Page 90 of Violent Possession

The idea is so stupid. But it won’t go away.

I look at the board. The king. The most important piece. And I look at Alexei. The player.

I know which of the two I want.

I make a shitty move. Instead of following his advice, I pull my king and place the piece directly in the center of the open field—a move so suicidal that I deserved to be kicked out of the room. His gaze wavers, catching fire and freezing at the same time. It’s the only move he didn’t predict.

“Fuck the king,” I say. “I want the player.”

I lean forward, cross the board, cut the distance between us. His face is there, waiting, and I see the exact moment he understands: the smile pulls his mouth upwards, his gaze bids farewell to logic, reason, strategy. He doesn’t shy away.

I kiss him.

The board tips and its pieces clatter like the little rules we both pretend to follow.

It’s strange, rough, clumsy at first. Then, he kisses me back with hunger. His hands go up to my neck, pull hard, and I let them. I feel the warmth of his body, the smell of expensive perfume, the sound of my heart beating fast. All at once.

But the table is hard, the angle is terrible, and it’s not enough.

I break the kiss, breathless, his mouth inches from mine. “Not here,” I say.

Before he can answer, my hand grabs the collar of his expensive dress shirt. I pull him. Hard. He doesn’t resist. He gets up, coming with me.

I drag him back towards the bed—even limping, trying to ignore this damn pain in my thigh—his mouth seeking mine again. We kiss like we’re drowning, a mess of tongues and gasping breaths as he holds me by the waist, firm, stabilizing me without ever breaking the kiss.

When my legs hit the soft mattress, I pull him with me. He falls back on top of me, his mouth still devouring mine.

I arch my hips, seeking friction, trying to rub against him through the layers of expensive fabric that separate us. A sound of frustration escapes my throat, muffled by his mouth. I want more. Ineedmore.

He seems to enjoy my impatience. Instead of helping me, his hand, which was on my waist, begins to descend. Slowly.Torture.

I feel the warmth of his palm sliding down my belly, and when his fingers finally stop, resting on the bulge in my groin, over the fabric of my pants, the air escapes my lungs in a trembling sigh against his lips.

He breaks the kiss, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark, his breath as heavy as mine.

And then, he starts to rub the palm of his hand slowly over the fabric of my pants, a circular and lazy movement that makes me want to scream. It’s a shitty friction, almostnothing, but the combination of his gaze and the pressure is enough to drive me completely crazy.

“Fuck…” it comes from my throat in a harsh moan, my hips arching against his hand.

He smiles, that small, cruel smile that disarms me. His fingers slide to the zipper, and he unzips itslowlyon purpose.

His hand goes inside my pants, inside my underwear. The contact of his skin on mine is so immediate and hot that I curse aloud. He wraps his hand firmly around my cock, his long fingers closing as if they were made just for that.

He jerks me. Slow. Down, up—precise. Painful. Perfect. The friction is dry and wet at the same time, and the warmth of his hand burns.

I become obsessed with his hands—always have been. Long fingers, subtle veins, elegant strength. Now they’re wrapped around my dick, and I’m trapped, hostage to this fucking model hand that knows exactly how to dismantle me.

Every movement is too slow. He stops for a second just to rub his thumb in circles on the head, spreading pre-cum and eliciting a dirty groan from me, a growl.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers.

“I want… fuck, Alex, I want you,” I say, more like a grunt of frustration.

He restarts the movement. His thumb remains still at first, just lightly brushing, until I start to lose my breath—then he suddenly rubs a wet circle right on the head, and my hips rise uncontrollably.

He stops again mid-way, just holding me, warm and enclosed around me. I’m already trembling with the simple weight of his hand. He slides to the base, in a lazy rhythm that elicits a lowmoan from me, and rises again in the same controlled cadence, each pull dismantling me a little more.

“Fuck, Alexei,” I groan, arching against his hand, but it’s useless. He controls the cadence, every thrust of his palm.