He cradled my face with his hands, not as a tender gesture—he was good about hiding his tenderness from me in those early days, still trying to respect my wishes—but to hold my face still so he could fuck my mouth the way he wanted. I flattened my tongue and let him, wishing I could reach down and ease the ache in my cock while he did it, but not wanting to jeopardize the chance to come on him. He’d use any excuse to deny me; it was one of his very favorite things to do, and more effective than any pain or coercion he could devise. So I kept my hands on the front of his thighs as he flexed in and out of my mouth, instead enjoying the feel of those hard muscles under my hands, the taste of his clean skin on my tongue.
When he came, he moved his hands around the back of my head and pushed in so deep that tears streamed from my eyes and my throat convulsed in reflex. He held me there as he grunted and pulsed, and then abruptly released me, pulling out and wiping at a corner of my mouth with his thumb.
“You did a good job, Embry,” he praised. “Swallowing all my cum like that. Are you ready to come now?”
“Yes,” I said hoarsely.
He did something unexpected then, and pulled his already-loosened pants all the way off, along with his socks and shirt. Seeing my expression, he chided me. “You’re not going to fuck me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
I was, in fact, wondering that. I’d never been with a man longer than a day where these things weren’t clearly intuited or discussed, and frankly, I always discussed with them that there were no assigned roles. The fact that Ash topped me every single time was something I noticed and thought about often.
Except…it also wasn’t. When I noticed and thought about it, I was far away from him, removed from the leather and smoke smell of his skin and the skillful pull of his fingers. But when I was with him, ideas like top and bottom ceased to have any meaning, or at least, ceased to have the meanings they used to have for me. Rather, top meant the way Ash bit my shoulder when he came in my ass, the way he cleaned me up afterwards, looked over the bruises and scratches on my body like a host looking over a living room after a party. And bottom meant the way he made my cock throb with his cruel words and teasing tongue, the way the world sang its otherwise hidden song when he’d hurt me or humiliated me or conquered me.
Things were the way they should be, and yet I had to admit, the idea of fucking Ash was beyond arousing. It was consuming.
As if he knew my thoughts, he smiled and shook his head, grabbing a blanket and stretching himself out on the floor on top of it with his hands laced behind his head. “I promise you, Lieutenant Embry Moore, I’ll let you fuck me someday.”
“When?” I asked, my eyes raking along the thick, hard lines of his naked body. Even sated and asleep his cock was heavy and impressive, curved along his thigh.
“When you’ve earned it.”
“Am I close to earning it?”
He smiled. “Not even.”
Well, shit.
But what he gave me was almost as good. He beckoned me down and for the first time, I laid my body on top of his, stomach to stomach and chest to chest. Even underneath me, he felt in charge, biceps and abdominal muscles moving as he helped me lay the way he wanted—with my freshly lubed cock between his thighs.
“I haven’t done this since I was in high school,” I breathed, my hips moving hesitantly. My cock slid between his muscular thighs, the squeeze tight and slick and warm.
“Do you feel like you’re in high school right now?” Ash asked from underneath me, entertained. I looked down at him—the muscles, the warm skin, the bossy hands that rearranged me how he wanted, and I had to admit that this was much, much better than any of the fumbling dorm-room escapades I had as a teenager.
“No. I feel like I’m with a man.”
“Good,” Ash said, his hands running along my back. “Because you are one.”
The Greeks fucked each other’s thighs to get around the thorny issue of passivity—two men of equal birth could couple without troubling the gender roles of the era. But even with my body thrusting and sweating on top, there could be no doubt who was in charge. It was Ash. Digging his fingers into my hips, ordering me to go faster or slower, sending up the occasional cool remark—is that as hard as you can go, really? Look how desperate you are to come, I can see it in your face.
When the orgasm came, the breath was driven from my body as if I’d been struck; my poor, tortured cock turned each pulse into a barbarity, a crime of pain. The abused flesh seized, the deep parts of my groin seized as well, and then Ash murmured, “On my stomach, Embry.”
I pulled from between his thighs just in time to fist myself and ejaculate onto the ridged lines of his abdomen, unable to breathe because it was too fucking much, the pleasure, I hurt with it and ached with it and would perish with it. But even as I perished, I made myself watch the thin white line of my seed arc over his muscled belly. After all those orgasms, I hardly had anything left to give, but still, watching that small spatter mark his skin was unbearably arousing. I could pretend, for just a moment, that he belonged to me as much as I belonged to him.
Ash had crossed his arms behind his head then, stretching out like a lion. “Clean it off me now,” he said, imperiously and a little dismissively. “With your tongue. Go ahead.”
And then he threaded his fingers through my hair and forced me when I hadn’t moved fast enough for his pleasure.
That had been the night before. Depraved and taxing, and I was walking gingerly, the ache from my marathon orgasm session spiking up through me without warning whenever I moved.