9. Tristan

NINE

Tristan

I don't know how to feel as I stand under the huge showerhead. I've never showered with another person. I've never had another person clean me. But that's what's happening now.

Dante is standing at my side, one arm around my upper body. His right hand is between my ass cheeks, massaging my tender hole to let the cum drain out.

He came inside me. He fucked me. Twice. My mind is trying to rearrange itself around that fact. And the fact that the three best orgasms of my life have all happened in the past twenty-four hours. And I had little to no control over any of them.

I fought all of them—and it felt good. To fight. And to give in.

But I feel pretty vulnerable right now. Some from the sex. More from the confession he forced from me.

Maybe that's why I'm letting him do this.

Even though I'm a little sore, I'm getting hard again. It's his touch. His nearness. The fact that his half-hard cock is brushing my thigh.

I've never thought much about cock size because mine is fine, and I've never had to think about having one inside me. I can't believe his fit. I wouldn't call his a monster cock, thank god, but he's big, way bigger than me.

Everything about him is bigger than me. His cock. His body. His power.

He could really hurt me if he wanted to, but he has his rules. I understand them now. He can't strike my face. He can't use a closed fist. He can't maim me.

The weird truth is, I hurt him more than he hurt me. His blood is running down and swirling pinkly through the water. I stabbed him. I cut his chest too. He'll have scars. He's already got a lot of them. Slash marks. A round one on his right pectoral that I suspect is from a bullet.

I looked him up of course after learning his full name. The Adesso family is old money. Dante's company appears to be separate from his father's, but he obviously grew up rich. Why does someone like that have those kinds of scars?

The questions drift away as his finger pushes into my ass, stretching me open. A small sound escapes me. He makes a sound too, a rumble in his chest like he's pleased.

He kneels and starts washing between my legs with a cloth. When he gently scrubs my balls, my cock lifts, stiffening. When he starts cleaning my shaft, I rock on my feet, dizzied. My hand lands on his shoulder.

I look down. His dark eyes lift from my cock to my face. He says, "You have a very nice cock."

There's a feeling of expansion in my chest. I like his words. I want him to make me come again, but I can tell he's not going to and I won't ask. I already made myself pathetic enough with my confession.

I should have been angry that he drugged me, abducted me, restrained me. He put a dildo in my ass while I was unconscious, then he fucked me with it until I came so hard I passed out.

But what really angered me was waking up in my own bed. Alone. I wasn't angry at first though. I was hurt. I lay there for a long time feeling abandoned. It took me back to those awful days after Evan left. The loneliness. The fear. Anger is far preferable, so I let it take over, let it blot out all the rest.

Dante stands up with a grunt. He's still bleeding. That needs treated. But he picks up the shampoo instead. I try to take it from him. His eyes flash. His intensity is difficult to describe, but I can feel it surging back into him.

He pulls me away from the spray and starts working shampoo into my hair. My eyes close. His fingers feel almost as good on my scalp as they did in my ass. It's dangerous, this kind of pleasure. He could take it away again.

My eyes fly open. I glare at him. He pauses his work, head tilting like he's trying to understand me.

"Don't do it again," I tell him.

I can see him thinking. He doesn't ask me, Do what? He figures it out.

I expect him to remind me of the contract. I expect him to tell me he can do whatever he wants within the limits of the rules. But he says, "I won't."

I suddenly feel the need to clarify, just to be sure. "Putting me back in my own bed, I mean."

"I know. I said I won't."

I don't know why I believe him, but I do. I close my eyes again as he backs me into the spray. He tilts my head back to rinse the shampoo.

He's much quicker about his own washing. I stand back while he does it. I want to touch him, but I don't know how. He's done quickly enough that I don't have to figure it out. He's back in charge as he turns off the water.

It's one of those huge, doorless showers. There's only one way to go, but he directs me anyway. I let him. I'm not ready to fight again, not yet.

Until I look down. I manage to force my eyes past the captivating sight of his heavy, fat cock hanging semi-hard over his balls. I manage to ignore the saliva that pools under my tongue at the sight. Because there's still blood running down his leg.

His chest is still bleeding too, but his leg has an actual stab wound. I can't believe how little he's reacting to it. I can't believe he's not angry about it. I fucking stabbed him.

"You need a doctor," I tell him.

"Not for this."

"You're bleeding," I argue.

"It'll stop when I stitch it."

" What? You can't—"

"Stop worrying about it, Tristan."

"Dante … I stabbed you."

A smile plays around his mouth. "I know."

I stare at him like he's crazy—because he is.

"Do you want to watch me sew it up?" he asks.

I blink. I hold back my automatic no . I think about it. Dante is so abnormal, so unapologetic, that it frees me to consider my own true impulses. I don't have to default to what's normal.

"Yes," I answer. "I want to watch."

Because I'm looking, I notice how his cock twitches. Mine responds in kind.

He gets me a towel, another for himself. It's fluffy and smooth, nothing like what I'm used to. I like how it feels against my balls and hardening dick. My skin is so much more sensitive after the waxing. I feel everything. And I love how it looks. I love that it's so smooth. When he fucked me, there was nothing between us. Just skin. Just cum.

I'm hardening by the second. I don't understand why my body has become so sexually responsive, but I like it. It's real in a way that so many things aren't. I can't pretend anything, naked in this bathroom with my cock jutting out.

His stiffens as I stare at it. Except for porn, I've never seen another man's bare cock. I've certainly never touched one other than my own. I want to touch his. I want to feel its weight and texture. I want to feel it hardening.

It's almost like he senses that because he turns away. One of his rules is that I can't touch him there.

He limps over to the cabinet and gets out one hell of a first aid kit. I think about all his scars. I think about how easily he disarmed me. He fights. All that muscle isn't just for show. And he is very well muscled. There's definition everywhere, not just his arms and torso but also his hips, his legs, his ass.

How did I never notice the absolute erotic beauty of the male form?

He goes to sit on the closed lid of the toilet. As he digs into the red bag, I settle on the floor nearby, sitting cross legged on my towel. Dante's eyes flick to me. The corner of his mouth tugs.

He scrubs the wound with antiseptic. It must hurt like hell, but nothing in his body language shows it. His cock is still hard.

With his legs spread, he's on full display: jutting cock, full, heavy balls. That's why I see the scar on the inside of his thigh. It starts about four inches below his groin and goes all the way to his balls. It's faint. Old. He's been fighting for a long time. Ugly fighting.

It makes a little more sense, then, when I watch him rip open a package and get out a curved needle. He pinches the wound together and starts to sew. He starts breathing hard, but that's about it. His cock remains stiff even as his fingers get coated with blood.

I don't know why it's so arousing to watch, but my dick throbs as he works. A bead of precum forms at my slit.

Dante pauses his work to look at me. He says, "You can masturbate if you want. Just don't come."

I hesitate briefly then then start stroking myself. I've never masturbated in front of anyone before. With anyone but Dante, I would be too self-conscious, but his lips part as he watches me. It takes him a while to go back to work.

By the time he finishes, with the blood washed away and the wound bandaged, I'm panting. I want to come. Dante goes to the cupboard and gets a bottle of something. Lube, I realize when he squirts some into his hand.

I make a needful sound when he slicks his cock. He grabs another towel. He lays it folded behind me. Then he kneels and pulls my legs open. It tips me back. My head hits the folded towel. He lifts me, exposing my hole, and shoves his cock inside.

I shout, bowing up at the pain. I'm not tight like I was before, but I'm tender. He doesn't care. He brutalizes my ass anyway. He's hitting my prostate. The way I'm lifted up, bent nearly in half, has my cock leaking heavily against my clenched stomach.

I start to reach for my cock, but he knocks my hand away. Then his hand closes on my throat. Panic spikes when I can't breathe. I thrash, but he is ruthless. His eyes are dark and intent. His lips draw back from his clenched teeth. He keeps pounding into me—

I come so fucking hard that I'm screaming around the constriction at my throat. I'm thrashing on the ground. My cock, untouched, is spurting wildly.

He keeps fucking me and I keep coming. Then his hips snap forward as he strains against me. I can feel his orgasm as his cock pulses inside me, painting my insides with his hot cum. It milks another creamy strand from me. And another.

I collapse, shattered and spasming so hard that my hand flops against the tiles. Dante releases my throat. He's spasming too, his body rocking against mine, his cock still twitching in my ass.

Dark spots dance through my vision. I cry out when he pulls out of me. I don't realize he's gotten up until I hear the water run at the sink.

He comes back with a warm, wet cloth. His jaw is set, his eyes still intense as he cleans my release from my skin. It's everywhere. If I were more with it, I might be embarrassed by the way he lifts my leg and cleans my hole.

My body is too loose, my mind too shattered to protest when he picks me up off the floor like I don't weigh 165 pounds—and like he doesn't have a fresh stab wound in his thigh. He carries me into the bedroom. It's not the room with the kinky bed. It's normal. Huge and luxurious, but normal.

He lays me down in a vast, comfortable bed. He crawls in behind me. Rolling me onto my side, he tugs me into the curve of his body, my back to his front. He pulls the covers over us. As though all this is the most natural thing in the world, I fall asleep.