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A Hell of Our Own Making

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The hell we’re doing this again, he thinks, just as an elbow hits him in the solar plexus, hard enough to knock the wind out of him as Sternwood grapples him up against the wall. He groans, his knee throbbing painfully where it’s being pressed in at an awkward angle, one hand twisted behind his back and another pinned by a heavy hand.

“Let go,” Max growls, as the bastard breathes in his ear, panting from the exertion of their knock-down, drag out fight – only the second this week - in the sparsely furnished living room. “We’re not…let me go, now.”

“Shut up,” Sternwood says, and Max is gratified to see the cut on the man’s cheek and the blood on his lip when he twists his head around to glare. “You talk too much.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, but then his head is being jerked back into an awkward kiss, and Sternwood’s whole body is pushing against him, bracketing him against the wall. But Max isn’t about to make it easy for him, grinding back and dragging a hiss from Sternwood, followed immediately by a shout when Max bites down hard on his split lip, tasting blood.

He spits, and then Sternwood grabs him by the hair, returning the favor with a vicious bite between neck and shoulder that makes Max scream, pain and lust shooting like lightening down his spine, making his cock throb. He tries to head butt him, maybe break the bastard’s nose if he aims it just right, getting nothing but empty air when Sternwood dodges with a grunt of displeasure. But the movement is just enough to loosen the man’s hold on him, and Max uses the momentum to flip them around, slamming Sternwood up against the wall with a snarl.

He expects…well, he expects the man to fight, to shove him back and try to get the upper hand again because that’s what they do; punch and kick and beat the anger and the guilt and the fucking insanity of the situation they’ve found themselves in somehow, three months after Sternwood pulled him out of the twisted and smoking remains of his prison van.

Instead, the man just watches him with those eyes and that pensive, searching expression on his face, like Max is a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. More than anything, Max wants that bastard to lose the cool façade, the calm and unbreakable exterior Sternwood hides behind, so different from the roiling rage that sits barely hidden under Max’s skin.

“C’mon!” he shouts, hands fisting in Sternwood’s shirt. “C’mon, you bastard! Fight!”

And Sternwood does respond, but not to his words; instead he’s taking Max’s mouth in another searing kiss, hands moving to drag Max’s hips close and grinding them together, heat and friction and adrenaline a heady mix that makes them both groan with pleasure. Max hates it as much as he wants it; needs to feel something other than crippling despair over his sorry life, a fugitive on the run with his worst enemy.

An enemy that’s unbuckling his belt and the button on his jeans, shoving them down and freeing his erection to the cool cabin air with quick and steady hands. One who doesn’t even hesitate to go down on his knees in front of Max and take him in his mouth, sucking him with the same precision and focus he does everything else, something Max could admire if he wasn’t so busy resenting him for existing. He tries to buck his hips as Sternwood works him - fuck his mouth and make him gag - but the man only digs his fingers into Max’s ass and squeezes, taking almost the entire cock down his throat without so much as a flinch.

It’s fucking good, and that’s about all Max can acknowledge before his mind blanks from the stunning feel of wet and heat. Plus it’s the only thing he’s willing to acknowledge - not how many times it’s happened already (four) or how bloody likely it’s going to happen again (very).

He relaxes, and realizes his mistake the second Sternwood pulls off and flips him over again, pinning his hips still and spreading him wide. A broad tongue starts licking and probing him without a moment of hesitation, methodically working in and out even as Max shouts and clenches and almost comes, a heady rush of shame and guilty pleasure. The sensation – so intense, so dirty - and the relentless way Sternwood keeps fucking him has Max rapidly losing his composure, cursing into the wall as he spurts, coming undone with a few tugs from his own hand on his aching cock.

Sternwood’s mouth stays on him for a few more moments before he pulls away, and Max collapses on the ground with a grunt, his knee giving way to a shooting pain that has him gasping for air. He grimaces and wraps his hand around the old wound, the ache and throb of it mixing with the bliss of his orgasm in a strange, intoxicating high. His… – Sternwood, Max’s mind supplies, he’s nobody to you, Lewinsky – is a panting heap on the floor himself, apparently having jerked himself off while he was tonguing Max, his eyes fixed on him again, like he’s waiting for Max to the make the next move. Like he hasn’t been the one to push them further along every time they’ve lost control, dragging Max kicking and screaming into a Hell of their own making.

He purposely ignores the look and tucks himself back in, hauling himself to his feet before making his way slowly towards the stairs. Whatever Sternwood thinks he wants from Max, he’s not fucking getting it; bad enough he’s gotten this much from him already, letting his guard down for even a brief moment around a thief and a killer.

“Max.”

He stops, but doesn’t turn around, his hand gripping the railing, his foot resting on the first step.

“You should call me Jake,” the man says, like he bloody knows what’s going on inside Max’s head. Like calling him by his first name is going to make things better; like it’s not completely messed up to be fucking the man who crippled you, and cost you everything you’ve ever had and ever wanted.

He ignores him, climbing the stairs to his bedroom, and slams the door.