Chapter 285 - 283: Still Yearning.

Chapter 285: Chapter 283: Still Yearning.

Khobi wakes up feeling dreadful.

The hangover, he was expecting.

The sense of overwhelming shame, not so much. And that feels so much worse.

He gets all of five minutes of blissful ignorance while his groggy brain claws its way back to consciousness, but as his eyes adjust to the gloom and his hazy mind struggles to discern just where he is and how exactly he got there, snippets of the night before start slowly coming back to him.

Khobi frowns as the hazy, broken pieces of the night before swirl around inside his head, refusing to quite take form. It’s disorienting, to say the least; having some images and sensations all but seared into his brain, and others that are murky, like someone has taken the memory and smudged it beyond all recognition. And then there are others still that are gone completely, moments of blackness where fragments of the night have been snipped apart and stitched back together. Where the discarded pieces have gone are anyone’s guess. ℴ

He doesn’t much like the feeling, or the sickening sensation those blank spots evoke in his stomach.

He remembers the drinking. And the music. Laughter; he remembers there being a lot of that, too. And while that all explains the hangover, it doesn’t explain the shame, nor the low heat of arousal smouldered down to embers deep within his belly.

Wait.

There’s something else; something more emerging from the darkness. Memories, he thinks, although they’re more sensations than coherent images.

Hands, coursing down his body. Lips on his; a tongue hot in his mouth and searing on his skin. Weight, pressed up on him and between his legs; moving against him and with him, and Khobi’s own body wracked with blinding, ravenous heat.

The sensation hits him so suddenly and with such intensity that Khobi almost almost chokes and he has to snatch at the bedsheets to keep himself from arching right off the mattress.

What the fuck was that.

Chest suddenly heaving, Khobi runs a hand back through his hair in an attempt to ground himself again. The room is still swaying more than it should be and his head is reeling.

A dream, maybe?

No, it all feels too raw and too real to be a dream. He can still feel it; the weight and shape and overwhelming heat of that body on his, can still feel the fingers digging into his skin and catching on his nipples, and, as his eyes stutter closed and his breath catches in his throat, the thick, insistent grinding of an erection beneath his hips and against his ass.

He fucked someone?

No, that doesn’t seem right. He doesn’t remember that, and it sure doesn’t feel like he fucked someone.

(Dimly, he thinks he remembers the weight lifting. Then fingertips ghosting down his chest; reverent, almost tender, and the sound of a door closing.)

He remembers wanting to be fucked, though. He remembers that part very vividly. It’s been too long since he’s had anyone inside him and he’s been aching for it like he’s never ached for anything in his life.

Imexplicably agitated, and more than a little aroused, Khobi distractedly palms himself over his clothes, helpless to stop the way his thighs shift open at the memory of the heat between them.

A hiss escapes his lips.

Shit, he’s already hard.

Still hungry.

His mind’s been handed back control but the alcohol had let loose something ravenous within him and he can still feel it lurking there beyond the edge of reason, unsated. Want is still coursing wild through his blood, and it is swelling; yearning for sweet release.

And there are some cages that once opened, can’t just be simply locked again.

Mouth dry, and body insistent and wholly unsatisfied, Khobi reaches down to tug his cock free. He’s obscenely hard; arousal stoked by the lingering touches and leftover heat, and it only takes a couple of firm strokes for the pleasure to start to build.

The fantasy comes easily. And with it, pleasure. The hands and lips have so much more weight than just simple ghosts, and they are hungry and Khobi wants to give them everything they desire. He focuses on the way those hands had felt on his body and the heat and thickness of the cock straining against him, grinding him to such a frenzy that the ache within him had built to the point of agony.

(He’d wanted him. Whoever it was, he’d wanted him; hard, and insistently, and more than he’s ever wanted anyone in his life.)

Khobi presses a hand over his mouth to stifle a moan. It comes out anyway, and he bucks his hips into his fist as his cock throbs under his touch. He wishes he had more time, and something to slick his fingers so that he could touch where he most wants to be touched; where he still hasn’t been touched. But there’s no time; he can’t wait, the lust tearing him apart has been waiting too long already, so this will have to do for now.

(It’s not going to be enough.)

Because that itch deep within him will keep on itching; growing and feeding that raw, primal urge to be stretched, and filled, and fucked to within and inch of his life.

But for now, it has to do.

His thighs fall apart anyway, hips writhing against the mattress with the same wanton desperation that they’d writhed against another body; craving more and unashamed to show just how much. And in his mind, the memories are growing more frantic, but somehow more vivid. In them the bed is quaking and Khobi’s panting, gasping, and those devilish hands are in his hair and on his ass, hauling him onto his cock; ready to take him whichever way he wants, and the voice in his ear is deep and utterly intoxicating; stroking him from the inside out.

You feel so fucking good.

Wait.

Right on the cusp of orgasm, an icy spike of horror shoots clean through him and cuts him off on the brink.

No, no.

He knows that voice.