Page 36 of His Holy Chaos

"Greedy," I say, moving inside him, still slow. I don't want to hurt him.

"Come on, Daddy, please," he pleads. The desperation is genuine.

"Stroke yourself," I say. "Slowly. Don't stop. I want to bring you to the edge."

"D-Daddy!" he protests, but he does as I say, wrapping his fingers around his shaft. He starts moving, slow, up and down, and he moans more now, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth open. I keep matching his rhythm.

When I can feel he's ready, I add another finger. This time, he nearly screams. A guttural groan tears out of him. "Daddy, that's not fair, I'm about to cum already."

"No, you aren't. You will control yourself, understood?"

"Let me stop stroking, then," he pleads, and his voice is so wrecked with need that I think I'm the one who's close. "Please."

"No," I say, because I know it's what he wants to hear. "Keep going. Be good for Daddy."

"Fuck," he groans again, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, but still stroking, obediently.

I pull my fingers out abruptly, and he whimpers. The sound is so wounded it might as well be a personal offense.

"Language," I say again, and he looks confused, almost as if he hadn't realized he'd cursed. He opens his mouth to protest, but I push back in, three fingers this time, still slow but relentless, going all the way. Whatever he was going to say dissolves into groaning, whimpering, and a face of pure ecstasy. I curl my fingers and find the spot that makes his whole body jolt, and the noise that tears out of him is loud enough that Noa definitely hears it through the thin walls.

God, he's going to drive me insane.

"You like it when I'm rough, don't you?" I ask, but he can't even answer. His eyes are closed, his mouth open, all his focus split between his hand and my fingers. I chuckle.

I can feel he's ready. I position myself, adding more lube to both of us. Then I press into him, slow. The sound he makes is something I'll hear in my sleep for weeks. It’s a low, trembling moan that starts in his throat and doesn't end. His body opens for me. He's warm and tight and giving, and I work him slowly, reading every micro-expression, watching for tension, for discomfort, for the difference between good pain and bad.

There is no bad here. Every sound he makes is pleasure. Every shift of his hips is toward, never away. The sound we make together is unholy. His mouth falls open in a silent cry, his eyes going wide before squeezing shut, his fingers digging into my back hard enough to leave marks I'll feel tomorrow. I press forward slowly, inch by inch, giving him time to adjust, and the heat and pressure of him around me is so intense that I have to stop halfway and breathe, just breathe, because I'm fifty-three years old and I will not embarrass myself in front of this twenty-eight-year-old brat.

He gasps, his nails biting into my shoulders, his back arching off the mattress. He's not even stroking himself anymore, too far gone. His head is thrown back, the long line of his throat exposed, and I lean down and press my mouth to his pulse point, feeling it hammer against my lips. I lick a stripe up to his jaw.

"You feel…" he starts, and his voice breaks. He tries again. "You feel so good. Oh my God. Oh my God."

I bottom out, and we both go still. I'm buried inside him completely, his body wrapped around mine in every way. His arms around my neck, his legs around my waist, his heat surrounding me. Our breath mingles, hot and ragged and synchronized.

"Okay?" I manage.

"If you don't move right now, I will actually die," he says, and even now, there's that thread of bratty impatience woven through the desperation. It makes me want to laugh. It makes me want to wreck him. It makes me want things I haven't let myself want in years.

I move.

The first thrust draws a cry out of him that I swallow with my mouth, kissing him deep as I set a rhythm: slow at first, deep, pulling almost all the way out before pressing back in. Each stroke drags against his walls, and I angle my hips until I find the spot that made him lose his mind on my fingers. I know the moment I hit it because his entire body seizes, his legs locking tighter around me, a sound ripping out of him that's closer to a sob than a moan.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, and I'll have to correct that foul mouth later.

I don't stop. I build the pace gradually, each thrust a little harder, a little faster, reading his body. The pitch of his moans, the rhythm of his breathing, the way his hips rise to meet mine with increasing urgency. His spanked skin must be screaming against the sheets with every push, the friction on his raw flesh adding another layer of sensation, and from the sounds he's making, wrecked, guttural, completely unguarded, he's not just enduring it. He's reveling in it. The pain and the pleasure braided together into something that transcends either one alone.

His nails rake down my back, and I hiss at the sting. That little brat. My hips snapping forward harder in response. He cries out, his head pressing back into the pillow, and I watch the cords of his neck go taut, watch his mouth shape words. He's so beautiful like this, stripped of every defense, that it physically hurts to look at him. A sweet, aching pressure behind my ribs.

"Daddy…" His voice cracks on the word. His eyes are wet from the sheer overwhelm of sensation, tears clinging to his lashes. "Daddy, I'm close, I'm so close…"

"Not yet," I tell him, and I slow my pace deliberately, drawing out each thrust until he's writhing beneath me, his cock twitching against his stomach, slick with pre-cum. He makes a sound of pure frustrated desperation that's almost a growl.

"You're… you're evil… you're the worst…"

"Am I?" I murmur against his ear, and I punctuate it with a deep, grinding roll of my hips that makes him choke on his next breath. "Is that any way to talk to your Daddy?"

"Please," he gasps, and the bravado crumbles entirely. "Please, please, I'll be good, I'll be so good, just let me… I need to… I don't want to do it without you letting me…"