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My eyes widen, looking at the thick outline of him. “Pierced? Like an Albert?”
He smiles widely, palming himself through his boxers. He’s a hell of a lot bigger than I remember. How did I ever fit that inside me?
“Nah, it’s a ladder. But…sunny-side up,” he smirks, dragging his boxers down his legs, his thick cock springing free. The negative space all around his tattoos leads to one central point, pale and delicious.
My jaw swings open at the sight of multiple barbells decorating the top of his shaft as he slowly strokes himself.
“Did it hurt?” I ask, genuinely curious at the little silver pieces.
“Not too much. Abstaining from sex was worse,” he tells me.
Ignoring the spark of jealousy, I reach out tentatively, tracing a single finger along his length and feeling the ridges of the silver underneath his velvety skin. I repeat the motion, this time closing my hand around him and thumbing his wet slit on the upstroke.
He sighs, eyes shuttering at my touch. The hard metal and smooth velvet against my skin has me nearly ready to go again. “Condom?” he grunts, bucking into my fist.
Using my free hand, I yank open one of the altar drawers and rummage through the small collection of toys for my supplies. My tests are clear, but I’m too impatient to have that conversation right now, so I grab what we need and hand it to him.
There’s something about a man ripping a condom packet open with his teeth that makes me ravenous. He knocks my hand aside and rolls the condom down his shaft, pouring on a generous amount of lube, using the rest to slick my entrance.
He pushes me down until my back hits the table and splays my legs open, sinking a third finger into me. I gasp, slipping my fingers around the back of his neck and pulling him to me as he scissors me open.
“I love it when you make that sound,” he breathes against my lips before sliding his tongue against them, seeking entry.
I open for him, gladly, urgently. His tongue is scalding, dancing against mine as he slips his fingers in and out of me—but it’s not enough. I shift on the altar, canting my hips and begging with my body.
“Give me more,” I whisper hoarsely, and he does.
“Oh god,” I moan as his fingers hit that sweet spot that sends pleasure-pain skittering through my whole body. “Sunday, please.”
I claw at him, following the gaps in his tattoos, the unique patterns that wind black through visible skin. He groans as I dig my fingers into the muscles of his back, pulling him closer.
When he smiles down at me, I die a little inside at the sheer beauty of it.
I die a little more when he withdraws his fingers, only to notch the blunt head of his cock against my entrance. I expect him to push in right away but he doesn’t, leaving gentle pressure there as he leans down and presses his forehead against mine.
“Remember to breathe for me, baby.”
It’s like that—our mouths inches apart, foreheads pressed together—that he pushes in.
The pain is vibrant, but I take it. The pain that he gives me is coupled with such devotion, it’s like being restored and ruined in the same lingering beat.
The head of his cock pops through the ring of muscle, and sparks fly behind my eyes, my back arching off the table at the sweet agony. He drags kisses across my cheekbones, my throat, my collarbone. His lips carve a path to my nipple as he pushes in, inch by inch, and I can feel every single rung of his piercings as they pop through my rim.
“More,” I plead, using the back of my heel to encourage him to move.
The pace he sets at first is languid, his hips rolling in slow, tantalizing movements that have my heart trying to drill its way out of my chest.
I sense the moment he stops being afraid to hurt me. There’s a flicker in his eyes, the black of his pupils consuming his irises as he looks down at me with absolute hunger and devotion.
Every kiss is bruising, almost punishing in its delivery. He moans so loudly the room feels haunted, picking up the pace until even that’s not good enough, and he pulls me forward to change the angle. I push up to my elbow, slotting my free hand against the back of his neck again for support.
Every thrust knocks a sound out of my throat, his thighs slamming into the table, pushing it into the wall. The bottles on top of my altar rattle, the force with which he rocks into me sending some crashing to the floor. I’m pretty sure I hear plaster break and crumble, but I’m beyond caring when every move hits my prostate and sends me closer to heaven’s gates.
In this moment, I know that apologies don’t have to be words. They don’t have to be gentle and quiet. They can be like this—intense and desperate, loud and consuming. They can be hands that aren’t done being sorry, sinking into the flesh of my thighs and marking me in all the best ways.
“Fuck, Bellamy. You feel…fuck…so tight.” A guttural sound punches out of his lungs as his rhythm turns punishing.
I drop back, pressing a palm desperately against the wall to stop myself from being shunted into it from his vicious hip work. My entire body tingles from head to toe, everything hot and tight, pleasure building to a second, soul-melting crescendo.
