Miles goes back to silence, but I feel him getting hard through the sheets.
I continue, “I fought him every inch of the way, but he got me to the floor. Then he pressed his mouth to my ear and said, ‘You can struggle or you can enjoy it, but either way, I’m fucking you tonight.’”
“Pierce,” Miles murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
I chortle. “Don’t be. I enjoyed it.”
“You did?” It practically takes him a handful of seconds to process the information. “Why? I thought you didn’t like being the bottom? And, I mean, he forced you. You were a kid.”
“I was already packin’ a gun,” I drawl. “The law wouldn’t have treated me as a kid, that’s for sure. And at first, it was all physiological. Because it hurt like fuck. But I’d play with myself at night thinking about it afterwards. It was dominant. He did whatever he wanted, and I had to obey.”
Miles rubs my shoulders, and I can’t help but notice how he grinds against the small of my back. “Still… it’s hard to believe. That’s not what you seem to want now.”
“Heh,” I mutter with a chuckle. “I’ve always been attracted to powerful men who know what they want and do what they want. I guess I like them so much I try to play the role myself.”
Though I always end up the tool, like with Jeremy.
“Is that why everyone thought you had a thing for Big Man Vice?” Miles asks.
“I would’ve played bitch for him, yeah.”
A moment of silence comes between us.
Before I say anything, Miles pulls off the sheets and slides down my body—so that his cock rests in the cleft of my ass. I tense and get up on my elbows. “Miles,” I growl.
He lies across my back and licks the shell of my ear. “I won’t enter,” he whispers as he thrusts against me, the raw friction of skin on skin getting his breathing heavy.
Reluctantly, I rest back down on the bed. He bucks with his hips, allowing the full length of his erection to rub hard against my ass. After a few rounds, he licks his hand and coats his cock with a mild amount of saliva. The natural lubricant makes his thrusting easier, and he picks up the pace.
Miles wraps his arms around my neck and chest, keeping me close. I can feel his heart beat against the back of my rib cage, and his hot breath warms the nape of my neck. His need for release is intoxicating. With every one of his thrusts I’m rubbed against the mattress, my own lust consuming most of my thoughts. He wants it bad, and I’m starting to hit my own limit.
I grind against the bed, enjoying the pressure. Each time I lift my ass a little higher, giving Miles more of an opportunity to get deep.
“Pierce,” he rasps. “Please don’t tempt me.”
“Get under me, then,” I command.
I go to get up, but Miles pushes me back down. He’s strong—stronger than I thought he would be—and I get stiffer thinking this’ll turn into a fight.
“Let me keep doing this,” he pleads as he bites my ear. “I promise this is as far as it’ll go.”
Caving to his husky tone, I relax and allow him to continue. Miles slows his pace but rubs hard, a moan escaping him between long rounds. I enjoy the feel of him, especially the heat that radiates from his body. Sweat coats everything, sticking to the sheets and slicking up our skin.
Miles groans as he holds back his release. “Pierce. Tell me something else. Another time you… you were bottom.”
It’s hard to focus, and I mull over the request for an extended period of time, my own breathing coming out in pants. For most of my sexual experiences, I was the one in charge—it was a trust issue then, and I couldn’t allow someone else control—but I trust Miles, so what is it now? I shake the thoughts from my head.
When was the last time I took it from a man?
“Jeremy fucked me damn near nightly,” I intone.
I feel Miles tense up, but he keeps going, his breath reserved, like he’s listening intently.
My mouth gets dry, and I force myself to swallow. My time with Jeremy was odd. Even my own memories feel like I’m watching someone else’s life through their eyes—not feeling the sensations or even giving a damn about the circumstances. I didn’t care about anything. I was broken.
Maybe I still am.
It’s hard to talk about, but for whatever reason, I can for this moment.
“He liked makin’ a big deal of it,” I say. “Our sessions were never short, and sometimes he wanted an audience. He got off on having me say I wanted him, or making me beg. It was a spectacle. He loved the theatrics.”
Miles tightens his hold around me. “You did all that?”
“I did whatever he wanted.”
“Did you like it?” he whispers.
“No.”
“Was it that bad?”
I close my eyes and picture an average encounter. Sure, Jeremy liked to be “dominant,” but it was always off. Always insincere. Sadistic. Like he was afraid and overcompensating. Desmond wanted the pleasure and power—it was animalistic. Jeremy struggled with his own fetishes, like he both hated and adored them at the same time. It made his brand of dominance insufferable.
“He was rough,” I say.
I hear Miles grit his teeth. “Rough?”
“Yeah.”
“How rough?”
“He didn’t like using lube. And on nights he wasn’t in a good mood, he wanted me to bleed. It was his goal to get me to react. To get me to plead with him to stop. Sometimes he’d—”
“No more,” Miles states, his tone curt. “I’ve heard enough.”
He stops his grinding and grips me tighter, his nails digging into my skin. He’s still hot, and his heart rate is through the roof. His precome coats my backside.
I spread my legs a bit. “Do it.”
“What?” he
