He whimpers—broken and raw, cock leaking, legs trembling around me.
“You want my cock?”
He nods frantically.
“You want me to ruin you right here? On this hammock? Where anyone could walk by and hear the noises you’re making?”
“Yes,” he gasps, barely able to speak. “Please—yes, yes—Cap, I need—”
“You should’ve asked,” I whisper, twisting my fingers.
He cries out shamelessly.
The netting beneath him digs into his skin, rope marks already etching into the soft parts of his thighs. His cock jumps in my hand again, slick and flushed and twitching with every pulse of his ruined, overstimulated body.
He tries to be good. He really does. He bites his lip, claws at the ropes, whines soft and desperate into the air like he still thinks he can hold it together—but then he makes that sound. That helpless, aching,sweetlittle noise that comes out of him when he’s right at the edge, stretched too wide, cock throbbing, back arched, body nothing but nerve endings and need. And itbreaksme.
I growl low in my throat and pull my fingers out in one slow, wet drag.
He gasps at the loss, but I don’t give him time to miss it. I tug my trunks down with one hand, grip his hip with the other, and line myself up against him—his hole slick and open and twitching, begging without words. My breath stutters once, heat rolling through me in a wave, and then I push in slowly, just to feel all of it.
The stretch. The heat. The way he clenches around me like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all fucking morning. The hammock rocks under us, the ropes creaking with every inch I sink deeper, and Elias slaps a hand over his own mouth. Like heknowsthe noises he’s about to make and doesn’t trust himself to stay quiet.
I bottom out slowly, hips flush against his ass, his back arching under me with a choked sob he barely muffles with his palm. “Fuck,” I grit, voice dark and shaking. “You feel—Christ, Elias.”
He looks up at me with glassy eyes, hand still clapped over his mouth, body shuddering with every throb of my cock inside him. He whimpers into his hand again, and all I can think, as I stay buried inside him, as his body pulses around me like it wasbuiltfor this—forme—is how fucking good he is like this.
I brace one hand against the netting beside his shoulder. Slide the other down to his hip, grip firm and grounding. The hammock creaks under our weight, tension groaning through the ropes, but it holds.
So I shift my stance and start torockhim. Not just with my hips—but with the whole goddamn hammock. I roll us gently, timing each thrust with the rhythm of the swing, letting gravity and silk and design do what the sand never could. My leg thanks me for it. But more than that—Eliasmoans.Just a soft, broken sob of air behind his hand. Like the motion caught him off guard. Like thecareof it broke something deeper than force ever could..
He’s panting now. His hand’s slipping where it presses over his mouth, his eyes wild and wet, lips parted underneath, like he’s trying to smother something feral that won’t stop clawing out of him.
“You feel that, pup?” I murmur, leaning closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “How easy you take me when you stop fighting it?”
He whines, tries to answer but nothing comes out. His free hand fists in the hammock beside him, pulling at the rope like it might help him stay grounded, but he’s already gone—sofar gone. Every thrust pushes him deeper into the netting, deeper into me, every swing rocking him into that line where pain turns to pleasure and pleasure turns to worship.
“You’re being so good,” I whisper, voice hoarse with heat. “You keep being good, and I won’t stop. I’ll fuck you like this all goddamn day. Let you come on my cock while the wind rocks you.”
He sobs and shakes and I slide a hand down between us, wrap it around his cock again—still untouched properly, still aching—and stroke him in time with the swing, in time with the rhythm.
He’s close. The sounds he’s making—fuck, theyunmakeme. Those muffled, helpless noises caught behind his hand like he’s trying to trap the moans in his throat. But I hear them. Every one. And they light something up in me.
I dig my fingers into his hips and let the rhythm shift—deeper, harder, sharper now with every swing of the hammock, my cock driving in with enough force to make the netting snap tighter under him, enough to punch those sweet gasps into tiny yelps he can’t hold back. His body jerks with every thrust, his back arches, and then I feel the way his thighs tremble, the way his moan breaks midway through and his hand drops from his mouth like even he can’t keep quiet anymore.
“Fuck—Cap—fuck—” he gasps, head falling back as the hammockslips. Just an inch. Just enough to tilt him, off-balance, one rope groaning high and sharp in protest. His breath catches, eyes going wide, and for a second his brain short-circuits with adrenaline. And that’s all it takes. His body clenches around me, his hands scrabble for grip, his voice breaks into a desperate, shattered cry, and he comes. Hot and messy between us, cock twitching in my hand, painting his stomachand the ropes and my chest as his eyes roll back and his mouth falls open on a whimper that sounds like my name.
I don’t stop. Ican’t. I fuck him through it, deeper, the hammock swinging harder with each thrust as the knot in my spine coils tighter, teeth bared, grip bruising—and I know I’m not going to last much longer. But that doesn’t matter. Not with myhusbandshaking under me, gasping for air, smiling through the ruin.
I’m frozen. Barefoot, damp curls clinging to my temples, wearing one of Damian’s shirts and a pair of shorts I barely managed to drag on before findingthismess waiting outside our door. The breakfast tray’s fine. It’s stacked high with pastries, fruit, fresh juice—honestly enough to make me forget my name under normal circumstances.
But there’s a card on it. A tiny, glossy, folded hotel card wedged up next to the pineapple juice. White with gold print. A little too cheerful.
“Please consider the noise levels after 10 PM. Some guests are light sleepers.”
My whole face combusts. My spine stiffens, and I swear I feel the heat crawl all the way up from my chest to the roots of my curls. I’ve never wanted to vanish more in my life. Not when I got benched in juniors. Not when I accidentally sexted Cole that one time.Thisis a new level of humiliation.
Behind me, I hear the bathroom door creak open. Bare feet pad across the tile. I don’t even have to turn. I know that walk.That rhythm. That little limp that still shows up in the morning if he’s been… overexerting himself. “What's wrong, pup?”
