Han Xin leaned down, his chest pressing against Xiang Yu's sweat-slicked back, and his lips found the nape of Xiang Yu's neck. His breath was a brand, scorching and damp.
"You feel so fucking good around me," he whispered, the words a filthy secret against Xiang Yu's skin. "So hot. So tight for me. You are taking me so deep, baby. Every fucking inch."
Xiang Yu could only moan, a broken, guttural sound. He was a beast caught, and he was letting his hunter do anything he fucking pleased. He was dizzy, pleasure a white-hot wire sparking through his veins, short-circuiting every thought that wasn't Han Xin, Han Xin, Han Xin.
Han Xin's hands slid down Xiang Yu's arms, his own muscles straining, and he entwined their fingers together against the edge of the tub, pinning Xiang Yu's hands there. The gesture was impossibly intimate, a binding that was more profound than any rope. He was completely surrounded, completely filled, completely held.
