Page 85 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
I should be too ashamed to answer, bu
t it’s too hot, Auden is too hot, and I’m writhing underneath him trying to catch the ghost of his thrusts against my own cock. “Yes, God. Yes to all of it.”
“I knew it,” he says, smug triumph in his voice as he masturbates himself. But that smugness and that triumph is addictive to me because it’s not only smugness and triumph, but possession.
He sounds delighted with me, his new plaything, he sounds pleased that I’m insatiable, that I’m needy, and it’s confirmed by what he says next. “I’m going to have my work cut out for me, aren’t I? Keeping both you and our lusty little Poe satisfied?”
“Yes,” I moan, bucking up underneath him. “Please, can I touch myself? Just while I watch you? Please?”
“No,” he says, public school drawl in full effect. “No, I don’t think so. I think you should stay as you are while I come.”
Rebecca might be showing Auden how to use the equipment, but that raw, Dominant nature is already there. It’s been there since we were sixteen—hell, maybe even younger, though it wasn’t sexual then.
“Auden—”
“Try again.”
“Sir—please. I need to come—”
“Then come,” Auden says, arching an eyebrow down at me while he works himself. “But you’ll do it like this. Under me, in your jeans. Without touching yourself.”
I want to snarl and hiss and placate and beg, but there’s no time for it. Already Auden is speeding up, his arm flexing and bunching and his hips punching forward like he’s fucking in truth, like he’s ramming his thick cock into me or Poe instead of a toy. Already his thrusts are rubbing against me harder than ever, and then without warning, he lowers himself just enough that the roll and grind of his arse are flush against my suffering erection.
I come first, and I can’t even care that it’s from the mean friction of his trousered body against my jeans, that I’ve been humiliated somewhat in this exchange, bossed around and belittled and teased. That’s how it should be, that’s how I want it—yes, he was right earlier. If he says so then I have to, whatever it is. God help me if it’s ever any other way. And so I come under him—underneath him like I want to be forever—and I come helpless and writhing and moaning while he watches with a gleam of sadistic pleasure in his eyes. And then he follows me, freezing above me, every muscle taut and straining, and he climaxes with a grunt that I feel in the marrow of my bones.
It’s the satisfied grunt of a vigorous man, and what could be more delicious? What could be more perfect? I’m certain nothing could be, that I’ve reached the pinnacle of sex as humans and angels know it, but then Auden slides his hard flesh free of the toy cunt, tosses the toy unceremoniously on the carpet, and then lays fully on top of me.
His weight—heavy, firm—presses me into the mattress, and his wet cock, still mostly hard, is against my bare belly, and my own cock is still warm and wet and hard from my climax. His lips are against my neck, kissing me softly while he pets my hair and catches his breath against my chest.
This. This couldn’t be more perfect. If Poe were here, then of course, but if it has to be the two of us, this is how I want it. My shame, Auden’s pleasure, both of us covered in the messes of our orgasms and him petting me.
And if you would ask me right now whether it was all worth it—the graveyard, the money, the years of bitter hatred and low, impure need—I’d say yes, yes, of course.
We’d paid hell, and now we had love.
Chapter 25
Eight Years Ago
Mijo.
Mijo.
St. Sebastian opened his eyes, smelling and hearing Texas, and for a moment he expected to hear his abuela laughing at something on TV and the sound of splashing outside from the pool.
But no.
It was his mother, smelling like home, cradling him to her chest outside of a graveyard. It was almost dark, which in the summer meant it was late, late into the evening, and St. Sebastian struggled to sit up—pain lancing through his head and chest as he did.
“Slowly,” his mother said in Spanish. He could hear the tears in her voice, but her hold on him was firm and sure. It always had been, always, even in this hostile place.
“I need to make sure Auden is okay,” he whispered, closing his eyes again. It hurt too much to keep them open; even the faint light of dusk was blinding. “They’re hurting him. He—”
St. Sebastian couldn’t even say the words.
He let them.
He let them because of me.
