Page 85 of Crave

Then he tore at my boxers, dragging them down with shaking hands, pressing his cock to mine, sliding our lengths together until our breaths fractured in the same ragged rhythm.

“Tell me your real name,” I breathed against his mouth.

A beat.

Only the tremor of his breath. Then, “Richie.”

I smiled, soft, almost reverent. “Richie.”

He shifted above me, guiding the tip of his cock between my legs. “Say it again.”

This time it wasn’t a whisper. It was a surrender. “Richie.”

His breath left him hard, nostrils flaring. “Ask me for what you want.”

I swallowed, brushing my fingers up his neck and into the short bristle of his hair. “I want Richie to fuck me.”

He held my gaze.

And yeah, there was fear there. Threaded through all that want. But the truth was I needed it. Needed him. The real him. No mask. No blade. No bravado. Just Richie. So I reached for the drawer, fumbling it open with shaking fingers. “In there.”

He pushed up onto his knees, and for a moment I could do nothing but stare at him. The wreck of him. Bruised. Battered. Blood drying in dark streaks along his ribs. And still… beautiful. Brutal in a way that felt almost sacred. And I watched him, the brute force of him, violence held together by sheer will, power simmering under skin torn open in places, and I couldn’t believe any of this was real. That he was here. In my room. My bed. In obscene pain and still wanting me with that single-minded hunger making my chest ache.

He reached for the condom and lube, bit the wrapper open, and rolled the condom down over his pulsating cock. Then he slicked his palm and spilt lube down both of us in a messy, careless slide, holding my gaze. His eyes blew wide and dazed; pupils dark as ink. And in that split second, I realised I wasn’t the only one caught in this delirious, impossible spell.

We were both gone.

Drowning.

And choosing it anyway.

Then I lifted my knees and he pushed forward. Slow, controlled, the blunt heat of him breaching me. And every coherent thought I had dissolved into that sensation. To him. Easing me open. Stretching me. Filling me. Taking me like he meant it.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking as he shuddered and braced an elbow beside my head, the other arm trembling with the effort of holding himself up and my legs apart. “This…really…fucking… hurts.”

The sound wasn’t dramatic.

It was real. Raw.

A man trying to stay upright with a knife wound pulling at his ribs.

“You want to stop?” I asked, breathless but serious.

He dropped his forehead close to mine, our breaths mingling in short, uneven bursts as he edged deeper, inch by inch, gritting his teeth through the pain. “No.”

Relief hit me so hard I laughed. “Thank fuck.”

Razor snorted a quick, pained puff of amusement, then froze halfway in, muscles locking as the movement tugged across his bandaged side. “Christ…” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “You’re tight.”

I gasped at the stretch, grabbing behind my thighs to open myself for him, heat sparking everywhere he touched. “Cause I’ve been riding a less-than-mediocre cock for two years.”

He barked a laugh. Real, breathless, almost disbelieving, and immediately winced as it tugged his wound. “Yeah,” he managed through clenched teeth. “Saw the video. Felt bad for you.”

He then jerked his hips in a shallow thrust he couldn’t fully commit to, pain flaring on his face. But he didn’t pull out. Didn’t retreat. He held himself there, inside me, trembling, as if the pain was secondary to how much he wanted this. Me.

“Yeah?” I panted. “That what this is, then? A pity fuck?”

He froze. Every muscle went still, except the pulse hammering in his throat. His eyes met mine, and suddenly the joke died between us.