerful thrust driving the breath from Patrick’s lungs. The bed rocked against the wall with a steady, dull thud. Luke gripped Patrick’s hip with one hand, his other fisting in that brown hair, pulling his head back to arch his spine. He fucked into him with a focused, driving intensity, the slap of skin on skin filling the room.
“You take it so good,” Luke growled, the words meant for someone else. He leaned over, his sweaty, hairy chest pressing against Patrick’s back, his mouth near an ear. “Such a good boy for me. Taking my whole fucking cock.”
The fantasy crystallized, perfect and devastating. This wasn’t Patrick. This was Scott, here in his bed, finally claimed. Scott, trusting him, yielding to him, being filled by him. The thought was a lightning strike to his core. His thrusts became erratic, deeper, more possessive.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped, the protective instinct warring with the roughness. “I’ve always got you.” He reached around and took Patrick’s leaking cock in a rough grip, jerking him in time with his own brutal pumps. “Come for me. Come on my cock.”
Patrick whimpered, his body convulsing as he spilled over Luke’s fist. The clenching spasms around his length pushed Luke over the edge. With a final, deep snarl, he buried himself and came, hot pulses flooding Patrick’s depths, claiming what he could not truly have.
He collapsed for a moment, his weight pinning the slighter man, before rolling off. They lay in the silence, the air thick with sex and sweat. Patrick’s breathing slowed into sleep almost immediately.
Luke stared at the ceiling, the phantom scent of herbal shampoo in his nose. The comprehension was ice-cold and absolute. He hadn’t been exploring an attraction to men. He had been practicing. Every thrust, every growled word, had been a rehearsal for Scott. The promise he’d made weeks ago echoed now, transformed.
He wouldn’t let it go. He would burn Ethan’s world to the ground for this. But the prize, he now understood with celestial clarity, was not merely Scott’s safety. It was this. Scott here, in this bed, under his body. His to have, his to fuck, his to own. Utterly. The path was clear.