I was still trembling, still leaking weakly through the cage, still clenching around him like I never wanted him to pull out.
This was me now.
And fuck... I didn’t want it any other way.
We stayed tangled together for a long time, neither of us in any hurry to move. His weight pressed me into the mattress, warm and solid. His breath ghosted slow and steady against my neck, damp with sweat. The deep, throbbing ache in my stretched hole felt right, like my body had finally been used the way it was always meant to be. The heavy steel cage still locked tight around my spent, leaking cock felt right too, a constant reminder that even my orgasms belonged to him now. Every impossible, inconvenient piece of this felt exactly where it should be.
I stared up at the ceiling, chest still rising and falling in lazy waves, my thighs trembling from the aftershocks.
“Hey Miles,” I said finally.
“Yeah?” he answered, still a little breathless, lips brushing my skin.
“I think this is how it was always meant to be.”
He lifted his head just enough to look at me. Those calm, dark eyes studied my face, quiet and knowing, the corner of his mouth twitching into the smallest, most satisfied smile.
“I know,” he said softly.
A slow, stupid grin spread across my face as I felt his cum leak out of my well-fucked hole and slide down between my cheeks. My caged cock gave one last weak, happy twitch, still dripping.
“Yeah,” I murmured, threading my fingers through his damp hair, pulling him against my chest. “I guess I’m yours now.”
Miles hummed low in agreement, pressing a lazy kiss against my jaw before settling his weight on me again, heavy and warm and possessive.
I closed my eyes, letting the deep, satisfied ache settle into my bones, the cage snug and comforting between my legs, his cum still warm inside me.
CHAPTER 9
MILES
What a difference a week makes.
Seven days ago, I was sitting in this same place watching Brett Calloway perform for an audience that only included me as a punchline. Tonight, he was standing at the rack choosing a cue with that same easy physical confidence, except now he kept glancing over at me with something warm underneath the swagger.
It had been his idea to spend Friday night at Token & Slice for a casual game of pool. My first instinct was suspicion. Old habits. I’d spent all this time reading Brett Calloway as an opponent, and the recalibration was ongoing.
But he seemed genuine, relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen before this week, loose and unhurried, making jokes while we ordered drinks, and not performing them for anyone but me.
I was, against my better judgment, completely enamored with him.
I’d offered him the key that morning. Set it on the nightstand without a word and let him decide. He’d looked at it for a long moment, then looked at me, then left it sitting right where it was.
He hadn’t mentioned it since. Neither had I.
He was still cocky. That hadn’t changed. If anything, the bravado was more concentrated now that it wasn’t being used defensively, just existing naturally, and I was discovering that I found it entertaining rather than irritating. Growth, possibly. Poor judgment, more likely.
We were two games in, nothing at stake, just playing, when he set his cue down mid-turn and crossed over to my side of the table.
“What are you?—?”
He kissed me, right there under the neon signs, in front of everyone. He was unhurried and certain, with that signature Brett Calloway confidence that didn’t know how to do anything halfway.
He pulled back with a smirk sitting on his mouth.
I looked at him. “Glad that’s settled,” I said.
His smile widened. He picked his cue back up.