Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
That really shouldn’t be turning him on as much as it was, but Christ, he was so hard his cock ached. This aggression made his blood hum even though he was still spinning from the shock of it. He never would have thought he’d get off on rough domination or that Azariah—small, thin, delicate Azariah—would be the one to give it to him.
Azariah bit his neck as he nudged Connelly’s hole with his cock and all Connelly could do was hiss because it stung like hell.
No lube. But worse, no condom.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Fuck, spit on it at least.” Connelly’s voice was deeper than Z had ever heard. He barely registered the change, but a part of his crazed brain recognized the meaning of the words and forced a reaction. He gathered all the saliva in his mouth and spat a couple times.
The drool landed on the crack of Connelly’s ass and dribbled messily, coating the opening and the exposed part of Z’s cock, making the rest of the penetration slicker but still not easy.
Z didn’t want it to be easy. He was blind and deaf and dumb. In that moment, everything he had ever been was boiled down into the most concentrated essence.
Raw lust. Raw pain. Raw wounds. Raw emotion.
He was lost in it. Barely thinking, just reacting. Trying his best to keep on breathing even though his world had turned into a bizarre reflection of itself. It was like he’d been sucked into a crazy house of mirrors and he couldn’t find his way out.
He released another mouthful of saliva so it drizzled over his exposed shaft. He could feel Connelly’s pulse under his palm and surrounding the head of his cock, like echoes of the same beat that drummed through Z. With it, surges of frenzied triumph and an intoxicated sort of heaviness pulled at him, drowning him further in the confusing high. His body was beyond his control as he powered into Connelly’s tight, hot hole. Much too hard. Much too fast. In the back of his mind he knew it was wrong.
The tortured thoughts and emptiness he’d been lost in for the past few hours were being snuffed out with every thrust and grunt. Connelly’s pure scent, so fresh and honest, overwhelmed the still-lingering tinny funk and bitterness from before. So Z kept fucking. Kept hiding. Kept burying himself deeper and deeper into Connelly’s ass, his scent, his being, until they were one.
Connelly was the only thing he knew for sure was real. He was the bright light that could guide Z out of the darkness. So, he held on. He shut his eyes and locked out the wild, tortured world because Connelly was tangible. Connelly was steady.
Connelly would save him.
If he could be saved.
If he couldn’t, he’d be bringing all his filth into Connelly’s shiny clean life. It might ruin them both, but Z was too caught up in the moment to really understand the implications.
Z rested his head in the middle of Connelly’s back and wrapped his arms around his front, holding tight, forgetting everything but the feel of it.
He let the pleasure rise in him, like a cobra ready to strike down his tormentor.
Constant and terrifying in its intensity, it rushed up his spine and crashed into him with its jaws of iron will until Z was groaning at the top of his lungs and emptying into Connelly’s clenching channel.
It wasn’t until he finally caught his breath that he realized what he’d done.
His mind came back online like a faulty computer, flickering on and off with glimpses of reality and flashes of calm. As he pulled his softening cock out, though, and stared at the sticky, white mess that followed like a trail of sin, his heart stopped.
He’d fucked bare.
Then the rest of the picture came into focus. Connelly’s bruised ass, the bite mark on his neck, his ripped pants which were still around his knees, and his fists—so tight his knuckles were pale against the dark painted wall.
Z took a step back, shaking his head in denial. No. He couldn’t have done that.
He couldn’t have forced himself on Connelly. No. Not after what he’d been through. Not knowing how it felt.
Another step and another as his heart tried its best to start up again, like an engine that couldn’t quite roll over because it was too damn cold outside. Except the ice was inside Z now, creeping up like frozen fingers to form a painful, jagged wall around his tender places. The ones that had just started to grow.
He couldn’t have done that to Connelly, the one person who still looked at him and didn’t see his mistakes. But Z had. He’d done the worst thing he could think of. He’d broken the best thing he’d felt in years.
“Oh God,” he said, half choking. He scrambled back faster until he bumped into the counter. Fresh tears blurred his vision and bile rose in his throat. What had he done? He’d thought he’d been healing but no. Fuck, no.