Page 54 of Deviant
He pushes in.
It burns. A lot. The stretch is way more than his fingers, and I go rigid, breath stuck in my chest. The piercing catches right inside, andholy shit, it’s like a ridge pressing on something that makes my vision spark.
He stops immediately, forehead dropping to mine. We’re both breathing hard, and his arms are shaking from holding himself still.
“Still with me?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just…give me a second.”
Whatever wall I’ve been holding up for twenty-three years—the one built out of expectation and performance and the careful management of who I’m allowed to be—doesn’t come down all at once. It comes down the way it’s been coming down all summer—incrementally, one brick at a time. And the feeling of it is terrifying and the most relief I have ever experienced in my life.
And I cannot separate those two things.
He doesn’t move, just stays there, letting my body figure it out. His piercing is sitting just inside of me, and every time he throbs, it sends jolts through me.
After a minute, I can breathe again. “Okay. Move.”
He starts slow—so fucking slow—watching my face the whole time. Every inch feels huge, and when that piercing drags over my prostate, I seize up, my whole body locking. A loud, broken sound rips out of me.
“There you are,” he breathes, voice wrecked. He does it again, watching me fall apart.
“Fuck.” I can’t even form a sentence. “How are you?—”
“Stop thinking,” he says. Not asking, telling. “Just take it.”
I do.
I grab him—hands in his hair, fingers on his back, pulling him closer. He groans against my neck when I dig in, and that sound does something to me, making me clench around him harder.
We find a rhythm. Slow at first, then deeper. The burn fades, and what’s left is just heat, pressure, and that piercing hitting exactly where I need it. Every thrust builds something I can’t stop.
“Rhett, look at me when I’m fucking your tight asshole.”
I do. His eyes are wild.
“I’m—” My voice is gone. “I’m right there.”
The rhythm builds and my brain has completely vacated and what’s left is pure sensation. The drag and press of him, the piercing finding that spot on every stroke now with a precision that’s going to ruin me permanently. And the sounds coming out of my mouth aren’t sounds I have ever made, and I cannot make them stop.
My hand moves down between us and I wrap my fist around myself. Colt groans above me like the sight of it is doing something to him, and that sound alone almost finishes me.
“That’s it,” he says, rough and low. “Take what you need.”
I stroke myself in time with him and the dual sensation of it—his body moving inside mine, while my hand works my own cock—builds into something I have no words for. It’s a pressure that starts at the base of my spine and radiates outward in every direction simultaneously. My thighs are shaking. My free hand is fisted in the sheet.
Colt’s hips are losing their even rhythm now, his breath coming hard against my neck, his control finally fraying at the edges.
“Rhett. I’m?—”
“Don’t stop,” I hear myself say. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He doesn’t stop.
When I come, it’s a blinding sensation that starts where he’s buried inside of me and whites out everything else. My hand still moves through it, striping my own stomach with my release, and the sound I make echoes off the walls of this small room, and I don’t care. I genuinely don’t care. That, in itself, is a revelation.
Colt follows me over the edge with my name in his mouth, and I feel it—the pulse of him finishing inside me.
We lie there in the dark, both of us catching our breath, his forehead against my shoulder, my hand still in his hair.
