Bane grabs my jaw and kisses me deep again. “Hear that baby? Hear how fucking perfect you are?”
I lick his tongue as he tries to pull away.
"He's almost there already," Atlas grunts. “Max, I’m gonna take the edge off.”
Atlas adds a third finger and curls them deep, finds the spot inside me that turns my vision white, and his throat works around the head of my cock at the same time and I amgone—I am sobbing into Bane’s mouth, I am pulling Bane's hair too hard, my body clenches and I am coming down Atlas's throat with a cry that Bane catches before it can leave the room, my hole pulsing around his fingers, and Bane is murmuring through it the whole time, that's it, that's it, that's my boy, that's it, you're so good, look at you coming for him, look at you—
Atlas works me through it. Drinks me down. Slides his fingers out only when I'm shaking and oversensitive and my body is already,somehow, asking for more. He sits back on his heels. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
His eyes meet Bane's.
Something passes between them that has no language. The wordless brothers' shorthand they've been speaking their entire life. Atlas gives one short nod.
"He's ready for you."
Bane's whole body shudders.
Atlas doesn't say anything else. Just moves. He pushes up off the bed and reaches across to where my wet t-shirt has been forgotten on the pillow—still cold, still damp—and he wrings it out once with both hands and folds it and presses it to the back of my neck again as he settles up near my head. Out of the way for what's coming.
Present for what I need.
His palm finds my forehead. Smooths the sweat-soaked hair back. He says nothing. He doesn't have to. I can feel him in the bond he set into me weeks ago—steady, low, a hand at the base of my skull even when no one is touching me. Now there's a hand. Now he's actually touching me.
Bane is already moving between my legs. His pants gone. His cock is heavy and hard against his stomach, the head flushed dark, already wet at the tip. His knees bracket my thighs. His hands slide up the insides of them, pushing them open wide, exposing my hole still wet and twitching from Atlas's fingers, and the look on his face when he sees me like this is the one I have been waiting two months to see—feral, awed, already wrecked, alreadymine.
"Look at me," he says.
I look at him.
"This ismine. What you're about to give me."
"I know," I whisper.
"Tell me you want me."
"I want you."
"Tell me whose."
Heat surges, clenching my stomach, my asshole aching for his cock. The word comes out of me like he pulled it. "Yours."
He fists his cock once, lines the head up against my ass, and pushes in.
The stretch is everything I've been waiting for since the last time he fucked me—his cock thick and hot and deep, my hole opening for him the way my body was built to open forhimspecifically, slick easing the way until I feel his hips meet mine. Bane is not slow, exactly, but he is deliberate. Every inch chosen. His forehead pressed to mine. His breath shaking on my mouth. His hand fisted in the sheet beside my ribs because it has to be fisted somewhere or it will be at my throat.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, Max, you—"
"Move," I beg. "Bane—move, please,fuck—"
He moves.
The first thrust is the one that breaks me. Deep, hard, total—and I cry out so loud the walls would carry it if Atlas's palm weren't already there, slid down from my forehead in one smooth motion to cover my mouth.
"Quiet, baby." Atlas. Soft. Calm. The hand at my mouth is firm but not cruel—anchor, not silence. "I know how good he’s making you feel, but you’ve got to stay quiet."
I sob into his palm.
Bane fucks me with everything he has been holding back since the day I walked into his father's house and disrupted his entire life. Hard. Deep. Filthy. His cock dragging slick out of me with every pull back and slamming it back in on every thrust, the wet sound of it obscene in the small room. Talking to me through every thrust—mine, mine, mine, taking what's mine, look at me, eyes on me, that's it baby, that's it, you're so tight around me, you're taking my cock so good, you're so good for me—the words spilling out of him like he's not aware he's saying them, like they were under everything else he's ever said and finally got let out. His mouth at my throat—near the place where he’ll bite, near the spot, scraping, not breaking the skin, holding the line he set himself even now, even shaking, even feral—and his hipsslamming home with a rhythm that's part rut and part grief and part absolute relief.
