One Shot I wrote a long time ago.
After their first, passionate night, something wakes up in Vegas and Pete.
Vegas is hungry.
Pete looks delicious.
There is a bathtub and wine.
And need 𝘁𝗼 𝗼𝘄𝗻.
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Pete's tired, pained body struggled to enter the steaming, hot-water tub. A groan of relief came from the slightly chapped lips when muscles felt the heat, as the elbows rested against the edge, not allowing the handcuffed hands to get wet.
The not fully healed wounds that bounced off the light, almost pale, skin shone as it covered his chest with sweat, but that didn't bother the man, who was now more comfortable, still feeling soreness around buttocks area. Sighing, he allowed muscles the relaxation they deserved.
All memories of last night, the sensation of Vegas' mouth on every corner of his body, the strong, merciless thrusts that drove him into madness, echoed in Pete's thoughts, as he felt blush covering his face and going down to neck, when he was lost in the sudden burst of emotion.
This one, insanely crazy decision, which Pete has chosen, changed the dynamic between him, a no one, just a prisoner, and Vegas', the one who kept him here, who tortured him, and although he was still in chains, Pete wasn't really sure who truly became the prisoner in this house.
Tired head tilted, revealing the entire jawline and the long, slender neck, making the naked figure standing by the door tremble, feeling thirst to dig its teeth into the middle of Pete's Adam's apple. To leave a mark that would show everyone to whom the man opposite belonged.
Wild hunger possessing them yesterday had not diminished, no matter how long they had make love to each other, no matter how deeply Vegas went into Pete's soft, inviting body, how perfectly he filled twitching hole, and though moment passed, something had changed in both of them. As if the curtain hiding the truth of their feelings had been torn down, leaving them to their own stripped from all fakeness, emotions.
Vegas was not a man accustomed to such strong desires. Not when it came to people, especially those who stand lower than him on social ladder. But now, staring at Pete's slender but strong body, still vividly remembering how perfectly he felt inside, how safe it was to bathe in the warmth of that smooth, tasty skin, the man understood that what he had experienced in the past did not matter. It could never compare.
No other tryst, no angry sex without commitment could compare to Pete's inviting arms, but how could someone like him, the son of the Mafia, raised to take rather than give, handle such offer? It seemed It would be immoral to give something as pure to a devil like him. Pete, with a sweet, hopeful smile, cute dimples and understanding, warm eyes, was a real blessing. While Vegas, always angry, always needy for approval, like a bitch in a heat, ready to sell himself just for a kind word, resembled more of a sin. They were too different and yet?
Frightened but still hungry, Vegas walked cautiously to the front of the bathroom, quietly placing two glasses and wine on the table next to him, just to immediately slip inside, causing the sleepy brunet to lift his eyelids lazily, watching curiously at fine, muscular body.
"Move a little," Vegas asked in a gruff, unfriendly voice, but Pete shook his head, gently twisting lips into a smirk.
"I don't have the strength," he replied in a tired tone, waking up something wild in Vegas that he hadn't felt ever before. A sense of foolish pride in oneself.
