Tatum held on to Andrew's shoulders as he surged out of the water, holding him aloft, and carried him to a lounger that lay in the shadow of a wall covered in flowers.
Tatum's mind raced.
This is madness. Once he finds out you have no idea what you're doing, he won't want you anymore. Especially as he probably only wants you now because he's been starved of human contact for so long…And will realise what a mistake it was after having sex with a man for the first time.
But even as he tried to talk some sense into himself, the endorphins charged through his body and his chest pulsed with an emotion so strong, so desperate he couldn't think.
The fierce need on Andrew's face called to that place deep inside that needed to be wanted, that needed to matter… The same place where the little boy lived whose father had been there one day, then gone the next, and he'd never understood why. The same place where his omega body also clamoured for release from the torment of wanting Andrew Pearce in the most fundamental way possible.
He gulped down a ragged breath as Andrew placed him on the lounger, and then grasped the hem of his tank top. "Can I?"
He nodded, unable to speak past the emotion clogging his throat.
Tatum couldn't deny him, any more than he could deny himself.
He peeled off the wet shirt and then threw it away.
Tatum swallowed down the apprehension, and the embarrassment, and forced himself, to let him look his fill.
Andrew grunted—the harsh rasp of his breathing, the molten light in his eyes the highest praise Tatum had ever received. Kneeling on the lounger, he licked his nipple and then captured the stiff peak with his lips.
Tatum grasped his thick hair, the long strands like damp silk in Tatum's fingers as shards of sensation arrowed down. His lips tortured and tormented the tight flesh with the same fierce urgency he had once consumed his food as a man famished. His body bowed, his sex aching and swelling, the need becoming unbearable.
Take me, show me, please.
The last coherent thought shattered, as his fingers traced over his belly, then slid beneath Tatum's damp boxers to locate the sodden hole at Tatum's back. Andrew's pheromones had released Tatum's inhibitions and he had started to excrete slick, ready for penetration.
He bucked, and cried out, as blunt fingers dove into the sensitive puckered flesh making it drip more like only an omega could. Andrew released a flood of pheromones to heighten the sensations and also help relax Tatum's flesh, and then he pressed on that special spot, to torment him more.
"Oh … That's… Yes," he sobbed.
"Shhh… I know." He chuckled, the sound as tortured as Tatum felt, but with a playful edge beneath that belied the fierce need.
He stood suddenly, leaving Tatum laid out and wanton. The harsh sun shone brightly behind him as he tore off his boxers. The mammoth erection sprang free. And Tatum's mouth dried, the erotic beauty of his scarred strong body making his throat close.
But then his gaze drifted down to the strident evidence of his arousal.
He swallowed around the fleeting panic, his sex throbbing as he returned to him.
"How will that fit?"
The playful edge was gone, and only demanding passion remained, as he hooked his fingers in Tatum's boxers and dragged them off.
"I can't wait, this first time," he said, his voice thick with the need pounding in Tatum's heart.
"I know," he said.
He settled between Tatum's thighs, grasped his bottom, to angle his hips and notch the thick erection at his entrance.
The hard thrust tore through Tatum's flesh and lodged deep.
He cried out, the pain turning to brutal pleasure.
He stiffened above him. "Did I hurt you...?
But it was already too late. Tatum grassed at his buttocks and pushed him to start moving.
Andrew swore viciously, struggling to hold on to the titanic orgasm, which screamed along every nerve ending and threatened to destroy the last thin threads of his control.
"Am I really your first?" he said, the glazed shock in Tatum's eyes almost as devastating as the feel of him massaging Andrew's thick length. So tight, so ready, so right…
He'd been ready for him, as eager and desperate as he was, or so he'd thought. But he could see the tears in Tatum's eyes, feel the shuddering shock. But worse, far worse, was the stunned emotion in the brown depths. The vulnerability yanked him past desire into a devastating intimacy.
He struggled to hold on. The need to claim every inch of Tatum was almost more than he could bear. But he wasn't an animal, not anymore, not the way they'd tried to make him.
He cupped Tatum's cheek as he looked away, forcing his gaze back to his.
"Why did you let me?" he said, needing to hear him say it, even though he already knew the truth.
He'd never given himself to any man. Why would he let a man like him have something so precious? Something he could never deserve?
"Because I wanted you," he whispered.
But he didn't believe him. There would be a price to pay for this. Somehow, Tatum'd trapped him, just like the last woman he'd slept with… But this time the price would be higher, and much harder to avoid.
He pushed the thought to one side and trailed his thumb down to caress the pulse in Tatum's neck, acknowledging the echoing pulse in his groin, the erection still buried deep.
"Am I hurting you?" he asked.
He shook his head. But avoided his gaze again.
He captured his chin. "Tell me the truth, Tatum."
"It's a little sore," he admitted. "But it feels good too."
And just like that, the wall, which had always protected him, ever since he was a little boy, lost and grieving and scared, and later, in that damp, dark cellar, started to crumble.
Raw, terrifying emotion tumbled in through the fissures, destroying everything in its wake, flooding the barren landscape inside him like a river rushing through a broken dam.
It hurt, more than he had ever been hurt before.
He dipped his head to capture Tatum's lips, determined to ignore the pain and focus only on the pleasure. He kissed him back—the artless play of Tatum's mouth on his as intoxicating as everything else about him.
He licked, sipped, capturing his essence, then delved, exploring, exploiting as Tatum relaxed in slow increments and let him in.
The desire to move tore at his self-control as Tatum's fingers glided down his back, touching and tracing the scars which would always be a part of him now. But somehow, as his body sank deeper into his and he began to rock, his eagerness, his hunger made the scars less ugly, less humiliating. They were simply a part of a past that had turned him into another man. Not the entitled playboy, but the solitary, self-sufficient man he had become in that cellar.
He tugged his mouth from Tatum's, the urge to move harder, faster, too much to resist. But as he cradled his hips, held him steady for his deep thrusts, he welcomed him, his body pliant, eager, as famished for him as he was for Tatum.
The climax built, as he thrust farther, took more. The coil cinched tight at the base of his spine, insistent, urgent, and devastating.
Tatum bucked, and cried out, his slick, swollen sheath milking him, as he surrendered at last. Andrew crashed over behind Tatum, soaring higher, and higher still. Until the wave fell over him, the pleasure shattering into a thousand glorious shards.
He shouted out and collapsed heavily into Tatum's arms. But as he pulled out of him, the pleasure dimmed and cold, hard reality—the agonizing intimacy, which threatened to breathe life into emotions long dead—returned.