#ep40

you remember exactly how he sounded the first time you made him moan. not just some breathy exhale, not just a nervous laugh, but a real fucking moan. summer in växjö, both of you seventeen, parked out by the lake where no one would bother you, cicadas screaming in the trees while elias sat back in the passenger seat of his dad’s old volvo with his hands gripping his knees like he was trying to be good. like he thought maybe you’d stop if he moved too fastf.

but you didn’t want him to be good. you wanted to hear him lose it.

"lita på mig," you had murmured, sliding your palm up the inside of his thigh, watching his adam’s apple bob. "du behöver bara slappna av."

his pupils had swallowed up all the blue in his eyes, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind, and when you brushed your fingers up against the front of his shorts, just teasing, not even wrapping around his cock yet—there it was. that moan. raw and sweet and needy as hell.

he'd learned fast. what you liked, how to get you there. how to move his fingers just right, how to angle his hand so his knuckles rubbed against your clit when he fucked you open, how to keep his lips on your neck and mutter the dirtiest things he could think of in that messy, jumbled mix of swedish and english that made your stomach drop every damn time. you never actually had sex, but you came on his fingers more times than you could count, grinding against his hand in the backseat, in his bedroom, on his stupid twin mattress with blue and yellow tre kronor sheets bunched up under your knees.

then hockey got serious. then he left. then you both got older.

now, years later, you’re in vancouver.

and he’s already balls-deep when you catch your breath enough to realize he’s fucking you exactly how you taught him.

hips rolling slow, teasing, just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge but not enough to push you over, just enough of a drag that your cunt grips him every time he pulls back, slick and tight and desperate. his cock stretches you open in the filthiest way, thick and hot, every ridge and vein rubbing up against that perfect spot inside you like he’s mapping you out all over again. like he’s remembering you in real time.

"jesus fuck, elias," you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders, dragging down the hard muscles of his back.

"det är så jävla tajt," he groans, voice wrecked, forehead pressed against yours. "det är fan—"

he chokes on his words when you clench around him, just to be mean, just because you know it’ll make him whimper. and fuck, it does. he shudders, whole body locking up for a second, abs flexing hard under your hands, and then he growls something unintelligible and grips your thighs tighter, snapping his hips harder, making you cry out.

"don’t," he pants, words tangled between swedish and english, so wrecked he barely makes sense. "don’t fucking—jävla—don't do that if you don’t wanna get—fuck."

you grin, breathless, digging your nails in deeper. "don't wanna get what?"

elias hisses, shakes his head like he's trying to keep control, but you can feel it slipping through his fingers. he's already right there, cock twitching inside you, thrusts going sloppy, sweat dripping down his temple. and god, the way he's looking at you—like he's about to fucking ruin you, like he’s back in that volvo at seventeen, learning how to make you come apart under his hands, except now he's not fumbling, not hesitating, not holding back.

"du vill ha det, va?" he rasps, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so you have to look at him. "du vill att jag fyller dig?"

fuck.

your stomach twists, your whole body flushes white-hot, the words shooting straight to your cunt. he knows it, too. feels the way you squeeze him at that, smirks all smug and cocky, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip.

"say it," he breathes, voice rough, shaky, but his eyes burn with something dark, something possessive. "say you want it."

you swallow hard, licking your lips. "i want it."

elias groans deep in his chest, presses his forehead against yours, murmuring curses under his breath, and then he’s fucking you faster, deeper, grinding his hips down every time he thrusts in, like he’s trying to get as deep as fucking possible.

you’re gone. you’re a mess. your whole body’s burning up, shaking, your nails raking over his back as the heat coils tight in your stomach, tight and pulsing and so fucking close. he knows. he feels it. his hand drops between you, finds your clit, rubs perfect, tight circles, and you fucking wail, arching up, thighs trembling.

"that’s it," he pants, voice all hoarse and fucked-out. "kom för mig, älskling. just like you used to."

and fuck, you do.

it hits like a fucking freight train, like a punch to the gut, pleasure ripping through you in waves, thighs clamping around his waist, cunt fluttering around his cock as you gasp, moan, whimper his name like a prayer. elias groans like he’s in pain, fucks you through it, hips jerking, losing rhythm, breath catching—

and then he’s coming too, burying himself deep, spilling inside you, whole body shuddering as he grinds through it, panting curses into your neck.

for a long second, you both just breathe.

then he laughs, weak and wrecked, presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder.