The money was real. Three thousand dollars in crisp, new hundreds, stacked on his kitchen table. The rent was paid for the next three months. The eviction notice was a crumpled ball in the trash. The desperate, wire-tight panic that had lived in his gut for weeks was gone.
So why did he feel so fucking unsettled?
Dante stood in the middle of his dim, quiet apartment, the late evening silence pressing in on him. He’d showered twice since the warehouse, but he could still smell it on his skin if he breathed deep enough—sex, sweat, leather, the musky, unmistakable scent of other men. Of Silas. Of Mick.
He walked to the fridge, grabbed a beer, twisted the cap off, and took a long pull. The cold did nothing. The images were on a loop behind his eyes, brighter than any memory had a right to be.
Not the logistics. Not the cash on the table, not Josh’s instructions.
The feelings.
The brutal, searing stretch of Silas’s dickhead forcing its way into his ass. The way his own body had yielded, had opened, after that first blinding moment of pain. The shocking, electric jolt when Silas had found that spot inside him—his prostate, whatever—that made his vision whiten and his knees go weak. The raw, possessive growl in his ear: “I’m owning this fucking ass.”
And the other side of it. The hot, slick clutch of Mick’s body around his own dick. The way he’d pounded into that tight hole, driven deeper by every thrust Silas delivered into him. The perfect, filthy symmetry of it. Being fucked and fucking at the same time. A conduit. A link.
He’d dated women. He’d enjoyed it. The soft curves, the sweet smell, the way they’d gasp his name. He’d been attracted to men, too—he could admit that now, here in the dark. The way a teammate’s shoulders looked in a tight shirt. The casual grace of a jogger’s stride. He’d noticed. He’d felt a flicker, a heat, and he’d shoved it down, buried it under discipline and that’s not who you are.
But this… this wasn’t a flicker.
This was a goddamn wildfire.
Jax had started it. A hungry, curious blaze. Mick and Silas had poured gasoline on it and tossed in a match. Now his whole fucking psyche felt scorched, reshaped.
What does this say about me?
The question circled like a shark. He resisted the labels that tried to attach themselves. Gay. Bisexual. Curious. They felt like clothes that didn’t fit, constricting and wrong. This wasn’t about identity. It was about… recognition.
That was the word that stuck. Recognition.
When Silas had smacked his ass, when he’d given that low, rumbling command, Dante’s body had responded before his brain could protest. A deep, instinctual yes. When he’d been buried between them, taking and giving, there was no internal conflict. No shame. Just a savage, overwhelming rightness. Like a part of him that had been hibernating, clenched and silent, had finally woken up and roared.
He wasn’t ashamed. That was the weirdest part. He’d expected a crash, a wave of disgust, of self-loathing. It didn’t come. Instead, there was this… disorientation. Like he’d been walking on solid ground his whole life and someone had suddenly told him he could fly. And he’d flown. And now he didn’t know how to land, or if he even wanted to.
He set the beer down, unfinished. His sweatpants felt too loose, too soft. His dick, which had been semi-hard since the memories started replaying, was now a thick, insistent weight against his thigh. He didn’t fight it. He just stood there, leaning against the counter, and let the memories come in full, filthy detail.
He remembered the sound. The wet, sticky squelch of Silas’s lubed dick pushing into him. The sharp smack of Silas’s balls hitting his ass with every punishing thrust. The choked, sobbing moans from Mick underneath him.
He remembered the heat. The burning stretch of his own hole being widened. The hotter, liquid fire of Silas’s cum flooding him deep inside, a claiming so intimate it made his breath catch even now.
He remembered the sight. Looking down and seeing Mick’s dark eyes rolled back in pleasure, his mouth slack. Glancing over his own shoulder and seeing the massive, powerful expanse of Silas’s chest, glistening with sweat, muscles corded with effort as he drove forward.
“You feel that, Dante? You feel how deep I am?”
A full-body shudder racked him. His hand drifted down, over the fabric of his sweats, palming the hard ridge of his erection. Fuck. He was rock hard, leaking pre-cum that was already soaking through the cotton. He needed more than a memory. He needed to feel it again.
With a rough, impatient motion, he shoved his sweatpants and boxers down to his ankles. His dick sprang free, fully erect, the same light brown as the rest of his skin, the foreskin pulled taut over the swollen head. 9-inches of thick, veined need. He wrapped his fist around it, hissing at the contact. His skin was so sensitive, every nerve ending alive.
He didn’t stroke. Not yet. He just held himself, his eyes closed, and plunged back into the memory.
He’s on the couch, Mick’s heat beneath him. He feels the cold lube drizzle on his ass. Feels Silas’s thick finger circling his hole, probing. The pressure. The pop.
Dante’s finger found its way between his own legs, rubbing over his perineum, pressing back against the tight furl of his own asshole. It was still loose, still slightly tender from the earlier fucking. The touch sent a jolt straight up his spine. Fuck.
Silas’s dickhead, broad and slick, nudging against him. The impossible stretch as he pushes back. The searing, glorious burn as that monster dick forces its way inside, inch by brutal inch, until Silas’s hips are flush against his ass, balls-deep.
“God…” Dante moaned aloud, his apartment empty except for the ghost of his own voice. His fist began to move on his dick, a slow, tight glide from root to tip. Pre-cum slicked the way, making a soft, wet shlick sound with each pass. He imagined it was Silas’s hand. He imagined it was Mick’s mouth.
The rhythm starts. Silas pulls back and slams home. Squelch. Smack. The impact drives Dante forward, burying his own dick even deeper into Mick’s clutching heat. It’s a feedback loop of pleasure. Each thrust into Mick makes his own ass clench around Silas’s dick. Each pound from behind rams him deeper into the man below.
Dante’s breathing turned ragged. His hips began to pump in a shallow, frantic rhythm, fucking into his own fist. His other hand slid further back, two fingers now, pressing insistently against his own entrance. He didn’t push inside. He just pressed, mimicking the pressure, the promise of invasion.
“Take my dick,” he growled, Silas’s words in his mouth. “Fuck.”
He saw it. Silas’s big, black, 11-inch uncut dick, sliding in and out of him, glistening with lube and his own juices. The sheer size of it. The power. The way it owned him, stretched him, filled him.
“I’m in your guts. I’m owning this fucking ass.”
“Yeah… own it…” Dante panted, his strokes turning fast and rough. His balls tightened, drawing up. The pleasure was a live wire, sparking from his ass to the head of his dick. He could almost feel it—the phantom stretch, the deep, internal nudging against that magical spot.
He thought of Mick. Mick’s lean, wiry body writhing underneath him. Mick’s tight, Latino ass gripping his dick like a vise, milking him. The way Mick had screamed, “It’s so deep! Don’t stop!”
Dante’s fingers dug into his own hip. His vision started to haze at the edges. The memory and the present blurred into one sweaty, desperate need.
He’s getting close. They all are. Silas’s thrusts become erratic, brutal. “Gonna cum… gonna fill your fucking hole…” The words are the final trigger.
“ME TOO!” Dante shouted, his voice raw and loud in the silent apartment. “FUCK, I’M COMING!”
He imagined slamming into Mick one last time, hilting himself. He imagined Silas driving home, burying himself to the root and holding there.
His orgasm exploded out of him, violent and unstoppable. It wasn’t a quiet jerk-off release. It was a roar torn from his chest.
“AAAGGGHHH! FUCK! SILAS!”
Thick, hot ropes of cum shot from his dick, arcing through the air to splatter on the linoleum floor. Splurt. Splurt. SPLAT. Pulse after pulse, each one wracking his muscular frame with a shudder that felt like it came from his bones. His ass clenched around nothing, muscles spasming with the force of his climax. He saw stars, his knees buckling, and he barely caught himself on the edge of the counter.
He kept stroking, milking himself through the last tremors, a long, low groan escaping his lips. Cum dripped from his fist, coated his knuckles, pooled on the floor between his feet. The smell of his own release—musky, salty, male—filled the air.
He stayed there, bent over, panting, his body humming with a deep, sated fatigue that was almost painful. The phantom sensations slowly faded, leaving behind the dull, pleasant ache in his ass and the sticky reality on his hand and floor.
Slowly, he straightened up. He looked at the mess. He looked at his own softening, glistening dick.
No shame. No regret.
Just a profound, vibrating hunger. And a single, clear thought cutting through the post-orgasm haze.
I want to do that again.
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