Alecto doesn't take orders well. He never did. It's why he worked hard to be in a position where he gives them. He doesn't do well following other people's direction or prescriptive vision.
But when Josh goes and says that word, that cursed word, suggestive and almost a command in its inflection but no quite - Alecto hates the way he feels everything in him tilt immediately to respond.
And he does. Come, that is. He can't seem to help it from happening, hands balled back up into fists against the cold marble as he remains lifted up from it by the grip Josh has in his hair, holding him steady as he continues to wreak him.
He blames him. He blames M too. He blames the metal wedding ring clinking against the tabletop he's being fucked against. He blames the hard dick in his ass plowing his damp, slutty hole open. He blames himself for wanting it this badly.
And the worst part? The worst part is he can't even bother to stay in character anymore as his stomach clenches and he spills out white-hot all over his own stomach, because it's Josh's name that he whimpers out.
It's not the clench of Alecto's body on his cock with his orgasm, but the sound of Josh on his lips, in that broken whimper of pleasure, that makes Josh come, following him right over the cliff, biting his lip against a jumble of names that threaten to spill out, not sure at all what he wanted to say, what was the correct choice.
He falls forward slightly, a wordless groan in the back of his throat, his free hand shakily bracing himself on the edge of the countertop to not collapse over Alecto and press him down onto the hard surface. He is panting, almost breathless, white sparking behind his closed eyes, his heart beating practically in his throat. His brain is completely blank, absent of words, lost in what had just happened, without direction.
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But when Josh goes and says that word, that cursed word, suggestive and almost a command in its inflection but no quite - Alecto hates the way he feels everything in him tilt immediately to respond.
And he does. Come, that is. He can't seem to help it from happening, hands balled back up into fists against the cold marble as he remains lifted up from it by the grip Josh has in his hair, holding him steady as he continues to wreak him.
He blames him. He blames M too. He blames the metal wedding ring clinking against the tabletop he's being fucked against. He blames the hard dick in his ass plowing his damp, slutty hole open. He blames himself for wanting it this badly.
And the worst part? The worst part is he can't even bother to stay in character anymore as his stomach clenches and he spills out white-hot all over his own stomach, because it's Josh's name that he whimpers out.
Fuck.
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He falls forward slightly, a wordless groan in the back of his throat, his free hand shakily bracing himself on the edge of the countertop to not collapse over Alecto and press him down onto the hard surface. He is panting, almost breathless, white sparking behind his closed eyes, his heart beating practically in his throat. His brain is completely blank, absent of words, lost in what had just happened, without direction.