Obsidian: Retribution (Book 2)

Fourteen: I Will Follow You

Being fucked three inches deep into the bed by a man or a woman you hardly knew was always something to remember. The surprise of a new discovery, pleasant or not, spiced up the experience like a kick from a good batch of khizrar, turning whatever shortcomings one might stumble upon the second or third time nothing more than a faint smudge on a canvas about to be painted red. The excitement of being stripped down to the skin in front of a stranger, and then, at the ebb and flow of that heart-pounding anxiety, of diving head-first into an act so dangerously intimate, so senseless, offered a thrill not too different from stepping into a wrestling match to fight an unknown opponent blindfolded. It happened on Raviyani. Most men and women tried different partners on those nights, sometimes to discover oneself in the act of lovemaking, other times to discover new things about making love.

Except that it was neither Raviyani, nor what they were doing––in any way shape or form–– an act of making love, and shortcomings, where sex was concerned, was not, bless Ravi or whichever god responsible, among Kaal izr Naveen's many possessions. It was straightforward fucking, in every sense of the word, by a man who knew how to fuck, and how to elevate its meaning to new standards by the long pent up desire to fuck him and the desperate need to excel at the task.

And slamming into him now, a hand wound tight around his hair as it pinned him down into the sheets, the other pumping the swell between his legs to match, Kaal izr Naveen was a beast built with the power and precision of a Vilarian steed on the brink of breaking its rider. Forceful to the point of being brutal on occasions, the young captain lived up to expectations as someone who had done this many times, and most probably with many different partners. And he was using them all now, every expertise and carefully honed skill gathered through past experience, to make it a morning to remember––an offering driven and powered by a single determination to run a rival out of competition.

The rival being Baaku, of course. After all, it was Baaku that had been on Nazir's mind even before the door closed. It was still Baaku's mouth he had been thinking of as he plunged his cock down the young captain's throat, gripping and pulling hard on the orann's dark hair to facilitate the rhythm he'd been craving for. It was still Baaku, fucking him now from behind, earning himself all the grunts and groans from aching, near-collapsing lungs, through teeth clenched tight enough to tear the sheet they had trapped between. Kaal knew it, of course, knew it well enough to have progressed with frustrated barbarity that escalated at every thrust, every movement of his hand as he brought Nazir closer and closer to the summit, and then threw him off the edge with the monstrosity to match the growling beast caught between crushing him and devouring him whole.

And lying now, trapped under the body of a man twice his mass and weight, pumping air back into his lungs, Nazir grimaced at the thick scent of cedarwood oil they burned everywhere in the White Tower that clung to every inch of the captain. The fragrance reminded him of too many unpleasant memories, one of those happened in a room like this one, with another person that smelled this way. Fortunately, Kaal izr Naveen, however obedient and eager to please, was neither mild nor gentle when it came to sex, making the experience the complete opposite of the one whose memory he didn't welcome. There was a surprising amount of caged anger long-accumulated and desperate for a way out inside of him, and it drained Nazir almost completely of the ability to think and remember what it was he still had to do.

A good thing, perhaps. For quite a few reasons. He could use that kind of distraction right now, perhaps many times from now.

"Did I hurt you?" Kaal asked apologetically, pushing away a strand of hair from Nazir's face, still breathing hard from overexertion.

"You're the one who's bleeding." Nazir snorted and gestured at the marks on the captain's right shoulder, one still raw and seeping blood. It didn't taste the same––his blood and Baaku's. A disappointment, that, but one could call it unfair to be comparing the two.