When I had first looked over at him, spread out on the bed for me, I was going to be rough and just take him, fuck him hard, but when I reached the bed, he exhaled, and the sound of him made me want to be gentle. The man was covered in scars, and I suspected even more, ones I couldn’t see, that cut deeper. He was not used to tenderness, at least not from his lovers, so I would be his first.
Opening the lube as I kissed up his spine, I slicked my fingers before gently, tenderly slipping them inside of him.
The gasp that accompanied his shiver made me smile. He was coming apart under my slow ministrations, which made me even more certain that this was what he needed.
“Just fuck me,” he begged. “I can take it.”
“What can you take?” I asked, my voice husky and low. “Can you take all of me?”
“Yes. God, yes. Croy, baby, please.”
Using more lube before I tossed it away, I slathered my cock and then pressed the head to his entrance. The sound he made, animal, primitive, keening with need as I pushed inside of him, sinking into his heat, into the tight clenching grip of his body, made me curl over him and bite down on his shoulder.
My name, in a garbled moan, was all he could manage.
Easing back, I rolled forward, impaling him on my length in one seamless glide, and then repeating the motion again and again.
“Croy… I need more.”
Thrusting deep, I felt the muscles in his ass clench around me, and only the lube allowed me to move, retreat, and then ram back into him, the power I was using making him shiver under me as he pleaded with me to go faster.
Pulling out, I flipped him to his back, lifted his legs up over my shoulders, and shoved back inside of him, the gentleness gone in a frenzy of pounding, primal rhythm.
“Croy!” he yelled, head pressed into the pillow, body arched up off the bed, trying to get as close to me as possible.
He felt so good, so tight, so hot, and I wanted all of him, everything I could have, and as I bottomed out inside of him, I realized that something was irreparably changing right there, in that moment. And it was because he trusted me.
Dallas wasn’t holding back, he wasn’t hiding any part of himself, he was laid bare, body and soul, and me seeing him, knowing what he needed and wanted, was something he reveled in. His smile, the tears that gathered in his eyes and overflowed, both told me that this was as new for him as it was for me.
When his legs locked around my waist and he rasped my name, the muscles in his ass clamping down around me all at once, the warm cum hitting my abdomen and chest was not a surprise. The swell of my own release was almost immediate as I pumped deep inside his body. I had no idea I was so close until I saw his face, saw him bite his lip as his orgasm turned him inside out.
I collapsed over him, my face buried in the side of his neck, and tried to breathe as I did my own shivering, raw and vulnerable as I never was after sex.
He took my face in his hands, lifting so he could look into my eyes a moment before he eased me back down, my forehead against his shoulder, my breath on his skin.
“I should get off you,” I husked, getting my hands under me, ready to move.
“No,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble as he turned his head and kissed my temple, nuzzling until I lifted enough that he could rub his face in my sweaty hair. “I’m not ready yet,” he whispered, pressing kisses along my jaw.
I gave myself over to his care as his mouth found mine.
Eight
I checked Dallas’s phone when it chirped an hour later, and there was a text message with the name and number of my contact. There had been some dispute, the FBI’s undercover agent had reported, about who Ruben Suárez’s number two was, and it’d been interesting to watch the protocol in action. I had to type back a secure number that was also texted to me, and then both messages were deleted as though they had never existed. The Bureau was making sure that if someone was going to get burned, it would be because of their own miscalculation, not thanks to some random text message that someone forgot to erase.
The message also said that Nash Colter—my new alias—had been put into play and that I would not be waiting for the FBI to patch Brig Stanton’s phone through to me. My number had replaced Brig’s altogether, so anyone trying to get him would get me instead. I understood how the Bureau had wanted to stay in the loop, to be in charge of the information, and it would all go so much smoother, and made more sense, this way. It was impressive, but waiting was tedious.