The lock clicked. Sschlik.
That sound traveled straight down my spine, vertebra by vertebra, and settled somewhere deep in my gut. I kept my back to him, arms folded across my chest, the residue of our argument still hot in my throat. Something about me working late again. Something about Ansh not feeling like a priority. Words had flown like shattered glass—sharp, aimless, cutting whatever they landed on.
His footsteps behind me. Slow. Deliberate.
A floorboard groaned under his weight. Krrrk.
"Rohit." Not a question. Not a request.
My name in his mouth had always done something to me, but tonight it carried a different texture. Gravelly. Certain. The kind of voice that didn't need volume to command a room.
I turned.
Ansh leaned against the door he'd just locked, arms now crossed, the sleeves of his black henley pushed up past his forearms. The veins on the back of his hands were prominent—he'd been clenching his fists during our fight, I realized. But his jaw had loosened. His dark eyes moved over me like he was reading a document, scanning for something.
"You're going to stop talking now," he said.
I opened my mouth—habit, defiance, whatever.
"Ah." He pushed off the door. One step closer. "What did I just say?"
My lips pressed together. Something electric skittered across my chest.
"Good."
Two syllables. Guh-duh. They landed like a dropped coin in a silent room.
He closed the distance between us in three strides. His hand came up to my jaw—not grabbing, just resting, thumb on one side, fingers on the other, a bracket around my face that said I decide what happens next. His palm was warm and smelled faintly of the sandalwood soap by our sink.
"Look at me."
I did. His pupils had swallowed the brown of his irises. The argument was still there in the tightness around his eyes, but it had transmuted into something else. Something that made my stomach drop and my dick twitch simultaneously.
"All that fire," he murmured, thumb tracing my lower lip, pulling it down slightly before releasing it. Ssp. The wet sound of my lip snapping back. "All that attitude. Where do you think it goes?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't. The script had flipped so fast I was still catching up.
His mouth found mine. Not a peck. Not tentative. Ansh kissed like he was making a point—lips firm, tongue sliding against the seam of my mouth until I opened for him. Schlrrrp. The sound of our tongues meeting was obscene in the quiet room. His other hand fisted the back of my shirt, pulling me against his chest.
Kissing Ansh always undid me. It started tender—his lips were softer than they had any right to be—but urgency built like a drumbeat. His tongue swept my lower lip, then plunged back in, and my hands came up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his henley. He tasted of the whiskey he'd been nursing during our fight, bitter and warm.
Mmmpfh. The sound escaped my throat without permission.
He pulled back just enough for his breath to ghost over my wet lips. "That's better." His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. "You argue with your whole body. Did you know that? Shoulders up. Chin out. Like you're ready to fight a war." He tightened his grip. "But right now? You're melting."
He wasn't wrong. My knees had gone unreliable.
"Bedroom," he said. "Now."
I walked. His hand stayed on my neck the whole way, steering me past the couch, past the coffee table still holding the remnants of our takeout from earlier. The bedroom door was already open. Our bed—unmade from this morning, sheets twisted from a night of Ansh's restless sleep—waited.
He released me near the edge of the mattress. "Clothes off."
My t-shirt came over my head first. Fffp. The cotton landed somewhere on the floor. Ansh watched, arms crossed again, the bulge in his jeans growing more pronounced by the second. I hooked my thumbs into my sweatpants and pushed them down along with my boxers. Cool air hit my cock—already hard, already leaking a small bead at the tip.
"On the bed. On your knees."
The mattress dipped under my weight. I faced the headboard, gripping the wooden slats with both hands. Behind me, I heard the sound of his belt. Ssssssnap as he pulled it free. The clink of the buckle. Then denim hitting the floor.
The bed shifted as he climbed on behind me. His hands found my hips first—thumbs pressing into the dimples just above my ass. "You were so loud earlier," he said, voice low, right at my ear. "All those words. All that heat." His teeth grazed my earlobe. Tch. "Let's see if you can be loud in a different way."
His cock pressed against my ass. Hot. Heavy. I could feel the curve of it, the way the shaft bowed slightly upward, the ridge of his head catching against my skin. He was above average—not monstrous, but thick enough that I knew the stretch would blur my vision.
From the nightstand, he grabbed the lube. The familiar splrrtch of the bottle opening, the glossy wet sound of him slicking himself up. Then a cold drizzle directly onto my hole, making me flinch.
"Sshh." His thumb circled the tight ring of muscle. "Relax."
The first push was always the hardest. His head—that broad, flared tip—pressed against me. Squelch. The sound of lubricant and pressure. I inhaled sharply, and he pushed harder, and then—
Pop.
The head breached. My fingers went white-knuckled on the headboard. A guttural sound tore from my chest, something between a groan and a whimper. Gllrrrk.
"There it is," Ansh breathed. His forehead dropped to my shoulder blade. "Fuck, Rohit. You feel—" He didn't finish. Instead, he pushed deeper. Inch by slick inch. My walls stretched to accommodate him, the burn giving way to a fullness that made my eyes water.
His hips met my ass with a soft slap. Plsh.
Fully seated. I could feel him in my stomach, or somewhere beyond it—a pressure that radiated outward until my own dick was drooling onto the sheets below. A thick string of precum connected me to the mattress, swaying with every micro-movement of our bodies.
He withdrew. Schlllk. The drag of his shaft against my insides made my toes curl. Then he pushed back in, harder this time. Shlupp. The noise was wet, vulgar, perfect.
"Look at you," he said, one hand sliding up my spine, pressing me down into a deeper arch. "Taking all of me. No argument now."
I couldn't form words. My mouth hung open, drool gathering at the corner of my lips. A thin strand broke free and dripped onto the pillow below. Plp.
He built a rhythm—slow at first, deliberate, each thrust designed to make me feel every vein along his shaft. His balls, heavy and dusted with dark hair, slapped against my perineum with each forward motion. Tchk. Tchk. Tchk. The sound rhythmic, obscene, like wet applause.
Then he angled his hips differently, and—
"Nnng— fuck —"
He'd found it. That spot inside that turned my vision white. My prostate, swollen and sensitive, taking the full brunt of his head on every pass.
"Right there?" His voice had gone hoarse. "Right fucking there?"
Shlupp. Shlupp. SHLUPP.
The noises from where we joined were getting louder, wetter. My hole gripped him every time he pulled back, reluctant to let go, then surrendered again when he pushed forward. I could feel myself stretching around his girth—the slight burn, the obscene fullness, the way my body had rewritten itself around his shape.
"Ansh—" His name came out broken. "I'm— I'm close—"
"I know." His hand left my hip and snaked around to grip my cock. His palm was slick with lube and my own leaking precum. The slide of his fist matched the rhythm of his hips. Schlk-schlk-schlk. "Not yet. Hold it."
"How—" I gasped, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "How long—"
"Until I say."
His thrusts deepened. Widened. He was fucking into me with long, grinding strokes now, the head of his cock dragging against my walls with deliberate slowness. My thighs trembled. My arms gave out, and I collapsed onto my elbows, face pressed into the pillow, ass still high in the air.
Sluuuurp. The sound of him pulling almost all the way out.
SHLORP. Slamming back in.
"Oh god, oh god—"
He laughed—a dark, breathless thing. "No god here. Just me."
His pace picked up. The wet sounds from my hole grew more frantic, more urgent. Schlp-schlp-schlp-schlp. His balls smacked against me faster now, the slap sharp and rhythmic. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my back. I could smell us—the salt of our bodies, the faint chemical tang of lube, the musk of his pre-cum mixing with mine.
"Now," he grunted, his grip on my cock tightening. "Now, Rohit. Come for me."
The release hit like a lightning strike. My vision tunneled. My balls drew up tight and then unleashed—thick ropes of cum splattering against the sheets, the headboard, my own stomach. Splrt. Splrt. SPLRT. Each pulse wrung a cry from my throat, higher and more broken than the last. My hole clamped down on his cock, rippling around him in waves.
"Fuuuck—" Ansh's voice cracked. His rhythm shattered.
He pulled out. Schlooorp. The sudden emptiness made me whimper.
"Turn over," he commanded, breathless. "Face. Now."
I flipped onto my back just in time to see him straddle my chest, his cock—angry red, veins bulging along the shaft, the head darkened to almost purple—fisted in his own hand. He pumped himself furiously, schlck-schlck-schlck-schlck, the sound wet and obscene and desperate.
"Open your mouth."
I did. Tongue out. Eyes on his face—his clenched teeth, his half-closed eyes, the demanding expression that said he owned me entirely in this moment.
The first spurt hit my tongue. Splurrrrt. Thick. Salty. A glob so dense and white it looked like glue, coating my taste buds in viscous heat. The second shot painted my lips. Splortch. A third, directly onto my cheek, sliding down toward my jaw in a slow, warm trail.
His cum kept coming—pulse after pulse—more than I could swallow. Glrrrk. I tried, gulping down what was in my mouth, but fresh streams kept landing on my tongue, my lips, the roof of my mouth. A thick white puddle pooled behind my lower teeth. Slrrrp. I swallowed again, but a thin rivulet escaped the corner of my mouth and dripped down my chin.
When he finally stopped, heaving above me, I was a mess. Cum drenched my face—smearing across my cheeks, clinging to my eyelashes, pooling in the hollow of my throat. A single large glob hung from my lower lip, suspended, quivering with my trembling breath.
Plllup. It dropped onto my chest.
Ansh looked down at his work, still breathing hard. His cock, slowly softening, twitched one last time—a final droplet beading at the slit.
"Now," he said, thumb swiping through the mess on my cheek and pressing it gently back toward my lips, "we're even."
The lock on our door had never sounded so final. But his eyes—still dark, still commanding—held a question I wasn't sure I had the answer to yet.
Because something in me had shifted.
And he saw it.
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