Page 244 of Fractured Loyalties

“Say my name.”

“Elias.”

“Again.”

“Elias.”

He smiles, small and private, the one that says he’s exactly where he wants to be.

When I collapse limp against the sheets, he pulls his fingers free, glistening with me, and sucks them into his mouth like he’s tasting proof. My cheeks burn. My pulse crashes. He looks at me like I’m his last sin and his only salvation.

His hand leaves my thigh to grip my knee, pressing it open, widening me until humiliation pivots into surrender. I can’t hide anything in this light. I don’t want to. He lowers, not rushed, not gentle, just absolutely certain, and puts his mouth where I need him most.

The first touch is a claim. The second is a sentence I cannot translate. The third strips the language from my head. He holds me down with the spread of his hand across my stomach while he works me with ruthless focus, reading every flinch, adjusting pressure, changing pattern when I chase, punishing me when I try to grind against his mouth. He keeps me right where he wants me, and I let him. I let him own the climb.

“Eyes on me,” he says into my skin, the vibration is a shock that detonates between my ribs.

I drag my gaze down. He looks up from between my thighs, pupils blown, mouth slick, triumph written in the hardline of his jaw. He increases the tempo by a fraction and my vision whites at the edges.

“Color,” he orders.

“Green. God, green.”

“Then fall.”

The words are permission and key. My hips jerk, a helpless arc he anticipates with an arm across my pelvis, holding me to the mattress while he pushes me over. The rush hits hard enough to steal sound. I shatter and keep shattering, every pulse wrung out of me with precise cruelty until I’m shaking, until my throat works around a cry that never fully forms.

He eases off only when I go loose. He kisses the inside of my knee, then my ankle, then climbs back up my body, dragging his mouth along my stomach and ribs, marking a path that feels like claim stamps. When he reaches my face, I’m still panting through it, eyes wet, mind blanked clean.

He kisses my mouth like he’s tasting the wreckage he made and approves. “Good girl,” he says, softer now. “Again.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “You will.”

His boxers stay on, grinding the hard line of himself against my hip through fabric that does nothing to blunt the message. He sets a new rhythm with his mouth and hands, one that coaxes rather than commands. The restraint at my wrists keeps me from clinging, which means I feel everything he does with nowhere to put my hands. It is maddening. It is perfect.

He takes my leg over his shoulder and bends me open, never breaking eye contact, never giving me room to hide. He toys with me until I push into his touch like an animal, until I whisper please without even hearing myself say it. He doesn’tlaugh. He doesn’t gloat. He just moves back and pushes his boxers down.

He’s thick, hard, veins standing under flushed skin. My mouth goes dry at the sight. He strokes himself, watching me watch him, then grips my thigh and drags me closer to him, as he continues stroking himself, daring me to beg for it.

“Stay with me,” he says. “I have you.”

I hold the line. Anticipation getting the best of me, as the world narrows to his mouth, his hands, the sound of his control. I claw at the headboard because my wrists can’t reach him. The knot bites. The mattress shifts.

His eyes dart to the headboard, then back to me with something that looks close to pity. He stretches his hands and releases the belt from the headboard, rubs my wrists, presses his mouth to the tender skin where the leather marked me. Care that feels like ownership. Ownership that feels like care. I cannot separate them and I don’t want to.

“Color,” he asks once more, because he is who he is.

“Green,” I whisper. “Please.”

“For what?”

I pull him down by the open placket of his shirt and find his mouth. “For you to finish in me. For you to use me. For you to remember me in your bones tomorrow.”

Something raw passes through his eyes. He nods once, short, like a man accepting a sentence. Then he lines our bodies up, and presses the head of his cock against me, slicking himself with what’s left of my climax, then he pushes forward in one firm glide that steals every thought I had left.

The sound he makes hits the base of my spine. He braces a hand beside my head and presses the other over my mouth, notto silence me but to anchor me while he sets an unforgiving pace, hips driving a rhythm that pins me to the mattress and writes his name under my skin.