I lie back, putting my hands behind my neck and pretending an insouciance I’m definitely not feeling. “I believe I asked you a question.”
“Two can play that game, Reuben. I can be still too,” he warns me.
He sits up, which makes him tighten around my cock, and I can’t help the way my eyes screw shut and the moan that seems to come from deep inside me. I force my eyes open and look up at him. “What does the tattoo mean?” I say again, my voice hoarse.
He licks his lips. His face is wrecked and sweaty with red flags on those sharp cheekbones, and he can’t seem to stop the small movement of his hips as he grinds on me, which contradicts his threat.
I’m no better because I’m screwing up into him in small, uncontrolled jabs. Sweat is running down my balls, and I can feel the heat all over my body. “I might actually have a stroke,” I say. “And it’ll all be your fault, Xavi.”
“Don’t call me that,” he snaps, his eyes wide and his expression outraged.
“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, rubbing my hands over his hips in apology. The skin there is tight as a drum and silky soft. I want to touch him forever. “I forgot.”
I can see the moment he lets go of his anger, and he rests his hands on my chest, his fingers curling and his nails dragging over my nipple. I shudder, which forces me up into him again, and he moans.
“Tellme.” I don’t know who’s winning this battle. It’s probably him, and I don’t care anymore, but I do need to know. The thought that he’s marked himself with something permanent infuriates me. It itches under my skin like I’ve got thistles under the epidermis. That I don’t know why is anabomination to me. “Is it for Max?” I demand, my worst fear revealed.
His head shoots up, incomprehension written all over his face, and I relax a little. “No, of course not. Why would you say that?”
“You fucked him.”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t seem to want to rub Max in my face, which is curious. I wonder why. Maybe he knows how much it hurts to know about them. That had been a dark few weeks until it ended.
His voice brings me back to myself. “It was nothing with Max.”
“Really?” He bites his lip, and I arch up fucking into him and then stop again.
He lowers his head, his breathing coming loud and fierce. “God, I want to come,” he says in a low voice. “Why is your cock so good? Why is italwaysso fucking good with you?”
“Tell me what it means.”
“It means revenge,” he snaps. “It’s a dish best served cold. So, it’s still all about you. Happy now?”
“Never. It’s not possible without you.”
His face brightens at my confession, and it’s so bloody awful and yet wonderful at the same time. I give up and grab handfuls of his arse, fucking him hard with long driving movements that will leave me feeling like I’ve been working out for years tomorrow. I’ll track his presence in the ache and pain of my muscles when he’s gone, the way I’ve been doing for years.
“Shit,” he shouts and lies back, his hair cascading over my thighs. The angle is excruciatingly good, and I’m rubbing over his prostate almost continuously. His hands fasten like claws to my thighs, and he meets my thrusts, the perfect counterpart to me. “Oh god,” he moans. “I’m going to come. Keep going.”
“You don’t need my hand?” I shudder all over like I’ve been electrocuted as his channel tightens around me. We’ve been going for an hour. My dick is sore and so hot and hard, but I still can’t stop moving.
“Keep going,” he says desperately. “Don’t stop.” His cock waves in front of him. The head is slick with precome. I redouble my efforts, grunting as I bottom out, clutching his hips. “I’m nearly there.”
“Come,” I say through gritted teeth. “You’re such a good fucking boy.”
The words do it the way they always do, and he gives a scream and bucks on my cock. Ribbons of pearly come shoot out covering my belly and chest, and I fuck him through his orgasm.
“God, I need to come,” I groan. “Don’t stop. I?—”
I come awake with a gasp. My cock is throbbing, the head damp, and my heart is racing like I’ve climbed a mountain. I lower my hand and fist my length. It only takes a few strokes, and I’m coming in pulses over my hand and the bed linen.
Finally done, I collapse back into the sheets. I close my eyes, feeling the hot dampness under the lids. I can’t believe I’d dreamt of Copenhagen again. I’d been at a club celebrating the end of a shoot. A boy had come up to talk to me. I’d indulged him, but my attention had flown away the second I looked over and saw Xavier glaring at me from across the dance floor.
He’d come to my room that night and fucked me senseless. My dream might have been hot, but it cannot hold a candle to the actual night, and unfortunately, the aftermath was sourer. He’d got up and dressed and then leaned in and kissed down my spine. For a foolish instant, I’d relaxed into his touch, but then I heard him whisper, “See how he likes my sloppy seconds.” The door had closed behind him, and I hadn’t seen him for another few months.
I rub at my eyes with a shaky hand. I know why this dream is tormenting me lately. It’s all about my fear that Xavier will pick up his weapons again and restart his epic battle of punishment. But my waking, rational mind knows he won't do that. He's healthier now in so many ways, and he's done some growing up too. I think being so ill scared him, and my ego is big enough that I'll take some credit in bringing him here, the right place for a recovery.
But where do we go from here? I want so much for him to be happy, and even after all that's happened, I'm afraid I don't know if his happiness can be with me. There are things I haven't told him, and they're bad enough that it's ridiculous to hope we'll ever have a future. And they're also bad enough that I'll never tell him, because I'd rather die than make him more unhappy.
