Page 14 of Setting the Break

"Oh—" Indrie gasps. "Oh, Eskil— that's⁠—"

He thrusts again, a long slow slide that makes the oil squelch and Indrie's breath hitch. "You feel that? You're trembling and I'm not even inside you yet." He sets an unhurried rhythm, deep enough that his hips meet the backs of Indrie's thighs on every stroke, the fat head of his cock nudging Indrie's own with every pass, painting him in oil and precome. "Gods, you're soft here. I could fuck these thighs all afternoon and never get tired of it."

Indrie moans. It is open and unguarded, nothing held back, and he presses his thighs tighter without being asked, working to make it better, to give Eskil more of what he wants. The squeeze of it drags a groan out of Eskil that he does not bother to swallow.

"Like that," Eskil says, rough with praise. "Just like that, sweetheart. Squeeze me. Show me how much you want it."

"I do," Indrie says, gone already, rocking back to meet the next thrust, chasing the slide of Eskil's cock against his own. "I do, I want— it feels so good, Eskil, you feel so— ah⁠—"

Eskil fucks him harder. The wet sound of it fills the study. Indrie's cock is trapped against the edge of the desk, caught between the wood and the drag of Eskil's length on every stroke, and he is making the sweetest sounds Eskil has ever heard, little punched-out gasps and helpless moans, his fingers white on the far edge of the desk.

"Listen to you," Eskil says against the back of his neck, still thrusting, using those thighs for exactly what he wants them for. "So sweet. So fucking eager. You came in here to scold me and now you're dripping on my correspondence because I won't put it in you yet." He reaches around and wraps an oiled hand around Indrie's cock, just holding, not stroking, and Indrie cries out and bucks into the circle of his fist, and Eskil takes the hand away again before he can get anything out of it.

"Eskil—" Indrie's voice breaks on his name, high and pleading and so honest it makes Eskil's chest hurt. "Please. Please, that's— I need more, I need you, please⁠—"

"Need what?" Eskil keeps fucking his thighs, slower now. The blunt of him catches against Indrie's hole on the next stroke, just a pressure, just a threat, and Indrie sobs and tries to push back onto it, and Eskil angles away and slides between his thighs instead. "Use your words, sweetheart. You were so articulate ten minutes ago."

Indrie tries to laugh and it comes out as a wet, desperate sound. "You are terrible. You are— ah— you are doing this on purpose."

"I am doing this because you look so fucking pretty when you want me." Eskil's hands tighten on his hips. He drives forward again, a filthy, dragging thrust that knocks a sound out of Indrie he did not choose to make. "I think I could make you come just from this."

"I don't want to come without you inside me." Indrie inhales sharply and looks back at him, cheek pressed to the wood, and licks his lips. "Don't you want to feel me around you?"

Eskil's rhythm stutters. He has to stop and breathe through his nose, and he swears there is a flicker of something knowing in those dark eyes.

"Fuck," he hisses, reaching for the oil and slicking his fingers again. "Don't pretend you don't know what you're doing."

There is the hint of a smile at the edge of Indrie's mouth. Gods, he wants to bite him. Eskil brings his clean hand to the small of Indrie's back, holding him steady, and presses the first slicked finger against him.

Indrie's breath catches. Eskil circles the tight muscle, slow and firm, spreading the oil, letting his body adjust to the touch. Then he sinks the finger deeper, past the ring of muscle into the tight heat of him, and the sound Indrie makes is muffled against his own forearm. Eskil gives him a moment. Lets him feel it. Then he begins to move, a slow rocking push and drag that opens him by degrees, and Indrie's body yields the way it always does, with a hesitation that melts into acceptance that melts into something greedy.

He works him on one finger until Indrie's hips start pushing back to meet his hand, then adds a second. The stretch makes Indrie gasp, his back arching, his hands scrabbling for better purchase on the desk. Eskil presses his clean hand more firmly to the small of his back, grounding him, and scissors his fingers apart with a patience that is costing him everything he has. Every sound Indrie makes goes straight through him.

He adds a third and Indrie sobs. The sound is raw and beautiful and punched out of him, and his back bows and his hips cant up and he is open and ready and Eskil is going to lose his mind if he does not get inside him in the next ten seconds.

He withdraws his fingers and Indrie whimpers at the loss, a bereft little sound that makes Eskil's cock twitch. He slicks himself again, grips Indrie's hip with his other hand, and presses himself against the loosened muscle.

Indrie's breath stops. His whole body goes taut, a single vibrating line of tension, his fingers bone-white on the wood.

Eskil pushes in slowly, one long unbroken press that parts Indrie open around him by degrees. The heat is staggering, tight and gripping and so impossibly good that he has to close his eyes and breathe through his nose to keep from driving forward and burying himself in one thrust. He can feel every tremor that runs through Indrie's body. He can feel the muscle fluttering and clenching around him, trying to accommodate the stretch, and he stops halfway and holds and waits.

"All right?" Eskil asks, and his voice is a ruin.

Indrie nods against his arms. He is shaking. His breath is coming in short stuttering bursts. Then he shifts his hips, just slightly, pressing back, taking more of Eskil by choice, and the feel of that drags a groan out of Eskil that he could not have suppressed with a hand over his own mouth.

He sinks the rest of the way in. Slowly, until his hips are flush against the curve of Indrie's ass and he is buried to the root and there is nowhere further to go. He holds there. Both hands find Indrie's hips and grip, slick with oil against his skin, and Indrie works around him in rhythmic pulses that tell Eskil his body is adjusting and that the adjustment feels good.

"Gods," Indrie whispers. His voice is thin and shaking and reverent. "You feel so good, so⁠—"

He does not finish. He does not need to. Eskil pulls back, a long slow drag that makes them both groan, and then drives forward again, deep and deliberate, and Indrie's body jolts against the desk and the cry he makes gets buried in his folded arms.

Eskil finds his rhythm. Long deep strokes that rock Indrie into the desk on every thrust, his hands on Indrie's hips controlling the angle and the depth, pulling him back to meet each forward press. The desk creaks under the force of it. Correspondence rustles and shifts. The ink pot sits perilously near the edge and trembles, and Eskil does not notice and would not care.

The sounds fill the room, the slap of skin and the wet drag of oil, Indrie's cries growing louder and less muffled as the pleasure strips away his ability to contain them, Eskil's own breathing harsh and labored and broken by low sounds that come from somewhere primal, the creak of the wood under both of them.

Indrie's body takes him beautifully. It has always taken him beautifully, from the first night on a ship in the middle of the ocean. Eskil has never stopped marveling at it, at the way this small body opens for him and fits around him and draws him in. He adjusts his angle, tilting Indrie's hips up with his grip, and the new angle drags the head of his cock across exactly the right spot and Indrie cries out.

It is short and sharp and shattered, breaking in the middle, and Indrie bears down so hard that Eskil has to stop moving. His nails dig into Indrie's hips hard enough to leave marks and he does it again, pulling back and driving in at the same angle, and Indrie gasps and his back arches off the desk and his hands claw at the wood.