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Every time, Jack is mesmerized—as if for the first time—by the way Rhys's face twists when he pushes his cock inside him. A frown creases between his brows, his eyes are anxiously squeezed shut, his lip trembles and is bitten—and then a pained moan tears from those bitten lips, and another right after it, and Jack could listen to this every day, like a song.
Well, you could say he does just that: rare is the evening that doesn't find Rhys pressed against some surface.
The way Rhys still gets embarrassed by everything connected to Jack and sex is endearing in its own way, and probably shouldn't be such a turn-on, but every time Rhys blushes in response to a crude joke, Jack can't control himself.
So this time, Jack uses a practiced motion to yank Rhys closer by his tie, greedily drinking in the wave of terror that flashes briefly across his pale face, and watches as fear almost immediately gives way to sullen concentration: Rhys approaches everything responsibly, and sex is no exception.
Jack finds this charming. And with it grows only the desire to crush Rhys, to paint that tense face with red marks and streaks of tears—and Jack never denies himself the fulfillment of such desires.
He winds the tie around his fist, pulls it taut like a leash, raising his hand higher, and watches with satisfaction as Rhys rises on his toes to avoid choking. When uneven red patches appear on his skin, Jack releases the tie, strokes the largest one, tracing its ragged edge, and squeezes the defenselessly exposed neck. Jack could break his spine with a single motion of one hand, and that too stirs his blood, echoes in his ears as an unformed promise: maybe someday. When he gets tired of the thing that's currently making his cock rock-hard, swelling with arousal.
Jack pushes him, reluctantly releasing his grip, and Rhys climbs onto the desk, perching on the edge, touchingly and modestly folding his hands on his knees. He looks at Jack—with that gaze that in theory should reflect confidence and desire. Instead, Jack looks into his eyes and sees there a nervous anticipation of something frightening.
This doesn't surprise Jack; he's the one to blame and has no intention of changing.
"Hey, pumpkin," Jack calls, and Rhys looks at him uncertainly and with faint hope. Jack enjoys watching the last remnants of it evaporate when his cock enters Rhys so deeply that his balls press tightly against skin with a loud wet sound. "Why are you still dressed?"
Rhys flinches barely perceptibly, and into his feigned concentration weaves frantic anxiety: he fumbles with his buttons, tangles his fingers, tugs at his belt without undoing the buckle, and generally looks like everything is new to him, like they hadn't had sex on that same desk just a few days ago. Jack snorts quietly to himself.
It's amazing he has the patience to watch this. It's amazing this even attracts him at all—the embarrassment and insecurity of a yesterday's virgin; Jack always used to prefer the loud, bright, shameless types, but Rhys and his shyly trembling eyelashes do something to Jack that's never happened before: sometimes, looking at his twisted face, his chest even feels strangely light and hollow, and starts burning, like acid reflux.
Finally Rhys gets rid of his shirt and pants, pinches the waistband of his underwear with his fingers and freezes, caught in the trap of Jack's gaze. Jack grins, clicks his tongue: beautiful picture. The fingers of Rhys's flesh hand tremble finely, goosebumps flare on his skin, his cheeks and neck are covered with uneven blush. Just a couple of brushstrokes short of a true masterpiece, and Jack is about to add them.
Heavy, thick desire pools in his groin. Jack examines Rhys for a few more seconds, drawing out the pleasure, then closes the distance between them in a few quick steps and grabs Rhys by the shoulders, presses, drives, slams him back-first into the desk; Rhys, startled, hits his head, and from his sharp, pained cry, Jack's balls tighten in anticipation.
Jack pulls off Rhys's boxers, grips his ass cheeks—the old bruises haven't even faded yet, and Jack is already leaving new ones, and the sight of thighs marked by his fingers and teeth makes his head hot and hazy.
"Legs wider, princess," Jack commands, and Rhys, tears already welling in his eyes from the impact, obeys, pressing his lips together. His neck is completely flushed with that beautiful, appetizing color, like a well-spanked ass, and Jack lingers briefly on that thought, considers it—how Rhys will beg and cry under his hand, and what kind of resounding slaps those round, clenched cheeks would produce—and sets it aside for now, feeling too acutely how the itch of unbearable arousal grips the base of his cock like a ring of fire.
The tube of lube rolls right into his hand when he reaches into the drawer. Jack grins, looks at Rhys's face frozen in a mask of panic, hope, and slight arousal, and pushes two slippery fingers inside at once.
Rhys hits his head on the desk again, and in his new cry—pain, discomfort, protest. Ignoring it all, Jack almost immediately adds a third finger to the first two, and this time Rhys is silent, only breathing raggedly and clenching tightly down below.
Jack fucks him as often as he wants, and Rhys still stays tight, the tense muscle ring resisting invasion every time, and in this, the kid deserves some sympathy. A good partner would take care of Rhys: stretch him longer and more gently, bathe him in tenderness so he'd melt in his hands like ice cream under the sun, moan with pleasure and come untouched.
But Jack's not a good partner and isn't about to become one, so he pulls out his fingers, pours lube on his cock and, trying to watch both Rhys's face—his lower lip is already trembling and bitten—and below, where under relentless pressure his ass slowly opens, tightly and hotly enveloping his cock—he pushes himself inside, balancing between the desire to plunge all the way in one thrust and to torment Rhys some more.
Rhys whines through clenched teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, transparent drops glistening on his eyelashes—there it is, Jack's favorite song, and his cock is the conductor's baton.
It's almost impossible to hold back. On the last shreds of self-control, Jack jerks his hips raggedly, sinking deeper, but still not all the way; Rhys's eyes fly open and he screams more than moans. Well, isn't that music!
Rhys hiccups stifledly, closes his eyes briefly—then exhales long, trying to relax, and smiles crookedly at Jack. In Rhys's mind, this smile is supposed to mean "it's okay, everything's fine," but Jack knows what Rhys is trying to hide behind that uneven break of his lip line—pain, hurt, fear. Hide it, to make this less like coercion, to create an illusion of willingness, of mutuality.
No one asked him to, but if it makes it easier for him...
"Rhysee, little bird," Jack whispers, pushing deeper, and Rhys's gaze darts around from under his lashes, not knowing what to expect. A smirk plays on Jack's lips: the way Rhys desperately tries to please him is as funny as it is hot. "How about you sing me a little song, hm?"
Fear flickers in his mismatched eyes; Jack catches it, greedily absorbing it—and then drives his cock in to the hilt.
Rhys's strangled moan drowns out the loud slap of skin against skin; Jack feels himself going feral, his smirk stretching across his face, and it's good Rhys's eyes are closed—he shouldn't see how greedy, hungry, desperate Jack's face looks right now.
"Sing, don't be quiet," Jack commands—begs—staring at Rhys's twisted, strained face, a tear already crawling down his right cheek. A motion of his hips—and his cock almost slips out of the tight hole, granting a deceptive second of relief; Rhys tenses mistrustfully, clenches—and through that resistance, Jack forcefully shoves his cock back into the hot embrace, and then again—and again—and again.
Just a few seconds, a dozen thrusts, and the mask hiding true emotions falls from Rhys's face as if it never existed, and Rhys howls on one note, biting his lip, and sobs, begging him to stop, and cries loudly, his flesh eye red and wet with tears, and whines stifledly, trying to grab a gulp of air while Jack pounds into him without pause, setting such a pace that his heart soon starts beating somewhere in his throat.
Jack doesn't care, even if it stops: he's too busy.
He's listening to this wonderful song.