Heartbreaker, a Hearstopper Story - Ch. 08

Gay Erotica, +18, Cuckold, Cheating, Hate-sex

Beto dropped to his knees in one fluid motion, the movement so controlled it looked rehearsed, like he’d pictured this exact second a hundred times. Down there, Beto looked upwards, dark eyes clouded with desire, face open with expectation, lips parted just enough to show a flash of wet teeth, breath already coming quicker. Nick looked at him for only a moment, and it was like something passed between their eyes: not tenderness, not understanding, not even the electric recognition of mutual want. It was surrender. Nick’s surrender. The second he met that gaze he knew he was handing over the last shred of control he’d been clinging to, and Beto knew it too. That was what passed between them, acknowledgment that Nick had lost, and all that was left now was the wreckage.

Nick scowled at him, jaw locked so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. Beto’s smirk didn’t falter. It widened, the curl of it pure triumph.

“You think this is funny, do you?” Nick rasped.

Beto stayed quiet for a few long seconds, letting the silence stretch between them until it felt like a physical thing. Then he spoke, voice low, every word chosen to cut.

“Sorry, irmão. I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk?”

Wanker.

He was mocking him. Mocking the weakness that had dragged Nick across a city and up fourteen floors. Mocking the loose morals that had let him stand here with his belt unbuckled, cock aching, while the man he loved waited a thousand miles away. Mocking the fact that Nick — loyal, perfect Nick — had become this: a man who would fuck the ruin of his own relationship because he couldn’t stop wanting the person who’d caused it.

Nick’s hand shot out, fingers sinking deep into Beto’s dark hair, gripping so hard the strands pulled taut at the roots and Beto hissed through clenched teeth, the sound making Nick’s cock twitch against the fabric still trapping it. He yanked Beto’s head back, forcing those smug, dark eyes up to meet his. For one vicious second Nick thought about slapping him right there. Open palm, full force, hard enough to snap that perfect face sideways and leave a red handprint blooming across the golden cheek. The urge burned bright and ugly in his chest, so strong his free hand actually flexed, fingers curling into a fist before he caught himself. Instead he used that hand to tear at his belt. The buckle clattered. Zip rasped down. Jeans shoved roughly past his hips and dropped to the floor in a heavy heap. Nick stepped out of them, kicking them aside without looking. He stood in nothing now but the black boxer briefs he’d pulled on tonight — and wasn’t that damning, when he thought about it. He’d told himself it meant nothing. That it was just a clean pair. That there was no reason at all he’d chosen the good ones.

His cock was already hard, rock-hard, straining obscenely against the black boxer briefs, the thick outline pressing forward like it had been waiting for this exact second for months. Of course it was. The bloody thing had no honour, no loyalty, no shame. It had never pretended otherwise. Unlike Nick’s heart, which had spent every waking hour screaming Charlie’s name like a prayer, his cock had wanted only one thing from the moment Beto first said “irmão”: Beto. Beto’s mouth. Beto’s arse. Beto’s everything. Nick could feel it, hot, heavy, pulsing in time with his hammering heart, demanding to be freed, demanding to be buried where it had always wanted to go.

His body was honest in a way his mind never could be.

Without another word he dragged Beto’s face forward, pressing it hard against the straining bulge in the cotton. The heat of Beto’s breath soaked through instantly. Nick could feel the shape of Beto’s nose, the soft give of his parted lips, the faint tremor that ran through him the moment contact was made. Beto didn’t fight it. Didn’t pull away. He simply opened his mouth wider against the cloth, exhaling a slow moan that vibrated straight through Nick’s cock and up his spine. Then Beto started sniffing, proper sniffing, like a man who’d found the most perfect scent in the world and couldn’t get enough of it. Deep, greedy breaths pulled in through his nose, chest rising and falling as he dragged it along the thick outline of Nick’s cock, following the length from root to tip like he was memorising it. Nick had showered after the game, but that had been hours ago — sweat, adrenaline, the faint musk of a full day’s exertion still clinging to his skin, trapped under the cotton. Beto didn’t seem to mind. He seemed to love it. His nose pressed harder, dragging up one side, then the other, inhaling like the smell alone could get him off. A hungry sound rumbled in his throat, muffled against the fabric.

Nick’s fingers tightened in Beto’s hair. “Like that, do you?”

Beto didn’t answer. He just kept smelling, nose buried deep against the underside now, breathing in like he was starving for it. The silence, the refusal to speak, the sheer shameless indulgence of it. It snapped something in Nick. He yanked Beto’s head back sharply, forcing his eyes up to meet his. Beto had a dazed look in his eyes, as if he was drunk on the scent of Nick’s cock, pupils blown wide and unfocused, lids heavy with pure, shameless hunger. His lips were wet, parted, cheeks flushed, but that fucking smirk still lingered at the corners like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Fuckin’ answer me,” Nick growled. His grip in Beto’s hair was brutal now, knuckles white, scalp pulled tight. “I said, do you like that?”

Beto’s tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip. His voice came out hoarse, wrecked, but still laced with that maddening amusement.

“Yeah, Nico,” he said, eyes never leaving Nick’s. “I fucking love it.”

Nick’s other hand shot down, fisting the front of the boxer briefs and yanking them down in one rough motion. His cock sprang free, veins standing out, the head slick and leaking. Beto’s gaze dropped to it immediately, pupils blowing wide, a fresh tremor running through him. Nick didn’t give him time to speak again. He shoved forward, feeding the head past Beto’s lips in one hard push. Beto took him without resistance, throat opening, tongue flattening, eyes never closing.

The heat was immediate, overwhelming. Perfect. Nick’s hips jerked on instinct, driving deeper, feeling the flutter of Beto’s throat around him. Beto moaned around the length, the vibration ripping a guttural sound from Nick’s chest. Nick hated how good it felt. Hated how right. Hated that his body responded like it had been waiting for this exact moment for months.

He fucked Beto’s mouth with short, punishing thrusts, hard enough to make saliva drip down his chin, hard enough to make the wer sounds fill the room. Beto took it all, hands braced on Nick’s thighs, fingers digging in, urging him on. Every time Nick bottomed out, Beto’s throat convulsed around him, milking him, and every time he pulled back Beto chased him, tongue swirling, lips tight, refusing to let him escape. He kept fucking Beto’s mouth with ruthless thrusts, each one harder than the last, hips snapping forward like he was trying to drive the last month of torment straight down Beto’s throat. He wanted Beto to gag, to choke, to suffer the way Nick had been suffering, silent and invisible and tearing himself apart every time that dark-eyed bastard crossed his mind. He wanted tears, wanted Beto’s smug composure to crack, wanted proof that this wasn’t just another game Beto had already won.

But Beto took it like it was nothing.

His throat opened wider with every plunge, muscles fluttering and contracting around Nick’s cock in perfect, practised rhythm. Saliva ran in thick strings from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin, pooling on the carpet between his knees, but his eyes never watered. They stayed locked on Nick’s face, gleaming with something that looked dangerously close to satisfaction. Every time Nick drove to the hilt, Beto’s tongue would press flat against the underside, dragging slowly on the pull-back, like he was savouring the taste, the weight, the violence of it. His hands stayed braced on Nick’s thighs, fingers digging in just enough to urge him deeper, never pushing away.

Nick saw red.

Rage boiled up through his chest, hot and blinding. He reached down with his free hand and pinched Beto’s nose shut between thumb and forefinger, cutting off his air completely. He never slowed his hips, kept fucking into that willing mouth with the same brutal pace, watching Beto’s eyes widen fractionally, pupils flaring. For the first few seconds Beto didn’t react. Didn’t struggle. Just kept sucking, kept swallowing around him, throat working even without breath. His chest rose once, twice, slow, controlled, then stilled. The tendons in his neck stood out. His fingers flexed on Nick’s thighs, not pushing, just… holding.

Then it hit. Beto’s body jerked once. His hands slapped Nick’s thigh in a quick, frantic tap. Let go. I can’t breathe. Nick ignored him. He drove forward instead, burying himself as deep as he could go, hips flush to Beto’s face until he felt the blunt head of his cock nudge the back of Beto’s throat and then push past it. Beto’s nose pressed hard against his pubic bone, lips stretched wide around the base. Nick felt the scrape of teeth against the sensitive skin near the root. It hurt. He didn’t stop. He stayed buried there, hips locked, feeling Beto’s throat convulse around him in panicked spasms.

Beto’s taps turned desperate, hard slaps against Nick’s thigh, nails digging in, body jerking as oxygen deprivation set in. His eyes, those mocking eyes, finally watered, tears spilling over and tracking down his temples into his hair. His chest heaved in silent, useless pulls. The sound he made around Nick’s cock was choked, almost animal.

Only then did Nick pull back. He yanked out in one rough motion, cock slick and shining with spit, thick strings of it stretching between the swollen head and Beto’s parted lips before snapping. Beto collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, palms flat against the carpet, body shuddering as he sucked in a huge, ragged gasp. Coughs tore out of him, his chest heaving violently as air flooded back into starved lungs. His face was flushed dark, almost bruised-looking, tears streaking down both cheeks in glistening tracks, mixing with the drool that coated his chin and dripped onto the floor. His hands trembled where they braced against the carpet, fingers splayed and unsteady, knuckles white.

Nick stood over him, breathing hard, cock still throbbing angrily in the open air. He looked down at the mess he’d made and felt a cruel, unfamiliar satisfaction coil in his gut.

“Too much for you, mate?” he asked, cold voice edged with something vicious that didn’t belong to him at all. “Thought you wanted my cock.”

Beto stayed on all fours for a long second, shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath. Then he lifted his head slowly, dark eyes locking onto Nick’s. He looked obscene, face wrecked, lips puffy and glistening, cheeks streaked with tears and spit, hair mussed where Nick had gripped it. But his eyes… his eyes were brighter than ever, pupils blown so wide the brown was almost gone. And behind the desire, there was something new. Recognition. A quiet, dawning understanding, like Beto was seeing Nick clearly for the first tim. Not the good, loyal boyfriend, not the rugby hero, but the man who’d just choked him on his cock and liked it. A quiet understanding crossed Beto’s face, and for the first time since any of this had begun, Nick saw something in those dark eyes that hadn’t been planned. Hadn’t been choreographed. A door Beto hadn’t known existed, opening onto a version of Nick that even Beto, for all his patience and his certainty, hadn’t anticipated.

Nick stared back, waiting.

Beto pushed himself up onto his knees again. He wiped his face with the back of one trembling hand and looked up at Nick through wet lashes.

“Not too much, irmão,” he said, voice hoarse and wrecked but still laced with that maddening defiance. “Not even close.”

Nick’s hand twitched at his side, but before he could form another word, before he could snarl, shove, or even breathe, Beto’s hand shot out and wrapped around the base of his cock in a grip that was equal parts punishing and perfect. The pressure was immediate, almost bruising, thumb pressing hard against the thick vein that ran along the underside while the rest of his fingers curled tight. Nick’s hips jerked forward on instinct, an involuntary grunt escaping him as pleasure and pain collided in a bright, searing flash. Beto didn’t hesitate. He leaned in and swallowed Nick’s cock again, taking him deep in one ruthless glide. Beto sucked with renewed purpose, as if Nick’s earlier question had only stoked the fire inside him higher. His cheeks hollowed with every pull, tongue flat and dragging along the underside on the way up, swirling viciously around the head before plunging back down. He used both hands now: one stroking the base in firm, twisting pulls that matched the rhythm of his mouth, the other sliding lower to cup Nick’s balls, rolling them gently, then squeezing just enough to make Nick’s breath hitch. His free fingers trailed up the inside of Nick’s thigh, nails scraping lightly over the sensitive skin, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

It was the best blowjob of Nick’s life. Another betrayal tonight. Another win for Beto.

There was no contest. No close second. Charlie had always been careful and loving — tentative kisses along the shaft, soft licks, eyes wide and earnest as he tried to please. Charlie had taken him into his mouth with reverence, never deep enough to gag, never rough enough to bruise, always pulling back to check if Nick was okay, always smiling around him like the act itself was a gift. It had been sweet. Tender. Safe.

Beto was none of those things.

Beto sucked like he wanted to ruin him. Like he wanted to crawl inside Nick’s skin and live there. He took Nick to the root without flinching, throat working around him in rhythmic swallows that milked every inch. When Nick’s hips snapped forward involuntarily, Beto didn’t pull back, he pushed forward to meet him, nose pressing into the sparse golden hair at the base, eyes watering but never closing, never breaking contact. The greedy obscene sounds filled the room, slurping, gagging, the slick glide of spit and pre-come. Beto’s hand on his balls tightened, rolling them in time with the bobs of his head, while the other stroked faster, twisting at the head on every upstroke, thumb smearing the leaking slit until Nick’s thighs trembled.

Nick hated how good it felt. Hated how his body responded like it had been starving for this exact thing, Beto’s mouth, Beto’s hands, Beto’s shameless hunger. His hips rocked forward again, helpless, chasing the heat, the pressure, the slide of tongue and throat. Pleasure gathered low and vicious in his gut, building too fast, too strong. He could feel the orgasm already building at the base of his spine, heavy and inevitable. Pleasure was mounting, rising in unstoppable waves that made his thighs shake and his vision blur at the edges. Each pull of Beto’s mouth dragged him higher, closer, the heat and suction so perfect it felt like violence. His cock throbbed against Beto’s tongue, the pressure low in his gut until every stroke felt like it might shatter him.

He was losing it, losing himself, and he hated how much he craved the fall. He shoved two fingers into his own mouth and bit down hard, teeth sinking into the skin between them until copper bloomed on his tongue. Anything to keep the moan locked behind his teeth. Anything to stop the sound from spilling out, because if Beto heard it he would know. He would know how good this felt, how it was already carving grooves into Nick’s brain, how it threatened to ruin him for Charlie, for anyone else, forever. Nick couldn’t give him that. Couldn’t hand over the proof that Beto had won. His hips jerked forward again, the edge that was so close now he could taste it. His balls drew up tight, the base of his spine burning, pleasure spiking so sharp it almost hurt. He was there, right fucking there, almost there, so fucking close—

Then Beto stopped.

The mouth lifted away completely. Cool air hit wet skin. Nick’s cock bobbed free, flushed dark and glistening, untouched, throbbing uselessly in the open space between them. The sudden absence was like being punched in the stomach. His body locked, muscles seizing, orgasm hovering cruelly just out of reach. A broken, involuntary whimper escaped before he could bite it back. Nick looked down, almost confused, sweat dripping into his eyes. Beto was still on his knees, lips swollen and slick, chin wet with spit and pre-come, but that smirk was back.

“Too much for you, irmão?” he mocked, voice dripping with satisfaction.

Rage surged through Nick like petrol poured on fire. His vision narrowed to that smirk, to the smug tilt of Beto’s head, to the way his dark eyes glittered with triumph. He wanted to hit him. Wanted to slam his fist into that perfect face until the smirk disappeared, wanted to grab Beto by the throat and bash his head against the wall until he was unconscious, until that bloody fucking smile was gone forever.

More than that. More than the violence, more than the hate — he wanted to kiss him.

He wanted to smash their mouths together so hard their teeth would clash, wanted to devour Beto whole, tongue and teeth and spit and all of it, until there was nothing left between them but desperate, bleeding need. He wanted to taste the salt of his own cock on Beto’s tongue, wanted to swallow every mocking little sound Beto made, wanted to bite that full bottom lip until it split and bled and Beto finally, finally stopped smiling like that. Maybe if he kissed him hard enough it would quench the hunger. Maybe if he poured every ounce of rage and shame and months of repressed want into Beto’s mouth, the fire would finally burn itself out. Maybe he could fuck the obsession out of both of them with nothing but his tongue and his teeth and the brutal press of his body.

The thought was so vivid, so overwhelming, that for one dangerous second Nick actually swayed forward, hips twitching, cock still leaking into the open air between them. His eyes dropped to Beto’s mouth and the hunger twisted darker, until it was too much.

Nick grabbed a brutal fistful of Beto’s dark hair and yanked him upward. Beto rose with a sharp yelp that was half pain, half filthy pleasure, and Nick swallowed the sound whole when their mouths crashed together. The kiss was violent. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t exploratory. It was teeth and fury and months of repressed starvation finally breaking free. Nick’s mouth slammed into Beto’s like he wanted to punish him through the kiss alone, lips bruising, teeth clashing, the metallic tang of blood blooming between them when Nick bit down hard on that full bottom lip he’d been obsessing over for so long. Beto moaned into it, filthy, and Nick answered by forcing his tongue past Beto’s lips, claiming, invading, devouring.

Beto tasted like sin.

Like everything wrong and everything right at the same time.

He tasted like salt and spit and blood, like the musk of Nick’s own cock still lingering on his tongue, like sweat and heat and the faint trace of whatever soap he’d used in the shower. He tasted like danger. Like the kind of mistake you make once and never recover from. Like every filthy fantasy Nick had tried to bury, every shameful twitch, every guilty throb of his cock, every time he’d come thinking about someone who wasn’t Charlie. He tasted like ruin wrapped in gold, like the sweetest poison, like the exact flavour Nick’s body had been craving for months even while his mind screamed at him to stop. Their tongues twisted together in a slick, desperate battle, no grace, no softness, just hunger. Nick licked into Beto’s mouth like he was trying to consume him from the inside out, sucking on his tongue, biting at his lips, devouring every broken moan Beto fed him. Beto kissed back just as viciously, hands fisting in Nick’s shirt, pulling him closer, tongues sliding and curling and fighting for dominance.

It was wet, messy, wicked. It shouldn’t feel that good. Beto’s mouth shouldn’t fit that perfectly against his. It was sacrilege, it was damning. And still, he couldn’t stop. Beto’s hands moved frantically between them, ripping at the buttons of Nick’s shirt with zero patience. Plastic buttons flew off and scattered across the carpet. The shirt was shoved roughly off Nick’s shoulders and hit the floor a second later. Now there was nothing between them, just skin on skin, golden against bronze, sweat-slick and fever-hot. Their hard cocks slid together between their bodies, thrusting in the same brutal rhythm as their tongues.

Nick groaned into Beto’s mouth as their lengths rubbed against each other like velvet over steel. Every drag sent sparks shooting up his spine. Beto was just as hard, just as desperate, his cock thick and flushed, the head slick as it glided alongside Nick’s, leaving wet trails of pre-come across both their stomachs. The friction was filthy, maddening. Nick’s hips rolled forward on instinct, grinding harder, chasing the slide, the heat, the obscene pressure of another man’s cock, a man that wasn’t Charlie, against his own.

He grabbed Beto by the hips and, as if Beto could read his mind, as if their bodies were in sync in a way that went beyond the need for words, Beto jumped the moment Nick lifted. His strong legs wrapped tight around Nick’s waist, pulling their bodies flush together. Without breaking the kiss, Nick carried them across the room, mouths still devouring each other in that violent, hateful tangle of tongues and teeth. He felt Beto’s nails dig deep into his shoulders and back, possessive scratches that broke the skin and sent bright sparks of pain blooming across his flesh. He had no idea how the fuck he would explain those marks to Charlie tomorrow, how he would hide the evidence of what he was about to do. In that moment, though, he couldn’t bring himself to care. He climbed onto the bed and deposited Beto onto the mattress above the pillows with zero care, the impact jarring them both. Beto’s back hit the sheets hard, but he only moaned into Nick’s mouth, legs tightening around him like he never wanted to let go.

They kissed like it was a fight neither of them was willing to lose. Nick pressed forward and Beto pushed back and there was nothing sweet in any of it, just heat and pressure and the graceless, consuming collision of two people who had been circling this moment for too long to be careful about it now. Nick kissed him hard enough to feel it in his jaw, and when Beto’s mouth opened under his he didn’t take it as surrender — he knew better by now, knew that everything Beto gave was also something Beto was taking, that every inch of ground he appeared to surrender was a trap, a lure, a thread Beto was using to pull him further in. Nick knew all of that and kissed him harder anyway, because knowing had stopped being enough somewhere around the third bourbon, somewhere around the eighth floor, somewhere around the moment he’d let those lift doors close without stepping out.

Beto made a sound low in his throat that Nick felt more than heard, a sound that had no business existing, that should have been illegal on the grounds of what it did to a person’s capacity for rational thought, and Nick swallowed it whole and hated him for it, hated the easy, shameless fluency of his desire, the way he gave everything without it costing him anything, without a single layer of the self-destruction that was currently eating Nick alive from the inside. Beto wanted this and it showed and he didn’t care that it showed. Nick wanted this and it was killing him. That asymmetry, that fundamental, infuriating imbalance, made him grip Beto’s jaw harder, tilt his head back further, take more, as if he could even the score through sheer force. He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He kissed him anyway.

Nick started moving downward.

He tore his mouth away from Beto’s with a wet sound and began kissing — no, biting — his way down Beto’s body. His teeth sank into the side of Beto’s neck, hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to hurt. Beto gasped, back arching, but Nick didn’t stop. He bit again, lower this time, dragging his teeth over the meat of one pec, closing around a dark nipple and biting down until Beto hissed and bucked beneath him. The taste of salt and skin flooded his mouth. The thought that it hurt, that he was marking Beto, bruising him, only encouraged Nick more.

Beto had been right.

Nick wanted to destroy him.

He wanted to leave evidence of this night all over that skin. Wanted Beto to feel him for days. Wanted every mark, every bite, every bruise to scream that Nick had been here, that he had taken what he shouldn’t, that he had ruined them both. His mouth moved lower, teeth scraping over Beto’s ribs, biting the taut muscle of his abs, tongue dragging through the deep cuts of his hips. Every bite was harder than the last, every kiss rough and possessive and full of rage. Beto writhed underneath him, moaning, gasping, fingers tangled in Nick’s curls, but he never pushed him away. He only pulled him closer.

Beto’s cock was was smaller than Nic’s, but still big, still thick, curving slightly upward against Beto’s taut stomach. Nick ignored it completely. He wouldn’t do that. Not to Beto. He wouldn’t give him that pleasure, wouldn’t service him in a way that wasn’t servicing Nick first. No. Beto didn’t deserve his blowjobs. Instead, he grabbed Beto by the hips and turned him violently onto his stomach. Beto laughed again, as if he was loving every second of the roughness, as if Nick’s anger was just another form of foreplay. For now, Nick ignored that too. He was far too focused on the arse offered up in front of him like the finest meal he’d ever been denied.

Bloody fucking hell, it was perfect.

Nick had thought about this for months and the reality of it was worse than the fantasy, which was saying something considerable. Beto’s arse was everything his memory had reconstructed in the dark, full and round and impossibly smooth, two firm golden globes that caught the warm light of the room like they’d been sculpted by someone with a vendetta against Nick’s self-control specifically, and the sight of it now, right there, no longer something to resist or look away from or pretend he hadn’t memorised from across a gym, landed in his gut like a fist. This was the thing that had started it all. This was ground zero. Every filthy dream he’d strangled in its sleep, every cold shower, every desperate redirect of his attention back to Charlie, back to decency, back to the man he was supposed to be — it had all begun here, with this, with the catastrophic, life-altering fact of Beto Montenegro’s arse existing in the same world as Nick Nelson.

The forbidden fruit. His own private Garden of Eden moment, and wasn’t that just perfect, wasn’t that just exactly right, because Nick had always known, somewhere beneath all the fighting and the praying and the white-knuckled resistance, that he was going to take the bite. That was the thing about forbidden things. They didn’t stop being there just because you looked away.

He would eat it whole.

Nick grabbed two handfuls of that perfect arse, fingers digging hard into the meaty flesh, spreading Beto open without ceremony. The sight that greeted him made his mouth water and his cock throb painfully against the sheets. Beto’s hole was already flushed, slightly puffy by God knows how many cocks. It twitched under Nick’s gaze, inviting, begging to be used.

Nick didn’t hesitate.

He leaned down and dragged his tongue straight across it, broadly, tasting salt and skin and the faint trace of whatever soap Beto had used. Beto moaned loud into the pillow, pushing back against Nick’s face like he couldn’t help himself. Nick growled and did it again, harder this time, licking over the tight ring of muscle with long, hungry strokes, then pointing his tongue and pushing inside, fucking into him with his mouth like he was trying to devour the very heart of him. He ate Beto’s arse like a man starved, tongue spearing deep, lips sucking at the rim until Beto was shaking and cursing in Portuguese under his breath. Nick’s hands kept Beto spread wide, thumbs pressing into the firm cheeks hard enough to leave marks, holding him open so he could bury his face deeper, lick harder, take more. Every moan Beto let out made Nick angrier. Every tremble of those golden thighs made him hungrier. How good this was. How naturally his hands knew where to grip, how easily his body had taken to something he’d spent months swearing he’d never do. And underneath all of it, quiet and patient and utterly without mercy, the knowledge that this wasn’t nearly enough. That it was never going to be enough. That he had opened a door tonight he didn’t have the faintest idea how to close.

He was going to ruin them both tonight.

And some dark, broken part of him couldn’t wait.

Beto’s moans started low, then quickly spilled out of control.

“Porra… Nick… assim… fuck, just like that…”

His voice was wrecked, hoarse and filthy, switching between Portuguese and English without thought.

“Sua língua… tão boa… so fucking good… deeper, Nico, please — mais fundo, caralho…”

Every word hit Nick like a lash. Beto kept talking, gasping, begging between broken sounds, his hips pushing back greedily against Nick’s face.

“Não para… don’t stop… your tongue feels so fucking good inside me… assim, assim… yes, eat my ass, Nick… por favor…”

Nick wanted to snarl at him to shut the fuck up. Wanted to yank his head back by the hair and tell him to keep his filthy mouth closed. Because Beto’s voice was wrong. That was the thing that cut through everything else, through the heat and the hunger and the consuming pull of him — the voice was wrong. The accent was wrong. Those soft Brazilian vowels, that musical lilt that had nothing to do with anything Nick loved, landing in the room like a desecration. Charlie’s voice in his head sounded like home, like Kent, like rain on pavements and the specific warmth of someone who had known Nick since he was sixteen and loved him anyway. Beto’s voice sounded like everything that wasn’t that. Like the precise opposite of it. But he couldn’t. Because that would mean stopping, pulling back from that, stopping the slide of his mouth, stopping the taste of him flooding his senses, and Nick couldn’t bring himself to do it. Couldn’t, and that inability, that simple, damning fact, told him everything he needed to know about what he’d become tonight and didn’t want to hear.

“Fode… so good… you’re gonna make me come just from your tongue… não para, Nico… don’t you fucking dare stop…”

Nick’s cock was so hard it felt like it was going to explode. Every heartbeat sent another pulse through it, making the whole length jerk and strain, begging him to stop fucking around, to stop teasing, to take what they both really wanted. It ached. It hurt. It demanded to be buried inside the perfect arse he was currently devouring with his tongue.

He couldn’t ignore it anymore. With a low feral sound, Nick pulled his mouth away from Beto’s hole, strings of spit connecting his lips to the glistening rim for a brief second before breaking. He reared up, grabbed Beto’s hips with bruising force, and sank his teeth hard into one firm, golden cheek. Beto yelped a sharp, surprised sound that cracked in the middle. His whole body jerked forward on the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets, but he pushed his arse back almost immediately, silently asking for more. Nick bit harder, teeth sinking deep into the meaty flesh, hard enough to leave a clear imprint of his teeth, hard enough that Beto would feel it for days. When he finally released the bite, he dragged his tongue over the fresh mark, not to soothe, just to feel it, the heat of broken skin under his tongue, proof of what he’d done, before he bit the other cheek just as savagely.

Beto moaned loud, broken and shameless, hips rolling back desperately.

Nick’s cock gave another violent throb, smearing pre-come across Beto’s thigh.

He was done waiting.

“On your hands and knees” Nick commanded, barely recognizing his voice as his own.

Beto took a moment to obey. His powerful thighs were visibly trembling, muscles quivering as if Nick’s tongue had stolen every last bit of strength from them. He pushed himself up slowly, arms shaking slightly, until he was on all fours in the middle of the bed, back deeply arched, knees spread wide, that arse pushed high and presented like an offering. The view hit Nick like a physical blow. Beto looked devastating. Kneeling there on the hotel sheets, golden skin flushed and glistening with sweat, back curved in a deep, slutty arch that made his arse look even rounder, even fuller. The two firm cheeks were slightly parted from the position, revealing the slick, puffy hole Nick had just been devouring, red and shiny, still twitching from the assault of his tongue. The bite marks Nick had left stood out vividly against the golden skin, dark red crescents that would bruise beautifully by morning. Beto’s heavy balls hung low between his spread thighs, and his cock swayed beneath him, dripping steadily onto the sheets. Everything about the pose screamed pure, shameless invitation.

Beto glanced back over his shoulder, dark eyes half-lidded, and asked in a hoarse, mocking voice:

“Like that, Nico?”

Yes, I like that, some traitorous part of him supplied, unbidden and unforgivable. Exactly like that. You look perfect like that. Nick’s jaw tightened against the thought like he could bite it back down into whatever dark corner of himself it had crawled out of. He shoved the thought down. Instead, he brought his big hand down hard across Beto’s arse with a loud, vicious crack.

The impact was brutal. Beto jerked forward on the bed, a sharp gasp punching out of him as the force rocked his whole body. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly across the golden skin, vivid and angry against the perfect curve of his cheek. Nick didn’t give him time to recover. He slapped the same spot again, harder, the sound echoing sharply in the hotel room.

“Shut the fuck up, Beto.” Nick growled.

Beto just looked back over his shoulder, eyes dark and gleaming, and smiled at him, utterly unrepentant. For that, Nick slapped him again. Harder still. The crack rang out louder this time, Beto’s arse cheek jiggling from the force as another overlapping handprint flared across the first. Beto moaned, pushing his arse back like he was begging for more, the red marks standing out obscenely against his golden skin. Nick’s palm stung. His cock throbbed so hard it hurt. He hated how much he loved what he’d left on that golden skin. His marks. His. On the demon who had taken everything from him without stealing a single thing. He wanted to leave more. Wanted to cover every inch of that perfect, ruinous body with proof that Nick Nelson had been here, had done this, had fallen completely and without grace.

Nick spat into his palm, the sound crude and deliberate, and wrapped his hand around his aching cock, spreading the spit roughly over the thick length. That was all the lube Beto would get from him tonight. No tenderness. No care. He positioned himself behind Beto, not caring about condoms, not even thinking about it, one hand gripping the base of his cock, the other digging hard into the marked flesh of Beto’s hip. Beto’s body tensed in anticipation, back arching deeper, arse pushing back slightly like an animal in heat.

Nick didn’t ease in. He pushed forward with one slow, brutal thrust. There was no preparation, no fingers to open him up, none of the slow, devoted care he had shown Charlie countless times. Just the thick head of his cock forcing its way past the tight ring of muscle. But Beto didn’t need any of it. His hole stretched around Nick’s girth with shocking ease, surrendering almost greedily, as if every other man who had ever been damned by this same temptation had already loosened him, broken him in, left him permanently ready for any cock that wanted to claim him.

The slide was hot, wet, and far too smooth. It made Nick’s blood boil.

This whore. This dirty fuckin little slag.

If he had that many cocks, if he had that many men at his beck and call, why the fuck couldn’t he stay away from Nick? Why the fuck did he have to pursue him, to seduce him, to turn him into this — this cheating, lying bastard who was currently balls-deep in his boyfriend’s best friend? The rage surged through him like wildfire, feeding the brutal snap of his hips. Nick slammed forward with savage force, burying himself to the hilt in one punishing thrust. The impact made Beto’s whole body jolt forward, a broken moan tearing from his throat. It fell on deaf ears. Nick pulled back and slammed in hard again, and didn’t stop after that. Again and again he went, finding a brutal, unforgiving rhythm that shook the bed beneath them.

Each thrust was violent, merciless, hips snapping forward with enough power to make the headboard slam against the wall. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud and indecent, wet and rhythmic, echoing through the hotel room like a second heartbeat. Nick fucked Beto like he was trying to purge the sin out of both of them, like every brutal drive of his cock could erase the months of torment, the guilt, the weakness.

“You fucking slag,” Nick snarled between gritted teeth, hips thrusting forward with vicious force. “How many blokes have you let wreck this hole, huh? How many before me?”

Beto didn’t answer. Suddenly, the only noises leaving his mouth were raw, broken moans and yelps that sounded like they were being torn straight from the centre of his chest, desperate, stripped of all that earlier smug control. His voice had gone ragged and cracked, the smooth Brazilian lilt fractured into something shaky and pathetic, every syllable trembling as it fought its way past his swollen lips.

“What, you done being funny?” Nick growled again, never stopping his brutal rhythm, cock slamming deep with every angry thrust. “Got nothing more to say to me, whore?”

“N-Nick…” Beto stammered, the name coming out weak and fractured, almost pleading. His voice cracked at the edges, thick with overstimulation and something dangerously close to surrender. The usual velvet confidence had been stripped away, leaving only trembling wreck of sound. “P-pera—”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off when Nick slapped his arse again, hard, the crack echoing sharply through the room. The already-red handprint flared brighter, angry and vivid against the golden skin.

“You wanted that cock, didn’t you?” Nick snarled as he drove in even harder, hips pistoning with punishing force. “Wanted me to cheat, wanted me to betray Charlie, right? So fucking take it, Beto.”

His fingers dug bruises into Beto’s hips, yanking him back onto his cock with every forward slam, using him hard. The golden body beneath him jolted and shuddered with the force of it, Beto’s back arched deep, arse pushed up to take every inch. Nick’s thick cock stretched him wide on every thrust, the slide brutal and relentless, the head dragging over that spot inside Beto again and again until Beto’s moans turned into broken, desperate sounds.

Christ, it felt good, better than anything had any right to feel. Every brutal thrust sent white-hot pleasure ripping up his spine, the tight, scorching heat of Beto’s arse gripping his cock like a vice, velvety and impossibly welcoming. Beto’s hole clenched around him on every withdraw, sucking him back in like it never wanted to let him go, and Nick hated how perfect it felt, how his body sang with it, how his balls tightened, how every savage snap of his hips made pleasure gather tighter and meaner in his gut. He had never gotten to fuck like this with Charlie. With Charlie he had always been careful, always gentle, always checking, always holding back because Charlie was smaller, more fragile, and Nick would rather die than hurt him. Every thrust had been measured, every movement tempered by love and devotion and the constant fear of going too deep, too hard, too much.

With Beto, he didn’t give a single fuck if it hurt.

Hell, he wanted it to hurt.

He wanted to take Beto apart, to ruin him the same way Beto had ruined him, slowly, mercilessly, irreversibly. He wanted to split him open on his cock, wanted to leave him gaping and wrecked and unable to walk straight tomorrow. Wanted to punish him for every smirk, every stare, every month of torment that had led them here.

So he fucked harder. He fucked deeper. He didn’t slow down. Didn’t ease up. He just drove into him again and again, chasing the blinding pleasure, feeding the rage, letting the hate and the lust twist together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Beto took it all.

And Nick kept giving it to him.

Nick grabbed a fistful of Beto’s dark hair and yanked his head back, forcing their mouths together in another violent kiss. Their tongues clashed again, desperate, breaths mingling in harsh pants. For a few savage seconds Nick devoured Beto like that too, the kiss just as brutal as the fucking. Then he pulled back far enough to look at him. The sight made something dark and vicious twist in his stomach.

Beto’s eyes were rolled so far upwards they were practically only white, lashes fluttering weakly. His full mouth hung slightly open, letting out those pathetic little broken sounds with every brutal thrust, whimpering, almost helpless. A thin thread of spit had escaped the corner of his lips and was slowly dripping down his chin, catching the light like a filthy jewel. He looked completely out of himself. Wrecked. Ruined. Lost. “N-nick… N-nick… Meu deus… Nick…” he kept stammering, voice cracked and trembling, the words barely coherent. But that wasn’t enough. Nick wanted more.

He pulled out of Beto’s body in one rough motion, his cock sliding free with a wet, disgusting sound. Without Nick’s arms holding him up, Beto collapsed forward onto the mattress like a puppet with its strings cut, face half-buried in the sheets, chest heaving.

“Too much for you, irmão?” Nick mocked, breathing hard as he stared down at the trembling golden body beneath him.

Again, Beto didn’t answer. His eyes were closed now, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, breath coming in deep, ragged pulls. Nick grabbed his hips and roughly spread his legs wider. He wasn’t surprised to see that Beto’s cock was just as hard as Nick’s, leaking so much that the sheets beneath him were soaked through, a large wet patch spreading across the fabric. It twitched helplessly against the mattress, untouched, dripping steadily.

Fucking whore, Nick thought, the rage and lust twisting together until he couldn’t separate them anymore. Being fucked like a blow-up doll and loving every second of it.

Nick spread Beto’s legs wider, thumbs digging hard into the soft flesh of his inner thighs, and buried himself inside him again in one savage thrust. Beto let out a small, broken whimper as Nick’s thick cock slammed directly against his prostate, the sound small and helpless. But after that, he said nothing else. It was like the light had gone out of him with the force of Nick’s cock, as if he had finally accepted his fate, nothing more than a warm, willing vessel for Nick’s pleasure. Nick fucked him harder. He set a brutal, unforgiving pace, hips snapping forward with punishing force, driving his cock deep into that slick, greedy heat again and again. The pleasure was overwhelming, flooding every nerve in his body. Beto’s arse was tight and scorching around him, clenching and fluttering with every deep thrust, milking him in a way that made Nick’s vision blur. Every slide in felt like sinking into pure sin, every withdraw dragged against that perfect spot inside Beto and sent sparks shooting up Nick’s spine.

Nick looked down at him. Beto’s eyes were half-closed now, glazed and unfocused, staring at something only he could see. His golden body jolted with every brutal thrust, his meaty pecs bouncing, lips parted on silent, trembling breaths. He looked completely wrecked, used, ruined, and still so fucking beautiful it made Nick’s chest ache with hatred and hunger at the same time. Nick wanted to hit him. Wanted to kiss him. Wanted to wrap his hand around that throat and squeeze until Beto’s eyes rolled back for real.

Wanted to never stop, to keep fucking him until the world ended, until there was nothing left but the two of them and this corrosive pleasure that felt like both salvation and damnation at once.

Suddenly, everything was too much for Nick. The pleasure, the hate, the want, the shame, the desire — it all crashed over him at once, drowning him. He couldn’t take it anymore. Couldn’t bear to look at Beto any longer, couldn’t face those dark brown eyes that saw too much. With a broken sound he couldn’t hold back, Nick lowered himself, collapsing forward and hiding his face in the crook of Beto’s neck. He buried it there, pressing his forehead hard against warm, sweat-slick skin, breathing in the scent of sex and soap and Beto. He hid from the world. From what waited for him on the other side of that bedroom door. From himself. He didn’t give a shit about any of it anymore.

He just wanted this, right here, forever.

Pleasure took him whole, consuming him. His thrusts became more erratic, more desperate, hips snapping forward in short, frantic strokes as his orgasm mounted like a storm ready to break. Distantly, he felt Beto coming underneath him, felt the sudden wet heat of Beto’s release splashing against his torso, heard the shuddering sigh of pure tortured bliss that tore from Beto’s throat, but he didn’t care about that either. It was never about Beto.

His failings.

His weakness.

His betrayal.

His cock throbbed violently inside Beto’s clenching heat, and with one final, brutal thrust he came. Nick didn’t see white. He saw red. There were no fireworks, no silver bells ringing, no joy. Only a violent surge that tore through him like punishment. Thick ropes of cum spilled deep into Beto’s body, pulse after punishing pulse, breeding, marking them both as one for all eternity, his whole frame shaking with the violence of it. He kept his face buried in the crook of Beto’s neck the entire time, teeth clenched hard against golden skin, a guttural groan vibrating through both of them as the orgasm ripped him apart from the inside.

When it finally ebbed, leaving him hollow and trembling, Nick stayed there, collapsed on top of Beto, breathing hard, still buried to the hilt inside him. The weight of what he had just done settled over him like a shroud.

It wasn’t release. There was no relief.

Only the hollow, crushing certainty that he had just crossed a line he could never uncross.

End of Part One.

—

Thank you for reading. If this story has left its mark on you, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber. The road ahead will drive Nick crazy and I’d be honoured if you chose to walk the rest of this path with me.