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That strange, heavy feeling that comes after crying hangs at the back of your throat as you traipse across the landscape. Its chilly, and your thin coat does nothing against the biting wind. You find yourself thinking back, back, back. Back past the events of the morning--screaming at your father, the sharp slap dealt to your mother by his hand, and the quivering rage in his eyes as he told you to leave and never come back. Past this, to the warmth of the cinema, of Tobias’ gentle, steady breathing in the darkness, and the soft touch of his fingertips playing across your thigh; teasing and tentative but there.

And oh how you feel like a fool for leaving then. It was too much, and so soon, and so quickly. You needed air, a minute to breathe, a second to think and consult the emotions raging inside you. As you stood outside, hyperventilating in the brightness of the street, you couldn’t deny your feelings.

Now you find yourself here; you can see the tall, regal structure of his home peeking through the trees like a welcome refuge. Hesitation slows you as thoughts of ‘what if’ rush through your brain like water.

What if he doesn’t want you here?

You shake your head. You were always welcome here, even if your ideas clashed with other members of the movement at times. You adjust your duffel bag and press on, moving swiftly through the trees, the garden, and coming to a stop as you catch sight of him through the windows. He’s pouring a drink--scotch or brandy, you don’t know--and when he notices you standing there, a jolt of electricity courses along your spine and you find yourself desperate. You know if he turns you away now, you won’t be able to cope. He brings the glass to his lips and fixes you with a smouldering gaze as he steps forwards, through the double doors. You step forth to meet him, descending the small flight of steps and dropping your bag carelessly on the floor.

He regards you curiously for a moment, and he’s so close to you that you can feel the heat rising from his skin. A moment passes between you, and your eyes find his, before he glances hungrily at your lips. You step forward, closing the gap between you as your heart flutters in your chest, and press a kiss to his lips. They’re warm and soft and dry and you can taste the lingering alcohol on his tongue as his hands find your waist and you lean into him.

He is the first to pull away, and you reach for your duffel bag and hoist it over your shoulder as he leads you back into the house. He doesn’t ask you to explain your presence, so you don’t. You simply take the glass he hands to you and drain the pungent amber fluid from it, tossing your belongings carelessly to one side.

And then his hands are on yours and he leads you upstairs. You shuck off your coat and drape it over the banister, and he kisses you once, softly, in the pause. It’s almost more than you can take. You climb the stairs hand in hand and he leads you to his bedroom; his scent fills your nose and you want nothing more than to lounge amongst the unmade sheets and inhale. Cigarette smoke and musk and the fresh, clean scent of a forest just waking up.

You feel yourself being pushed backwards, and his mouth is on yours by the time you fall back against the sheets. Your hands tangle in his hair, and his kisses are tender and sweet and everything that you’ve imagined over the last week or more.

He presses his hips into yours and you gasp, your hands resting on his shoulders. He smiles at you, eyes clouded with want but still posing the question of ‘is this ok?’. You smile nervously back and your hands find the back of his neck. You’re trembling as you pull him down for another kiss, but your anxiety melts into nothing as he returns it with lustful ferocity, his fingertips tracing your sharp hipbones and running along your thighs, teasing you open. You oblige him, parting your legs to allow him closer to you as you explore his mouth.

His hands find the hem of your shirt and you nervously reach up to pull the scarf from your neck as he pulls your shirt over your head. You feel more than see him inhale sharply as he sits back and surveys your chest, and you go to cover yourself self-consciously. You’ve never been particular muscular, but you’re toned.

Any doubts you have dissolve when he leans down to kiss and caress every inch of your exposed flesh, and your cheeks flood with colour as you let out an uninhibited moan. You see it catch him off guard and his breath hitches in his throat as he finds your hands, lying uselessly beside your head, and pins you to the mattress.

“Alex…”

Your name leaves his lips like an exclamation of faith, and his mouth is on yours again. You fight the urge to clam up, to run and hide from the barrage of emotions and need and want pouring from every fibre of your being, and you focus on the soft brush of his lips against your cheek as he maps your face with wanton kisses.

You’ve never wanted anything as much as you want him. Every moment you’ve spent together thus far has crackled with electric desire, and you wouldn’t be able to stop wanting him even if you tried. You know that the shiver of excitement that coursed through you every time he approved of your ideas or gave you praise probably marked you as a freak, but you don’t care. You want him praising you all the time, holding the thoughts and ideas that you have as dearly as his hands are holding you now.

You realise that you’ve gone still, entranced by the soft kisses that play out across your features as he savours every part of you. You spur yourself into action, your hands running up his back, over his shoulders, his chest, his neck...you pop his collar, and start fumbling your way down the front of his shirt. You meet his gaze, and bring one hand up to his jaw as you undo the final button on his shirt, thankful in the lust-clouded fog of your mind that he’s not wearing a vest, eager to run your fingertips over his chest. You do, tracing the soft lines of his torso and reveling in the feeling of coarse hair under your hands. He exhales, and leans down to kiss at your neck, making you gasp and shudder and emit a low moan when he bites you, his hips rutting into yours.

You’re aware of his name leaving your lips and his hands on your belt as you roughly pull his shirt off of his shoulders. He shrugs out of it, tossing it carelessly to the side and pulling at your jeans with slightly calloused hands. You raise your hips, and he hungrily strips you of the remainder of your clothes, your pale jeans joining your shirt on the floor in a tangled heap. You gasp as the chilly air of the room hits your leaking erection and he’s smiling, pressing furtive kisses to your jaw, making you shiver as you feel the coarse roughness of his stubble against your cheek. He leans into you, and you are overwhelmed with sensation; the warm softness of his chest against yours, the pressure of his erection against your thigh as your own presses uncomfortably against his dress trousers, and the throbbing ache of need in your chest.

He kisses your lips once, twice, and your hands tangle in his hair, drinking in the scent of him, committing it to memory so that you can think upon this moment for the rest of your life. He kisses you desperately, and you moan into his mouth unabashedly as he unbuckles his belt and presses against you. Your hands are on his as he shucks off his trousers, his underwear following in a second, and your heart hammers in your chest as he leans over to the bedside cabinet, pulling open the draw and retrieving a vial of something that you can only assume is going to help things along. He must have seen your curious expression, for he leans down and presses a tender kiss to your cheek.

“Lubricant,” he says simply, “to make things a little...easier.”
“For you, or for me?” You ask him with a smile, your hands wandering idly up his back and coming to rest at his waist.
“For both of us, I suppose. But mostly for you,” he uncaps the vial and pours a clear, viscous gel onto his fingertips, rubbing it between his fingers in an effort to warm it, “I’m going to stretch you open a little first, alright?”

You nod, and you can feel your cheeks colouring as his fingertips gently probe at the cleft of your ass, slick with lubricant as he finds your hole and presses into it. Your body tenses involuntarily, and you find yourself clinging to his shoulders nervously.

“Relax,” he says softly, “breathe deeply and try not to tense up,” his voice is gentle, deep, and you find yourself lulled by it. You relax, and instead focus on the building pleasure that you’re feeling rather than the sharp sting of the stretch. He presses careful, tentative kisses to your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your lips as he slides a second finger into you to sit beside the first. You moan at the sensation, your mind racing with thoughts of how it's going to feel when he’s inside you and you’re moving together, and he scissors his fingers to slip a third and final digit into you.

When he’s satisfied with the stretch, he slowly removes his hand and the loss makes you groan impatiently, but your attention is back on him in a heartbeat, and you watch mesmerised as he slicks himself with lubricant. ‘He’s big’ is the first thing you think when he leans over you again and you catch sight of his perfectly curved, thick cock. ‘I’m nervous’ is the second thought that flits through your head as he hitches your long legs onto his hips and presses against your entrance.

The third thing you think is nonsense, a jumble of words that you wish you could mouth as he’s pushing into you, but all that comes from your lips is a high-pitched moan.

The fourth thing you think is simply ‘yes’ as he buries himself to the hilt, leaning over you and pressing gentle kisses to the corner of your eyes, tasting the tears that had gathered at the edges without your knowledge. He pauses, and you can see his shoulders trembling with the strain of holding himself back. You wrap your arms around his neck, threading your hands through his hair and pulling him into a deep kiss. His mouth is a drug to you, and you whine as he kisses along your jaw before pausing to look into your eyes and just hold you for a moment.

“Are you ready for me to move?” he asks, and your heart swells at the tenderness of his voice.
You nod once, twice, “I’m ready,” your voice sounds separate from you as you wait, breath held, chest aching.

And he does. And oh, you’re not going to last. You swear you’re not going to last. He thrusts into you, gently at first, but building into faster, harder movements as his hips smack roughly against yours. Your mouth is parted in a constant, unabashed moan and you know you’re not going to last for a minute. You wonder, briefly, if he can tell that you’re a virgin, but then that thought flies out of your head as a particularly hard thrust sends you hurtling over the edge and you come all over your belly, untouched, with his name on your lips.

He stills slowly, pressing scorching kisses to your lips as he goes to pull away. But you’re sure you didn’t feel him finish and you can’t allow him to go without release. You pull him back, hitching your legs around his waist and kissing him deeply.
“Come on,” you say softly, “you’re not done.”

And he smirks, a groan erupting from his throat at the tone of your voice and your bruised lips and the blossoming love bites on your neck, and he’s thrusting into you again. You’re sore and the pleasure is quickly building into pain, but he stills and groans and spills into you before the pain becomes too intense. You moan, half-hard again from the sensation, and you feel the warmth of his seed seeping down your thighs as he pulls out of you and rests beside you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. His breathing is steady on the back of your neck, and he gently kisses the top of your spine as you relax into him.

“Are you alright?” he asks gently, hands tracing idle patterns on your flank as he draws you closer to him. You smile and think about his question for a moment and he must think that you didn’t hear him because he asks you again.

“Are you alright, Alex?”

And for the first time in a very long time, you are.