Page 78 of His Elder

“Screw patience,” he growled.

He shoved my jeans down, his hands hot on my skin, and we tumbled onto the mattress. The impact knocked the wind out of me, but I didn't care. Sam was on top of me, his mouth devouring mine, hungry and demanding. This wasn't the tentative, terrified boy from Barcelona. This was a man who knew exactly what he wanted and knew he was allowed to take it.

He kissed me like he was trying to breathe for both of us, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, tasting of coffee and desperation. I gripped his hips, grounding him, grounding myself.

"Sam," I gasped, breaking the kiss. "Wait."

I rolled us over, pinning him to the mattress. He looked up at me, his hair a golden mess against the pillow, his chestheaving. He was beautiful. Not statue-beautiful, not holy-beautiful. He was messy, human, carnal beautiful.

I sat back on my heels. I reached down and took his left foot in my hands.

Sam’s breath hitched. He watched me, his eyes darkening, his lips parting. He knew. He remembered.

"You like this," I said. It wasn't a question.

"Eli..."

I ran my thumb hard down the high arch of his foot, digging into the sensitive muscle. His hips bucked off the mattress, a sharp, involuntary jerk.

"You like that I know exactly where you're weak," I whispered. I lowered my head, my eyes locked on his, and licked a slow, wet stripe from his heel to his ankle bone.

He made a broken, strangled sound—a noise he would have bitten back in Barcelona, smothered into a pillow to keep the neighbours from hearing. Here, he let it rip. Loud. Uncensored.

"Please," he begged, his head thrown back, exposing the long line of his throat.

I didn't show mercy. I worshipped him. I took his toes into my mouth, teasing the sensitive webbing, using my tongue and teeth to unravel him from the bottom up. He writhed beneath me, his hands twisting in the sheets, his gasps turning into ragged moans. It was a reclaiming. I was taking the thing he used to hate about himself—this specific, "unnatural" desire—and turning it into a sacrament.

When I finally moved up his body, he was trembling, his skin flushed a deep, heated red. I didn't stop to kiss him. I reached for the lube on the nightstand—no longer hidden, sitting right next to his glasses case—and slicked my hand.

I didn't prep him slowly. He didn't need it. He was open, ready, practically vibrating with need. When I touched him, hepushed back against my hand, a desperate, demanding friction.

"Now," he gritted out. "Eli, please, now."

I positioned myself between his legs. I looked down at him. "Tell me what you want."

"You." He reached up, his fingers digging into my biceps. "I want you inside me."

I entered him in one smooth, heavy stroke.

Sam cried out—a sharp, loud yell that rang off the walls. He didn't muffle it. He didn't hide. He arched his back, taking every inch of me, his interior muscles clamping down tight and hot.

"God," I hissed, the sensation nearly sending me over the edge right then.

"Yes," Sam panted, wrapping his legs around my waist, locking his ankles. "Yes. Don't stop."

We moved. It wasn't a slow, loving dance this time. It was a collision. It was the kind of frantic, consuming heat that usually faded after the first few months of living together, but with us, it never seemed to dim. It was as if we were still trying to make up for every single day we’d lost, cramming a lifetime of touch into every hour. The mattress slid against the floor with our movement, and I braced one hand against the wall to keep us from knocking into it entirely. The rhythmic thud of my palm against the plaster would probably annoy the neighbours, and I didn't care. Let them hear. Let everyone hear.

Sam was a live wire beneath me. He met every thrust with a snarl of pleasure, his nails raking down my back. He was fierce. He was alive. He was demanding everything I had, and I gave it to him. I drove into him, harder, deeper, finding that spot inside him that made his eyes roll back, that made him forget everything but this.

"Eli! Eli!" He shouted my name like a victory.

I leaned down, grinding my hips against his, and kissed him messy and hard. He bit my lip, tasting copper, and the sharp sting of pain was the final straw.

"Sam," I groaned, my control snapping.

I let go. I hammered into him, fast and brutal, chasing the release. He was right there with me, his body convulsing, his hands gripping my hair, pulling me down.

He came with a shout, his body bowing tight as a drawn bowstring, spilling hot between our stomachs. The sight of him undoing himself—so completely, so without shame—shattered me. I emptied myself into him with a roar, my vision going white, my entire world narrowing down to the pulse of him around me.