Chapter Eight.
Klein felt an overwhelming weight crush him from within, as if his very soul was being consumed. The kiss was relentless—fiery and possessive—devouring him whole. His lungs fought for air, each breath a desperate gasp that seemed to thin the very air around him.
Though he could still breathe through his nose, his lips were fully surrendered, conquered by the man's relentless hunger. Klein's mind blurred; he was lost, unsure of how to escape the suffocating grip.
The young man's tongue delved deep, a relentless intruder invading every corner of his mouth, stirring a chaos of sensation. His arms grew weak, trembling at his sides, as if his strength was ebbing away. His chest heaved uncontrollably, each inhalation a struggle, each exhalation a fragile surrender—almost fainting from the onslaught.
It was suffocating—an unyielding prison of flesh and breath. Their lips and tongues intertwined with a ferocity that felt almost predatory, as if Klein was being swallowed alive. The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying—a dark, electric tide pulling him under.
Seeing that Klein's widened eyes became half-closed, the Amon loosened his hold on the other's mouth and their lips separated, yet were still connected with a silver hanging wire.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, save for Klein's ragged breathing—his lips parted, trembling, his chest rising and falling in frantic rhythm.
He hadn't yet found his breath, nor his clarity. His vision blurred, his lips swollen and trembling, while his chest heaved with each labored inhale and exhale.
His thoughts scattered, slipping through his grasp like smoke.
He knew he could breathe through his nose. He knew it, distantly. But knowledge did nothing when his body refused to cooperate—when his lips were held, claimed, leaving him no room to think, no room to resist.
Klein sucked in air desperately, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps, his body shuddering as though he'd been pulled back from the edge of something vast and terrible.
He didn't move. He couldn't even if wanted to.
His eyes were unfocused, lashes fluttering as if the effort to remain conscious alone was too much. His lips parted again, instinctively this time, drawing in breath after breath, each one still burning as though the heat had settled deep in his lungs.
Amon watched him with open fascination.
Amusement curved his mouth as his gaze traced Klein's heaving chest, the tremor in his hands, the way he seemed to hover between awareness and collapse. Slowly—deliberately—his fingers followed the line of Klein's jaw, drifting downward with infuriating gentleness, as though savoring every reaction he provoked.
"Still with me?" he murmured, voice low, velvet-smooth, carrying an edge that made Klein shiver despite himself.
His hand extended, palm open, inviting—not demanding, but no less inevitable.
"Come," Amon said softly, coaxing rather than commanding. "Give me your hand."
The words lingered in the heated air, heavy with promise and threat alike—an unspoken warning that whatever came next would not be gentle, and that Klein, already unsteady, was standing far too close to being completely undone.
Amon did not rush him.
That, somehow, was the worst part.
Klein stared at the outstretched hand as though it were an illusion—something his fevered mind had conjured to torment him further. His thoughts lagged, drifting apart, unable to settle on anything solid. The heat gnawed at him from the inside out, and with every breath, it grew harder to remember what he was supposed to do. What he wanted to do.
"Come on," Amon said quietly, still patient, still coaxing. "You're shaking."
Klein hadn't noticed. Not until the words made it real—until his body responded, a faint tremor rippling through his fingers. He hated that the man noticed everything. Hated that he sounded so calm about it, as though Klein's unraveling were merely an observation, not a cause for alarm.
Slowly, hesitantly, Klein placed his hand in Amon's.
The contact sent a jolt through him—not sharp, not painful, but deep. Anchoring. His thoughts stuttered, then softened, the edges blurring as Amon's fingers closed around his wrist with just enough pressure to remind him that he was being held.
"There," Amon murmured. "Much better."
He guided Klein—not dragged him, not forced him—back against the mattress. The sheets whispered beneath him as he sank down, warmth swallowing him whole. Klein barely registered the movement; his attention had narrowed to the sound of Amon's voice, to the steady rhythm of his breathing just above him.
"You're trying so hard," Amon continued, almost fondly. "Thinking. Worrying. As if that's ever helped you tonight."
'Isn't that what a completely normal person does everyday? think and worry!'
Klein swallowed, throat tight. He wanted to argue—but the words wouldn't form. His head felt light, distant, as though his thoughts were floating somewhere above the room.
Amon's hand drifted upward, not touching Klein's skin yet—hovering, teasing, denying him even that small certainty. "You don't need to think," he said. "I'll do that for you."
The simple statement struck deeper than any command.
Klein's breath hitched as Amon's fingers finally brushed his collar, nudging the fabric aside. The movement was unhurried, deliberate—each button undone with infuriating care. Klein should have stopped him. Should have reached up, pushed him away.
Instead, he lay there, dizzy and overheated, watching as layers were peeled back not just from his body, but from his mind. With every loosened thread, it became harder to remember why he should resist at all.
"See?" Amon whispered. "Nothing terrible happens when you let go."
Klein's awareness wavered. The room felt too warm, too close. His clothes felt wrong now—heavy, unnecessary, an irritation against skin already aflame. When Amon slid a sleeve from his shoulder, Klein didn't protest. He barely noticed, beyond a vague sense of relief.
His thoughts slipped further, dissolving into fragments: heat, voice, hands, the sense of being watched and guided all at once.
"Good," Amon said softly, approval threading his tone. "Just like that."
Klein's eyes fluttered, his grip on reality loosening along with his grip on the world. Somewhere, deep down, a quiet part of him realized—too late—that this wasn't about touch at all.
It was about surrender.
And Amon was very, very patient.
Amon took his time.
That was the cruelty of it.
Klein barely registered when Amon's fingers returned to him, light and unhurried, brushing along his shoulder as though testing the warmth of a surface left too long in the sun. The touch wasn't urgent. It wasn't rough. It was precise—intentional in a way that made Klein acutely aware of every inch of himself.
"You're burning up," Amon murmured, almost thoughtfully. "Wearing all this must be uncomfortable."
Klein's breath stuttered. He wanted to say something—anything—but his thoughts slid apart the moment Amon's fingers hooked beneath the edge of his shirt. The fabric dragged upward, slow enough that Klein felt every second of it leaving his skin, air rushing in to replace the warmth it had trapped.
Relief hit first.
Then vulnerability.
Amon paused halfway, as if reconsidering, eyes flicking over Klein's flushed face, the way his chest rose too fast, too shallow. "Look at you," he said softly. "You didn't even argue."
Klein's fingers twitched uselessly at his side. He wasn't sure when he'd stopped resisting. He only knew that the heat made it hard to care, and Amon's voice made it harder to think.
The shirt came away completely.
Cool air kissed skin that felt far too sensitive, and Klein gasped despite himself. Amon smiled faintly at the sound—not wide, not obvious, just enough to let Klein know it had been noticed.
"Every reaction," Amon continued, "so honest."
His gaze followed the line of Klein's body with open curiosity, like a collector examining something newly acquired. There was no hunger in it—only interest, which somehow felt worse. As if Klein's discomfort, his sensitivity, were simply fascinating variables to be tested.
Amon's hand rose slowly.
Touching slowly.
His fingers brushed over Klein's chest, light enough that Klein wasn't sure at first whether it was real or another trick of his overheated senses. The contact was feather-soft, exploratory, tracing idle paths as though mapping warmth beneath skin. Klein's breath caught immediately, a sharp inhale that betrayed him before he could stop it.
"hiss—"
Amon noticed it and smiled.
"Still reacting," he murmured, almost pleased. His fingers lingered, circling lazily, never quite pressing, never quite withdrawing. The restraint was deliberate—each near-contact sharpening Klein's awareness, making the space between touch and withdrawal feel unbearable.
Klein's shoulders drew tight, a reflexive flinch caught halfway between retreat and longing—as though he were bracing for a touch he feared, yet dreading the emptiness if it never came. The tension lingered in his frame, muscles locked, breath shallow.
Seconds stretched. A minute slipped by.
Amon didn't move.
He simply watched.
Those glassy brown eyes, unfocused and damp with heat and confusion, were held fast beneath Amon's steady gaze. It wasn't hurried or impatient; it was quiet, deliberate, almost reverent, like a pause meant to be felt rather than filled. The silence pressed down heavier than any touch, making Klein painfully aware of every inch of space between them—and how fragile his composure had become beneath that unblinking attention.
His body still burned and prickled with restless heat, but the sight of the young man before him—immaculately dressed, shirt and vest perfectly in place—stirred a flush of embarrassment. Klein was painfully aware of his own half-bared state, exposed before a stranger. Yet when the man made no move, offered no touch or command, Klein's tense muscles slowly eased. For a brief moment, his body yielded to the quiet, exhaustion seeping in after holding itself taut for so long.
He had just drawn breath to speak when suddenly a hand squeezed his nipple and roughly pulled it up.
"Ngh—!"
Klein's eyes flew open as a sharp gasp tore from his throat, pain flashing and dissolving into a tingling shock that rippled through him. His gaze snapped up instinctively, colliding with the culprit's unwavering stare—calm, intent, and framed by lips curved in unmistakable mischief.