I shouldn’t have knocked on Dylan's door. It was late. Not midnight, but late enough that it counted. I could’ve gone home. Could’ve taken a shower. Slept. Pretended I was a normal person who hadn’t just had slow, tender, eye-contact sex with a Frenchman who called me mon amour.
But no.
I was here. Standing outside Dylan’s apartment like I hadn’t spent the last two hours getting my brains blown out by Elliot.
The door opened fast.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, shirtless, in those gray sweatpants he always wore around the apartment. His hair was damp. He’d showered recently. Smelled like clean skin and cologne and maybe mint toothpaste. My stomach flipped.
I tried not to look tired. I was tired. In a very specific way. “Hey,” I said like I’d just dropped by to borrow sugar. “Still up?”
Dylan leaned one arm against the doorframe. His jaw flexed. His eyes moved over me once, slow. “You look like you already had a long night.”
I snorted. “Wow. Thanks.”
“Wasn’t an insult,” he said. “Just an observation.”
I rolled my eyes and stepped past him into the apartment. He didn’t stop me. The place smelled like him. Familiar. Lived in. Unsettlingly comfortable.
He shut the door. Didn’t say a word.
“You always open the door half-naked, or is this a special occasion?” I asked, sinking into the corner of the couch.
“You always show up this late after a date?” he asked back.
Touché.
I gave him a look. “I didn’t say it was a date.”
“You didn’t say it wasn’t.”
Silence hung between us for a second. Then I smirked. “I thought you were above jealousy,” I said, stretching out like I owned the place.
“I’m not jealous,” he said too fast.
I raised a brow. “Sure.”
Dylan crossed the room and stood in front of me. He didn’t sit. Didn’t smirk. Just looked down at me like he was waiting for something. I met his gaze, tried to keep my face unreadable. I knew what he was seeing. Flushed cheeks. Still-rumpled hair. Skin that probably still smelled like Elliot.
And my eyes? Probably tired. In that very specific, very post-fucked way.
“I’m not stupid, Troy,” he said quietly.
“Never said you were.”
“You came from his place.”
I leaned my head back against the couch. “And if I did?”
His jaw flexed again. His hands curled slightly at his sides. I watched him. Waited. Tried to ignore the fact that my body, which should’ve been completely sated, was already reacting. Dylan had that effect. That tension in him. That heat. Even now.
He stepped closer. “You really think he can give you what I can?”
I laughed under my breath. “What, an aneurysm?”
He didn’t laugh. He reached down, caught my chin between his fingers. Not rough. But firm. “You smell like him.”
“So change that.” The words came out before I could stop them.
I regretted them instantly.
Because Dylan leaned down, slow and sure, and kissed me hard. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was claiming. Bruising. Hot. I gasped into his mouth and he used it, tongue sliding in like he already owned me. His hands were on my shoulders, pushing me down, forcing me flat against the couch. My body didn’t resist. Caus I missed being submissive to him.
I gasped. “Careful, Dylan…”
He paused just long enough to raise an eyebrow, lips still hovering over mine. “Careful?”
“I don’t know,” I said, all breath and bravado. “You kissing me is giving off some… emotionally compromised vibes. Starting to look a little jealous. I might think you’re catching feelings.”
He snorted, full sarcasm. “Spaghetti noodle,” he muttered, dragging his fingers along my jaw, “my cock’s already in love with your lips and your hole. My lips are just here for the drama.”
I laughed. Couldn’t help it. “Mm. Classic. So the dick’s in love, but you’re not?”
He dodged my question and proceeded to tug my pants down along with my underwear sliding down my thighs, knuckles brushing my skin. I sucked in a breath. He looked up at me, smug. “You really came straight from him, huh?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Sure,” he muttered, dragging my pants all the way off. “But I can still smell that expensive cologne on you. What’d he do? Feed you grapes in bed while whispering French poetry?”
“He doesn’t speak in clichés.”
“No? Did he sketch you after licking your balls?”
I gave him a sharp look. “You’re so annoying.”
“And yet, here you are. Freshly wrecked and still bent over my couch.”
He spread my legs with both hands and glanced down at my ass, tongue poking the inside of my hole. Then he let out a low, amused hum. “Aha,” he said. “I see how it is. You got fucked by your Frenchman, and you’re still not stretched.”
I flushed. “Shut up.”
“No, really,” he went on, dragging his fingers between my cheeks. “You should see your hole after I fuck you. It practically doubles in size.”
“Dylan...”
“Bet he fucked you slow, soft. Probably whispered ‘my love’ while he did it.”
I stayed silent.
He grinned. “Yeah. That tracks. Meanwhile, as far as my dick tells me…” He pushed a finger inside. I gasped. “You like a good pounding.”
His voice dropped, cock hard and heavy against my ass. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
He pushed another finger in, slow but firm, watching my face the whole time like he could read every twitch of pleasure across it. I was already starting to sweat. My hole fluttered around his knuckles, greedy even after everything that had happened just hours ago.
I glared up at him, breath catching. “Are you gonna shut the fuck up and actually stretch me open, or are we just flirting forever?”
That cocky smile widened. His hand slid into my hair, fingers tightening.
“As you wish.”
He yanked my head back with just enough force to make my breath catch. His mouth was back on mine, but this time it wasn’t sweet or slow. It was hungry. All tongue and teeth and heat. His fingers worked deeper inside me as he kissed me like I was something he already owned.
And maybe I was.
I whimpered into his mouth and he used it, tongue sliding in like he already knew the shape of me. His hands were on my shoulders, pushing me flat against the couch. My legs bent instinctively. He dropped down between them, grabbing the lube from somewhere under a cushion, like he knew he’d need it the second I walked in.
“You really let him fuck you?” Dylan said, his voice low and teasing as he poured slick onto his fingers. “Romantic, candlelit, missionary bullshit?”
I didn’t answer. He kept going.
“You know what I see when I look at you right now?” His fingers were back inside me. “I see a hole that missed being treated like a fucking toy.”
I moaned, eyes fluttering. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”
“You’re full of me in a second,” he muttered.
Then he stood, stripped his shirt, and pushed his pants down further, his cock already hard, leaking, heavy in his hand. He looked down at me, spreading lube over it slowly, the way you’d sharpen a knife before slicing something open.
“Turn over.”
He grabbed my waist and flipped me with a grunt, holding me like I weighed nothing. My chest hit the cushions. He spread my ass, spit once, then slid the head of his cock up and down, teasing me.
I moaned loudly. Maybe too loud.
“Careful, Troy,” he said, voice dripping smugness. “Feels like you’re falling in love with my dick.”
I groaned. “Maybe I already am.”
He slammed into me in one smooth thrust.
I gasped, arching. The stretch was instant, deep, dizzying. He didn’t pause. Just pulled back and slammed in again, groaning low under his breath as he bottomed out.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s more like it.”
He set a rhythm, deep and punishing. My breath hitched with every thrust. His hands held my hips, fingers digging into my skin like he was anchoring himself to me. The couch creaked beneath us, the room filled with the sound of slick skin and breathless moans.
“You gonna tell him?” Dylan grunted, fucking harder. “That I fucked you like this? That you came crawling back to me the second he went soft?”
“You...” I gasped. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re mine.”
He leaned down, chest against my back. One hand slipped around, wrapping around my throat. Not tight. Just enough to make me feel it. “Say it,” he whispered into my ear. “Say you missed this.”
I didn’t answer.
He pulled out slowly, just the head left in me. I whimpered. Then he slammed back in and I moaned, biting the couch cushion to muffle the sound.
“Say it.”
“I missed this,” I breathed. “Fuck. I missed it.”
His hand stroked my cock while he fucked me, each thrust perfectly angled to make me gasp.
“You sound so good when you beg.”
“I’m not begging,” I panted.
“You will.”
He kept going, faster, deeper, and I couldn’t pretend anymore. I was moaning, needy, shameless. My body pressed into every thrust like I was starved for it.
“God, Dylan...”
“Yeah,” he groaned. “Take it. Take every inch. Let him kiss your neck and call you pretty. I’ll fuck the part of you he can’t reach.”
My body shook beneath him.
He slowed down, just a little. Pressed kisses to my shoulder. Then my spine. Then my lower back.
“I know you,” he said quietly, cock still buried deep. “You don’t just want sweet. You want this. The stretch. The ache. The ruin.”
I couldn’t answer. Maybe he was right?
He pulled out again. Flipped me over. My legs went up automatically. He shoved his cock back in and started thrusting harder, kissing me again between every stroke, but it wasn’t soft anymore.
It was ownership.
“Keep looking at me,” he whispered. “I want you to see who’s fucking you.”
I did. I watched every second of it.
His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, perfectly angled to make my back arch and my toes curl. He gripped my thighs tighter, driving into me with full, unrelenting power like he was trying to fuck something out of me. Maybe my guilt. Maybe my memory of Elliot’s soft hands and gentler hips. Maybe the part of me that still didn’t know what I wanted.
“Fuck, Dylan...”
“Yeah,” he grunted, grinding deeper. “Say my name again.”
“Dylan...fuck...”
My voice cracked on the syllable. He kissed me hard, tongue forcing past my lips. I moaned into it. My legs were wrapped around his lips, and I could feel everything. His sweat on my chest. His cock slamming into me, fast and possessive. His hand stroking mine like he wasn’t just fucking me...he was laying claim again.
“I bet he kissed you while he fucked you,” Dylan muttered against my throat.
“He did,” I panted.
He growled and slammed harder. “But you came to me.”
I couldn’t argue.
He held my hips down, locking me in place as he started to pound into me.
Thwack
Thwack
Thwack
Every stroke hit just right, slapping against my ass, cock sliding in deep enough to make me gasp.
“You like this more,” he whispered.
I didn’t answer. I couldn't.
He leaned down and bit my neck, then sucked at the spot. “You want slow kisses and eye contact? Fine. But I know what your body wants. And it’s not poetry. It’s this.”
His hand snaked down and gripped my cock. I gasped.
“I can feel your hole squeezing me,” he said, voice thick. “You’re close, huh?”
“Yes..fuck, so close”
His strokes turned brutal, cock dragging against my prostate with every deep thrust. My back arched again. I was shaking, legs trembling, fingers digging into the couch cushions.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say who’s making you cum.”
“You,” I gasped. “Fuck, Dylan...Aah..”
"Aaah.. uh.. fuu...ckkk"
I came hard. Hot and messy across my own stomach. My hole clenched down on him and he hissed.
Dylan stayed buried inside me, grinding with deep, steady thrusts that left no room for doubt. His eyes stayed locked on mine, intense, almost dark with focus. I was breathless, legs wrapped around him, arms gripping his shoulders. He kissed me again, messier now, wet and hot and hungry. His cock kept hitting that spot, over and over, and I was loving inch of his cock inside me.
The friction, the heat, the pressure...it was overwhelming.
He fucked in deep, his breath stuttering in my ear, and then I felt it. His whole body tightened above me. He let out a low groan, and I felt the heat of his cum spill flood inside me in slow, heavy pulses.
“That's for you. Keep it in,” he growled.
I gasped, trembling around him, hole clenching hard. The moment was intense. Raw. My thighs shook. His cock twitched inside me.
He didn’t pull his cock out after cumming inside me. He stayed inside, holding me close, kissing the side of my face. His body was hot, slick with sweat. I felt his heart beating against mine, fast and hard.
Neither of us spoke.
He pulled back slowly, gently, like he didn’t want to leave. His cock slid out with a wet sound and I shivered, instantly feeling the aftermath. My body felt used, stretched, leaking. My whole body buzzed with it.
Dylan wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand and looked at me, breathing hard. His eyes dropped to my hole, still twitching and open from how deep he’d been.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “You are still mine.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
I stayed on the couch a few minutes longer while he cleaned up in the bathroom. I felt the cum slowly trickling down the inside of my thigh, still warm. I didn’t know what I felt. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t guilt. Not exactly. But it was something.
When I finally pulled my clothes on and slipped out of Dylan’s apartment, it was nearly 1 a.m.
The walk down the hallway felt long. Quiet. I let myself into my own flat, dropped my bag by the door, and went straight to the shower.
I stood under the water a long time. Didn’t even move. Just let it wash me clean.
But it didn’t, not really.
-----
The next morning, Becca, my sis was already making coffee when I walked into the kitchen. She was sitting on the counter in one of those oversized sweaters she always stole from me, scrolling her phone, bare legs swinging.
“Well, well,” she said, without even looking up. “Look who came home late.”
I grunted and grabbed a mug.
She raised an eyebrow. “Your lunch with Elliot must’ve gone really well.”
I blinked. “What?”
She looked at me now. “You were glowing when you left yesterday. I assumed you stayed over?”
I hesitated. “Uh... actually, I came back late because I was at Dylan’s.”
Becca’s face froze for half a second.
“You were... at Dylan’s?” she said, voice cautious now.
I nodded, sipping coffee. “Yeah.”
“And what about Elliot?”
“We... spent the afternoon together.”
“So you spent the afternoon with Elliot... and the night with Dylan?”
I sighed and leaned against the counter. “I didn’t plan it. It just... happened.”
Becca gave me a look. It wasn’t judgmental. Just... Becca. Honest. Cutting through the fluff.
“Troy,” she said slowly, “you can’t lead them both on.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Okay. But you kind of are.”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Becca hopped off the counter. Came closer. Her voice softened.
“Look,” she said, “I get it. Elliot’s sweet. He looks at you like you’re a damn masterpiece. And Dylan’s—well—Dylan’s Dylan. Hot, possessive, emotionally constipated, and apparently amazing in bed.”
I almost choked on my coffee.
“But at some point,” she continued, “you’re going to have to figure out what you want. Not who wants you more. Not who makes you feel safe or horny or nostalgic. What do you want?”
I didn’t have an answer.
She patted my shoulder. “Just don’t hurt them. Or yourself. You’re allowed to want both. But you’re not allowed to lie about it.”
I nodded. “I know.”
My phone buzzed.
It was from Dylan.
Last night was fun, spaghetti noodle. Come with me to my shoot today. Fitness campaign. You’ll get to see me shirtless and sweaty, posing with some overpriced protein powder. You’re welcome.
- Dylan
I didn’t answer right away.
Becca leaned over my shoulder to read. “Oh god,” she groaned. “He really texted you that?”
I smirked.
But I knew I was going to say yes.
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