Leo’s hands, slick with sweat, tightened on Corey’s hips. The rhythm was a frantic, wet slap, his cock pistoning into that impossibly slick heat, churning the proof of sixty-one other men. But a new hunger, sharp and possessive, cut through the haze. It wasn’t enough to be a number in the dark. He needed to see.
He pulled out with a wet, sucking sound that made Corey groan. Before the man could protest, Leo shoved at his shoulder, rolling the heavy muscle onto its back. Corey went, a pliant, sweaty weight, his body slapping against the damp sheets. Now Leo could see him. The glazed, unfocused eyes. The sweat-sheened pectorals rising and falling. The red, ruined hole between his thighs, glistening and open, a dark, wet star against his skin.
“Look at me,” Leo breathed, the command foreign on his tongue. He wasn’t asking. He guided his cock back to that entrance, the head nudging against the slick, yielding ring. Corey’s eyes drifted to his, a flicker of recognition in the glaze. “Yeah,” Corey gritted out, his voice ragged. “Look at the slut. See what you’re fucking.”
Leo pushed in. Slow. The stretch was obscene, the view devastating. He watched his own cock disappear into the used, glistening flesh, saw the way Corey’s stomach tightened, heard the wet, accepting gasp that wasn’t a moan but a surrender. He was inside him, and he was seeing him. The man, not just the hole. The person beneath the porn-star sheen, trembling with exhaustion and relentless hunger.
“You’re real,” Leo whispered, the words torn from him as he began to move, a slower, deeper rhythm now. His thumbs brushed the sharp cut of Corey’s hip bones. “All this time… you were real.”
Corey’s head tipped back, a ragged laugh escaping him. “Real and wrecked, sixty-two. Breed it. Claim it.” His hand fumbled between them, fingers smearing the mess leaking from his hole, painting it across Leo’s thrusting abdomen. “Make it yours.”