Page 5 of Your Devoted Monster

Ezra didn't know how long he'd been on his knees. Time had gone weird and slippery, lost all meaning. It was measured only in the rhythm of Gabriel's cock in his throat and the precious seconds between when he could actually breathe.

His brain felt like static. White noise. Every time a thought tried to form—this is insane, you're going to die, your jaw hurts, what the fuck are you doing—Gabriel would push back in and erase it, wipe the slate clean, leave him empty except for the need to open wider, take more, be good.

Be good?

When had that become the goal? Ezra couldn't remember.

Couldn't remember anything except the warehouse, the concrete under his knees, the ache in his jaw.

The salt taste of tears—his own, definitely his own—mixing with precome every time Gabriel pulled out to rub his cock across Ezra's face before pushing back in.

Three years of hunting danger and here he was, finally drowning in it.

"Look at you." Gabriel's voice came from somewhere above him, distant like God or thunder or the voice in Ezra's nightmares. His hand tightened in Ezra's hair, controlling the angle, the depth, everything. "Pretty thing. Taking it so well."

The words should spark defiance. Should make Ezra bite down, fight back, prove he wasn't just another victim. That's who he was, right? A survivor. A fighter. The one who got away.

But when Gabriel's hand tightened in his hair, when his cock pushed back between Ezra's swollen lips, all Ezra could think was yes and please and don't stop.

What did that make him?

His knees hurt against the concrete, bruises forming on bruises.

His arms had gone numb behind his back, zip ties cutting into his wrists—he'd tested them twice already, subtle little pulls to feel the plastic bite, fingers finding the tabs.

Not yet. Not ready yet. His throat was raw, burning with every swallow.

His cock was so hard it was painful, leaking steadily onto the concrete, completely ignored.

Perfect. It was all somehow perfect. This was what he'd been chasing through every disappointing hookup, every dangerous man who wasn't dangerous enough. This feeling of being completely overwhelmed, completely used, completely his.

Gabriel's, not any of theirs.

The rhythm changed. Gabriel's breathing got harsher, more ragged. Ezra could hear it even over the wet sounds, even over his own gasping attempts at air. Gabriel's hand tightened in his hair—not guiding anymore, just holding, keeping Ezra exactly where he wanted him.

Then Gabriel pulled out just enough for Ezra to drag in half a breath before pushing back in deeper, deeper, until Ezra's nose was pressed right up against him. Until there was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, no choice but to take it. To be exactly what Gabriel wanted.

No air. No thoughts. Just Gabriel's cock down his throat and Gabriel's hand in his hair and Gabriel's control over everything.

Ezra's vision started to blur at the edges, black spots dancing. His lungs burned. His throat spasmed around Gabriel's cock, body trying to reject what his mind was desperate for. The contradiction made his head spin, made everything feel distant and close all at once.

Gabriel's thighs tensed against Ezra's jaw. His breathing stuttered, rhythm faltering. Ezra could feel it building—the tension in Gabriel's body, the way his grip in Ezra's hair went from controlling to desperate, the small unconscious thrust of his hips pushing impossibly deeper.

There. That was the moment. Gabriel losing control, finally, after all this careful domination. Ezra did that. Made a serial killer come undone.

The thought sent a rush of satisfaction through him even as his lungs screamed for air.

Gabriel pushed back in one more time and held Ezra there, still and pinned and completely owned.

Then Gabriel's hand tightened in his hair like a vice, and he was coming with a low groan that Ezra felt vibrate through his entire body, through Gabriel's cock, through the point where they were connected.

Ezra's mouth filled with it—hot and bitter and too much, hitting the back of his throat, filling his mouth. More than he expected. More than he could handle.

He knew what was expected. Knew he was supposed to swallow, supposed to take everything Gabriel gave him like a good little victim.

Instead, in a flash of the defiance that would never be extinguished, Ezra spat.

The warehouse went silent except for their breathing.

Ezra watched Gabriel look down at his expensive boots, now splattered with come and saliva. Watched him process it. Waited for the reaction.

When Gabriel looked back up, his eyes were dark with something between fury and delight. That look that said Ezra had done exactly what Gabriel wanted him to, even when he didn’t want it.

"Did you just—" Gabriel's voice was soft, dangerous. Not yelling. Worse than yelling. "Did you just spit on me?"

Ezra's resistance flickered fully back to life, burning through the haze. His jaw ached. His throat was raw. And he wasn't going to make this easy. "You didn't say to swallow."

Something flashed across Gabriel's face—surprise, maybe, or respect, or hunger. All three. Then he was dropping to one knee, his hand still fisted in Ezra's hair, and forcing Ezra's face down to the ground.

The position was awkward, humiliating—Ezra's bound arms making it impossible to balance properly, his face inches from leather and his own mess, his body weight all wrong.

"Clean them." Gabriel's voice was quiet, almost conversational. Somehow that made it worse. "Every drop."

The humiliation burned through Ezra like acid, sharp and clarifying. His face was already a mess of tears and spit and precome, and now Gabriel wanted him to lick his own—

The hand in his hair tightened until tears pricked fresh at Ezra's eyes. Pain sparking bright behind the haze. "Now, Ezra."

His name. Gabriel said his name and that shouldn't matter, shouldn't make Ezra's cock throb, shouldn't make him want to obey.

Ezra bent forward, still dizzy from lack of oxygen, still floating on endorphins and shame and arousal all mixed together. His tongue touched expensive leather and he tasted polish mixed with salt mixed with bitterness.

Humiliating. Degrading.

And he was hard from it.

That was the truth he couldn't hide, not with his cock visible and leaking, not with the way his hips shifted trying to get friction against nothing.

This is who you are now, some voice whispered in his head. Not disappointed. Just observing. This is what he's made you.

No. What Ezra had let Gabriel make him. What he'd been waiting for Gabriel for.

He tried to clean the boots properly—some stupid instinct to do it right, to please, when had he started wanting to please?

—but his coordination was shot, his vision still blurry with tears.

The leather was slick under his tongue. He was making it worse, just spreading the mess around with spit, leaving wet streaks on the pristine surface.

His tongue traced the seam where sole met leather, the textured tread, tasting Gabriel and humiliation in equal measure.

Gabriel's hand stayed fisted in his hair, keeping him in place. Not guiding. Just holding. Making Ezra do all the work while Gabriel watched him debase himself.

Minutes passed like this—Ezra's world narrowed to the taste of leather and shame, the ache in his jaw, the burn in his shoulders from the zip ties cutting deeper with every shift of his weight.

Had he been doing this for five minutes?

Ten? Time was meaningless. His tongue was going numb, his neck cramping from the angle, his knees screaming against concrete.

But his cock stayed hard, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. That was the worst part. The most honest part. The part that proved Gabriel right about everything.

"Messy." Gabriel's voice cut through the haze. Not angry. Just observing. "Can't even do this right."

Then Gabriel stood, and his boot connected with Ezra’s shoulder—not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to unbalance him.

Ezra sprawled backwards onto the concrete, his bound arms trapped beneath him, shoulder blades grinding against the floor.

His cock slapped hard and leaking against his stomach, on display, obvious.

This is insane, some distant part of his brain supplied.

But that voice was so small compared to the roar of need and want and finally, finally, finally.

Gabriel loomed over him, backlit by the single overhead light. Predatory and perfect and his—and when had his mind decided on that?

Then Gabriel placed his boot directly on Ezra's cock. Not stomping. Just placing. Pinning it against Ezra's stomach with deliberate pressure.

Ezra's whole body went still. The pressure was immediate, maddening, perfect. He was already so close from the throatfucking, from the boot cleaning, from the complete mindfuck of the night. His cock had been leaking and aching and ignored, and now—

Gabriel didn't wait, didn't drag it out. Just started grinding in tight, ruthless circles.

The sensation hit Ezra like a live wire. His hips jerked up involuntarily before Gabriel's weight stopped them. The leather was still wet with his spit, slick and filthy. The texture of the tread caught on oversensitive skin when Gabriel’s heel twisted, ground down harder.

Ezra looked up—had to see, needed to see—and Gabriel was towering above him, all sharp angles and shadows. His face cold, controlled. But those amber-ringed eyes burned with heat, with hunger, with something like pride as he watched Ezra shatter.

The perspective made Ezra dizzy, Gabriel impossibly tall from this angle, looming like a god while Ezra was pinned and helpless beneath his boot.

Gabriel ground his heel down one more time—sharp, precise, unforgiving.

The orgasm hit like a sledgehammer to the skull: sudden, violent, completely out of his control.

Ezra's whole body convulsed, back arching off the concrete despite his trapped arms, as he came sobbing and shaking, painting his own stomach white.

More than that, painting Gabriel's boot too, adding to the mess Ezra had already made with his mouth, come splashing across expensive leather.

The humiliation and pleasure mixed into something he'd never felt before, something that rewrote his brain even more thoroughly than everything else tonight had.

His, his last coherent thought supplied before he drowned in sensation. I'm his.

Gabriel lifted his boot slowly, deliberately, and Ezra whimpered at the loss of pressure. Gabriel looked down at the mess—come and spit and tears on leather that probably cost more than Ezra's rent—and made a sound that might have been amusement.

"Now you've really ruined them." Gabriel's voice was dry, observational. He nudged Ezra's thigh with the toe of his boot, casual. “You’re going to have to clean them again. Later."

The promise in that word—later—sent a shiver through Ezra's oversensitive body.

But Gabriel didn't let him float in the aftermath, didn't give him time to process or recover or think. Before Ezra could even catch his breath, before his vision had fully cleared, Gabriel's boot kicked his thighs apart, spreading him open on the concrete.

"No rest," Gabriel said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. Almost. He dropped to his knees between Ezra's spread legs. "We're not done. Not even close."

Ezra tried to focus through the post-orgasm haze, the floating feeling, tried to track Gabriel's movements. Watched Gabriel's face as he pushed two fingers into him without warning or prep.

The slide was easy. Obscene. Still wet, still slick from tonight's earlier disappointment—the guy whose name Ezra had already forgotten, the placeholder, the pale imitation.

Gabriel's expression darkened as he felt it. His jaw clenched.

“You’re still full of him," Gabriel said, voice low and dangerous. He added a third finger roughly, making Ezra gasp. "Some nobody's come inside you."

Kyle? Keith?, Ezra's brain supplied helpfully, though he couldn't remember why that mattered anymore. Everything before Gabriel had shown up felt like a dream. A boring, colorless, disappointing dream.

"All of them." Gabriel's fingers worked deeper, finding that spot that made Ezra see stars even through the overstimulation, even through the ache. "All those pathetic attempts. Thinking they could give you what you need."

He crooked his fingers just right and Ezra's back arched involuntarily, a broken whine escaping his throat.

"But you were already mine." Gabriel's eyes locked with his, intense and certain. "From the moment you stabbed me. The moment you fought back. You've been mine the whole time."

Ezra wanted to argue, wanted to point out the insanity of that logic, wanted to say something, anything.

But Gabriel twisted his fingers and all that came out was a broken whine.

His body was betraying him, cock trying to fill again despite having just come, despite the ache in his shoulders, despite everything.

Impossible. He couldn't. Too much.

But his body didn't care about impossible.

Gabriel pulled his fingers out, leaving Ezra empty and clenching around nothing.

Ezra's vision was swimming, everything soft at the edges like looking through frosted glass. But he could see Gabriel's hand moving. Could track it as it traveled up, up, toward Ezra's stomach where his release was cooling on his skin.

Gabriel's eyes locked with his—those amber-ringed eyes that had haunted Ezra's nightmares for three years, that he'd searched for in every disappointing hookup.

That gaze was sharp enough to cut even through the haze, holding him in place better than any restraint as Gabriel's fingers dragged through the mess on Ezra's stomach. Collecting it.

His brain was too scrambled to process anything except the way Gabriel's gaze never wavered as he brought that hand to his own cock.

The first stroke made Gabriel's eyelids flutter, just slightly. Using Ezra's come to slick himself. Making Ezra watch.

Gabriel positioned himself, hooking Ezra's legs over his shoulders, folding him nearly in half. The angle made Ezra feel small, helpless, completely at Gabriel's mercy.

Three years ago, Gabriel had held a knife. Had tried to open Ezra up, cut into him, make him into art. And Ezra had fought like hell to keep him out. Had stabbed Gabriel to stop him from penetrating, violating, splitting him open. Had run rather than let Gabriel inside him in any way.

Now here he was. Legs spread. Body open. Wanting it. Desperate for Gabriel to get deeper, to fill him, to claim him from the inside out.

The thing he'd been most terrified of three years ago was the thing he'd been chasing ever since. He'd been trying to let someone in—anyone in—and failing, because they weren't Gabriel. Because his body had been waiting for the only person it knew how to surrender to.

The knife had been meant to open him up. And in a way, it had worked.

Then Gabriel pushed in, and Ezra's world went white.