by Lisa Henry
He shivered as Rory’s tongue pressed against the seam of his lips and opened it. His entire body was alight, pleasure building on itself over and over again. Not the kiss, not just the kiss, but the sheer wondrous delight of being Rory’s. Of giving himself to Rory, and Rory taking him. Tate was being so good. He hadn’t felt this much pleasure since the doctor’s office.
Would Rory like that? Would Rory like to see his blood? His cock? Would Rory like to see him crawl?
He’d do anything.
And if Rory just wanted this—soft, gentle kisses—then Tate wanted it, as well. He sank back into the couch, letting Rory climb on top of him, letting Rory deepen the kiss with low, eager moans and a possessive sweep of his tongue.
Possessive, yes. That was what Tate wanted, to be possessed.
This time, he’d let Rory dictate the pace. He’d let Rory take control. The blowjob had been a mess, had gone all wrong because Tate had tried to take the lead and go somewhere Rory wasn’t ready to go yet. Tate knew better now.
Rory slid a hand up underneath Tate’s shirt. He kissed along his jaw for a moment. “Do you want to . . .?”
Tate arched toward him. “Yes!”
Anything. Yes.
Rory pulled back and stared into Tate’s eyes. “Are you sure?”
Tate nodded. “I’m sure.”
Rory rubbed his abdomen. “Okay. But this couch isn’t very comfortable. Come to my room?”
“Yes,” Tate said, his stomach twisting. That voice locked away in the back of his head was suddenly screaming. Screaming a thousand things. Fear. Anger. Disgust. Hatred. But none of them could even translate into a sound. Tate only had one word for Rory. One, single, heartfelt word. “Yes.”
ate’s hands shook as he undid his zipper. He kept his back to Rory, just for the moment. Because he wanted this, he wanted it more than anything, but the fear was there too, creeping into his mind. Bringing that voice with it.
Run. Just run.
Or tell him. Tell him about the chip.
His head felt like it was splitting open.
Or just let him fuck you. Let him fuck you, and you’ll be so happy.
Yes. There was the voice it didn’t hurt to hear. The one he actually wanted to listen to.
He slipped his pants and underwear down and immediately felt hands cupping his hips, a still-clothed groin pressing against his exposed ass. Rory groaned. “God, you’re gorgeous.”
His praise chased Tate’s fear away, for just a moment.
“Please,” Tate whispered. Please keep saying nice things. Please make it stop. Please make me happy.
“God. Turn around so I can look at you.”
Tate did. Didn’t even cover himself, even though some part of him insisted that he should. His cock curved upward, begging for a stroke. His chest heaved. Rory rubbed his shoulders, nudging their mouths together for another gentle kiss.
“You seem nervous,” Rory said.
Terrified, actually. Tearing myself apart.
“Let me help.”
Help. Fucking help! Yes, help me!
Tate nodded, gave him another little kiss on the chin followed by a playful nip.
Another kiss. This one took the edge off his rising panic, and then Tate couldn’t even say why he was scared. This was Rory; Rory wanted it, and whatever Rory wanted was for the best. He knew that. He knew that with absolute certainty.
And then Rory lowered himself to his knees—his knees!—and pressed an open-mouthed kiss right to the tip of Tate’s cock.
No man had ever touched him that way before. Revulsion and desire rose up in him side by side. It felt good, but it also felt wrong. Wrong because Rory was a man, and wrong because it should have been Tate on his knees. Because Rory shouldn’t do the dishes or share the couch or suck Tate’s cock.
Tate put his hands on Rory’s shoulders and tried to push him away. “Let’s just . . . just . . . Fuck me, please. Just fuck me.”
Rory looked up at him, his dark eyes huge and his black eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t like it?” he asked and sat back on his heels. He kept his hand wrapped around the base of Tate’s cock, and Tate couldn’t help but thrust into it, and what was more, he didn’t know if that urge was because of the chip or because of his own need.
“No! I do, I do, of course I do. I . . . love . . . everything you want to do to me.” That’s a lie, oh God, it’s all a lie. Help me. Don’t touch me, help me.
Rory’s eyes twinkled. “Now how could you possibly know that? You have no idea what I want. What if I want something twisted, huh?”
I would want that too. No matter what. If you wanted to piss on me or fuck me with your fist or dress me up as a girl, whatever twisted thing you could dream up, I would want it. I want all of it. The chip makes me want it.
“I want . . . I want . . .” He slammed a hand to his forehead as white pain sliced through his skull. “Rory, I want you to fuck me now.”
“O-okay.” Rory rose to his feet. He held Tate by the hips and walked him backward to the bed. “So eager!”
Tate’s knees hit the mattress, and he sprawled back onto the bed. “Yes.”
“How long has it been?” Rory asked, pulling his shirt off.
Tate stared at his muscles. He was broad. Stockier than Tate. “Wh-what?”
Rory fumbled with his belt. “How long has it been? Since you made love? How much prep do you need?”
“I’ve . . .” He couldn’t tell the truth. Couldn’t. Whether it was because he knew Rory expected him to be experienced, and he didn’t want to disappoint him or because of some defense mechanism built into the chip, he couldn’t admit this was his first time. Couldn’t admit that he was scared and that a part of him was still screaming that he didn’t want this. He needed to be what Rory wanted him to be, so he compromised. “It’s been a while.”
“Okay,” Rory said. “We’ll take it nice and slow.”
Tate curled his fingers into Rory’s sheets and nodded. “Yes, please, Rory.”
Rory stripped. He’d always been a little self-conscious about . . . not his body, but the required level of intimacy it took to display it in front of a relative stranger. Tate had been nervous as well, but he’d turned around when Rory had asked, so he felt he had no right to be modest when it was his turn. Of course, there was the added pressure that Tate was so beautiful. The lean, golden lines of him, laid out on the bed. He was like something out of a fantasy, or at least out of one of Rory’s favorite skin mags.
Rory, by comparison, was broader and less defined, with paler skin that wasn’t nearly as rich and luminous a brown.
He crossed to his dresser and pulled open the top drawer. Found the lube he’d brought from the outside, half a tube left even though he’d had it for ages. For much longer than he wanted to admit. He found a box of condoms as well and had to check the expiration date.
“I’m clean,” Tate said. “I’m clean, Rory.”
Rory hesitated. “They checked you?”
Tate nodded. “It’s in my records.”
Sure. It probably was. Rory hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at the entire file he’d been sent, not after reading the clinical details of his own assault. But how did Tate know that Rory was clean? He was, of course; they’d tested him as a part of his immigration requirements. But he didn’t have a file, or at least not one Tate could access. It seemed an awful lot to take on trust.
“Me too,” he said and put the condoms back. “So, um, it’s okay?”
“Yes.” There was a note of longing in Tate’s voice. “Whatever you want.”
Rory closed the drawer and returned to the bed. He hesitated, and then saw that Tate was shivering. He climbed onto the bed beside him and put an arm around Tate. Drew him close for a gentle kiss and felt his breath shuddering against his lips. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can still use the condom. Or we don’t have to do it at all. We can just kiss some more, or we can go back and just watch the movie—”
“No!
I want this. Please.” Tate wriggled against him. He got a hand between their bodies and slid it down. Curled it around Rory’s cock. “Put it in me.”
Jesus. Nobody had ever spoken to him that way before.
“Please, please.” Tate was begging. He rolled onto his back, spreading his thighs and titling his pelvis up. “Please!”
“Just . . . just wait,” Rory gasped.
Tate bit his lip. “On my stomach instead? On my hands and knees?”
Rory straddled Tate’s hips and held his fluttering hands down. “No, this is good. But just wait. We’re taking it slow, remember?”
“I can’t, I can’t. I can’t wait, I—” But then Tate nodded, his eyes owlishly wide. He seemed to subside a little, to relax into the mattress.
Rory stroked his face. “That’s it. Deep breath. You’ll get what you want from me.”
Tate’s breath hitched, and he jerked his head before lying still again. “Yes.”
Rory moved back, kneeling in the space that had opened up between Tate’s thighs. He fumbled in the sheets for the lube, and opened it. He spread the gel over his fingers, warming it.
God, Tate was lovely. That smooth skin, that hard cock that curved upward, not a lot of hair. And the way he opened himself to Rory’s touch . . . He flinched a little as Rory ran a slick finger behind his balls, searching for his hole.
“Cold?” Rory asked.
“Wh—” Tate swallowed. “No.”
Rory pressed his finger inside slightly, and Tate’s shoulders lifted off the mattress. He stifled a whimper. Rory tried rubbing gentling circles on Tate’s lower abdomen, drawing his fingertip out until it was just barely penetrating. Tate was tight. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he said it had been a while. Rory waited until he relaxed again, and pushed his finger back inside. He went deeper this time, twisting, searching . . . and smiled when Tate’s hiss told him he’d found the right spot.
“I’m ready,” Tate gasped.
“You aren’t,” Rory told him firmly. He wanted to open him properly first, to hear him beg again before he even tried to fuck him. He withdrew his finger, got more lube, and this time returned two fingers to Tate’s entrance. He pushed them in.
Tate made a strangled noise and squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, they were bright with tears. “Feels . . . feels g-good.”
Rory felt overwhelmed as well. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to do this, to share this with someone. Too many lonely, solitary nights when he’d desperately wanted someone to hold, to touch. To make fall apart, like Tate was falling apart now.
Tate rocked his hips slightly, finding the start of a faltering rhythm. “More. Please, more.”
Rory scissored his fingers, and Tate cried out. His cock was leaking now, shiny with pre-cum. Rory took his free hand from Tate’s abdomen and stroked his cock. Tate whimpered with pleasure, thrusting up into Rory’s hand.
“Please, Rory, now. Please, now!”
He’d never met or experienced someone so hungry for pleasure, so greedy, so willing to let his desperation show. Tate didn’t hide anything. It made Rory feel powerful, to be the one to bring him there, to be the only one capable of satisfying that bone-deep need. He withdrew his fingers and pushed Tate’s thighs wider apart. He lifted them and pushed them back, so that Tate’s spine curled a little, and then shuffled forward so he was in position. “This might hurt,” he said. “Impatient boy.”
“I like it when it hurts,” Tate said, his eyes dark.
Rory lined the head of his cock up against Tate’s hole. He’d never done this without a condom before. Strange, how different it felt. How much more heated. Or maybe that feeling was because it was with Tate, condom or no. He pressed in.
Shit. So tight.
Tate’s body arched, as tight as a bowstring. He cried out, clutching at the sheets, his eyes wide. “Hurts, hurts. Hurts.”
Rory faltered.
Tate reached up to grip his arms. “More!”
The urge to conquer, to fill him, to make Tate take it, was strong. It took everything he had not to pin Tate to the bed and shove in hard enough to shut his begging up. Rory didn’t know how much of it was just the sex going to his head or how much was leftover anger toward Tate. Either way, it was hardly the gentle, considerate lovemaking he’d planned for Tate. “I don’t know . . .”
Because he didn’t want to hurt him, not like this.
Tate lifted one hand to Rory’s face, carding his fingers through Rory’s hair. His eyes were wide, desperate. “More!”
“Okay!” Rory leaned down to capture Tate’s mouth in a kiss, and Tate moaned. Squirmed underneath him as though he didn’t know what the hell he wanted. Rory pushed further inside him, and Tate’s breathing grew ragged. He dropped his head down onto the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut. A tear escaped the corner of his eye.
It was intense. Tate was intense. Rory kissed him again, gently, and Tate sucked in a deep breath. Opened his eyes and stared up at him again.
“You don’t have to do this,” Rory said.
Tate’s brow furrowed, and his mouth twisted in a grimace. “But I do! I do! You don’t understand, you don’t—” He tossed his head, as if in pain. “I need this. Please, I need it.”
God. Something wasn’t right here, but Rory pushed it to the back of his mind. Tate wanted him, was begging for him, and he wrapped his legs around Rory to draw him further in. So what if Tate was hurting? He said he liked to hurt. So what if it wasn’t sweet and gentle like Rory had wanted? Tate was hot and tight and whimpering eagerly as Rory thrust forward.
Rory leaned back for better leverage and pumped his hips.
Tate’s fingers scrabbled in the sheets again, the bands on his wrists shifting as he writhed.
“All the way in,” Rory said, rubbing Tate’s lower abdomen again. His cock was soft against his belly, its head still wet with pre-cum. Tate’s muscles clung to him, spasming as they adjusted to his girth and length. “You’re so tight.”
Tate bit his lip, panting.
Rory withdrew slightly, then thrust back inside. Tate arched up off the mattress.
“That’s it,” Rory moaned. “You’re good, aren’t you? You’re so good to me. So good at taking my dick. Can you see? Look and see.”
Tate’s eyes popped open, and he frantically lifted his head, trying to see the spot where their bodies joined. Where Rory’s hips were pressed flush to Tate’s ass.
“Oh . . . oh God.” His voice hitched. He shook his head. “Oh fuck.” He stared up into Rory’s face. “Is it good? Are you happy?”
Weird thing to ask, but balls-deep inside Tate? Rory was fucking ecstatic. “It’s so good, Tate. You like it?”
Tate clenched his fists. “Y-yes!”
Rory began to move, making smooth, strong thrusts, each one bringing a strangled gasp from Tate’s open mouth. Rory couldn’t look at his face—to watch him would be to come too soon. He leaned over Tate, bracing his weight on his arms, driving into him again and again. Tate was hard now, his cock sandwiched between them, in the close, slippery heat of their bodies. His heels dug into Rory’s ass, urging him forward every time. Wanting it faster, harder. Even though it hurt him. Even though he had no reason to want this from Rory. No reason except convenience, probably.
No. He couldn’t think like that or he wouldn’t be able to keep up the pace. Keep his erection, period. Tate wanted him. Tate wanted him. Tate wanted him. The noises he was making, small and desperate, needy, proved that.
“Tate,” Rory ground out, “I’m gonna come!”
Tate moaned. “Do it. Come in me!”
Come. Come. Come in him. His brain shorted out thinking of that, thinking of owning Tate that way, filling him with cum, no barriers. The thought of it—his cum in Tate’s ass—was enough to push him over the edge. His hips jerked as he came, hard. He reached down and gripped Tate’s cock as he rode it out, his nerves on fire.
“Come on,” he groaned. “Come on, Tate.”
More, Rory thought. More.
But that wasn’t the word Tate cried out as he came, hot and sticky in Rory’s hand. His eyes wide, his body shaking, Tate opened his mouth, fixed his burning gaze on Rory, and screamed, “Master!”
Clean.
He wouldn’t be clean again.
Tate winced as he ran the washcloth over his ass.
Never be clean.
“Tate?” Rory was knocking on the bathroom door. Still. “Tate?”
He should have been happy, but if he was happy, why was he crying? The shower washed his tears away, but they kept coming. Why wasn’t he happy? Hadn’t the doctor told him? Hadn’t the doctor told him next time no tears?
And yet they just kept coming.
A gush of Rory’s cum escaped him, drizzling down his inner thighs, and the tears got worse. He hiccuped. Sobbed.
Rory’s knocking got stronger. “Are you okay in there? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”
Tate crouched, trying to smother the sound, trying to ease the deep pain inside him.
The chip. The fucking chip. If he had to have it, couldn’t it work properly? Couldn’t it make him happy? Happy to let a man fuck him, hurt him, come deep inside him and claim him.
“Tate, I’m coming in!”
Tate stood quickly. Shit, it hurt, too. He winced and braced himself against the shower wall. He didn’t want Rory to see that he was hurt. Rory wouldn’t like that. Rory didn’t deserve that. Tate was the one at fault here, the one broken, the one with the thing in his head that wasn’t working the way it should. He drew a deep breath, the water running off the end of his nose, and tried to calm himself. He needed Rory to be happy with him now more than ever. He didn’t think he could handle another setback. Another gut-twisting failure. Another visit with the men in the van, who’d come that first day when Rory was away at work and made Tate swear not to tell.
They’d destroy what was left of him.
But wouldn’t that be better? Wouldn’t it be easier? Maybe they could make it stop hurting for good.
“Tate?” Rory pulled aside the shower curtain, letting the steam escape. His face was bright red. “Are you okay? I didn’t want to intrude, but . . .”
