My jeans and boxers are pulled down, and his fingers find my arse, unyielding as they press against my hole. I bite back a moan, my nails digging into the wood as he circles it with his finger, the pressure just shy of painful. Then — fuck — he pushes in. No warning, no gentle stretch, just two slick fingers breaching me in one rough thrust. The burn is instant; my body resists even as my cock jerks.
Ari groans, his breath hot against my ear. His fingers twist, scissoring inside me with a brutality that has myknees threatening to buckle. I can only gasp and moan as he crooks his fingers, hitting that spot inside me that knocks my brain offline.
My cock aches, desperate for friction, but Ari’s other hand is still fisted in my hair, holding me in place, his hips rolling and grinding against my arse.
A whimper tears from my throat, my body betraying me as I push back against his fingers, taking them deeper. The stretch burns, but it’s the good kind of pain — the kind that makes my balls draw up tight, and my cock leak like a fucking faucet.
Ari adds a third finger, stretching me wider, his knuckles pressing against my rim with every thrust. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you won’t walk straight for a week, detka,” he promises, his voice a rough rasp and his fingers pistoning in and out.
I’m already so close.
My body trembles with the effort of holding back as Ari’s fingers curl inside me again, hitting that spot with ruthless precision. “Please,” I grind out, my voice rough with frustration, my body still trembling. His fingers flex inside me, just enough to make me gasp, but he doesn’t pull out.
“Patience,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. He releases my hair to wrap his fingers around my throat; his grip is just tight enough to make my pulse stutter. “Good things come to those who wait.” His voice is a dark rasp as he pulls his fingers free. Before I can even process the loss,he’s removing his jeans and boxers. I turn slightly to watch him as he frees his cock, slicking it up — the thick head’s already glistening with pre-cum. I want to drop to my knees, take him deep, but he grips my hip with a bruising force, spinning me back to face the wall.
His head presses against my entrance, then — God — he thrusts inside in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt.
“Fuck!” I cry out as he bottoms out, his hips flush against my arse, the pain quickly twisting into pleasure as my body adjusts around him. Then he pulls out and slams back in with a relentless force, each thrust forcing me harder against the wall.
“God, Caiden—” he groans, his hand returning and squeezing my throat hard enough to make my cock twitch. His lips find my neck, biting, sucking, and marking me. I can’t even form words; all I can do is moan. My body moves in time with his; my arse slaps against his thighs with every thrust, releasing my desperate whimpers and his grunts of effort under the brutal force of his fucking into me.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” he snarls, his grip on my throat tightening as he pounds into me harder. I whine; my balls draw up, my cock leaks against the wall. I’m so close, teetering on the edge, but the way he chokes me, the way his cock fills me so completely— I’ll do anything hetells me to.
His name falls from my lips, over and over, as he fucks me into the wall, his cock swelling inside me. “Please, Ari, I can’t—” I beg, my voice broken, and his thrusts turning into something unrelenting.
I don’t know how much more I can take. My entire body is strung tight, my orgasm just out of reach. “Now, come for me, detka.” The command shatters me; I stroke myself fast as my orgasm rips through me, my cock spurting against the wall as I clench around him, milking his release. His grip on my throat tightens; his cock swelling as he buries himself deep and holds there, groaning and filling me, riding his climax out as his hips stutter against my arse.
Then he presses a filthy kiss to the side of my neck.
We don’t make it back to bed; we lie tangled together on the rug, the light outside fading toward evening. Ari’s fingers trace idle patterns on my arm, and I watch the fire and listen to his breathing.
“You came back,” he says quietly. I turn my head and meet his eyes.
“Are you going to keep saying that?”
He studies me for a second, but doesn’t say anything; he just presses his forehead to mine.
Ari is still stretched out beside me, one arm flung over my stomach, his fingers warm and idle against my skin. He’s half-awake, his eyes heavy, his mouth soft, and the sharp edges filed down by exhaustion and the simple fact of being held.
I should leave it there, but I don’t. “Hang on,” I say quietly.
He hums, eyes still closed. “If this involves effort, I will complain.”
“It involves a book.” That gets his attention; one eye opens, then the other as I reach for my bag by the door. When I pull the poetry book out, he sits up slightly, resting on his elbows.
“You kept it,” he says in surprise.
“Yeah.” I lay back and open it to a page I know by heart now. My pulse kicks in because this feels more exposing than taking my clothes off ever did.
Then I read the poem on page seventy in Russian, carefully. I don’t rush or translate it. The words feel heavier in my mouth than they used to, as if they mean something new now instead of just sounding beautiful. I don’t rush the rhythm, and I let the lines breathe the way they should.
When I finish, Ari doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, he says, “You remembered.”
“I remembered,” I tell him, before I can stop myself. He looks at me then, really looks. Not in the teasing or smug way he usually does. It’s something much softer.
“You learned to read my favourite poem in Russian,” he says slowly.
“Seemed important.” I shrug, because if I don’t, I might say something stupid.
