19. Henri #2
Henri’s fingers hesitated for a moment before resuming their steady rhythm against the polished surface of the desk.
The solid wood separated one world from another, concealing the slow, deliberate movement of David’s hands at his belt.
The quiet sound of shifting fabric filled the space between words.
“London was fine,” Henri said, his tone carefully measured. “The deal is strong. There was no reason to linger, no need to stay longer than necessary.”
Gabriel’s gaze held him. “I spoke to Michael.”
The words settled heavily between them. Henri understood immediately that Gabriel was not seeking information. He already knew the answer. What he wanted was for Henri to say it aloud, to acknowledge what had driven him to return before he was meant to.
Henri’s throat tightened, and his fingers stilled again.
He could not bring himself to speak. In another moment, under different circumstances, perhaps he would have confessed everything.
But not now. Not with David between his knees, not with the heat of that closeness clouding his thoughts, and not with years of silence still teaching him that truth was a dangerous thing to give away.
Henri’s mouth curved into a careless half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A fling. Nothing more.”
The playboy tone fell short.
Henri kept his gaze locked on Gabriel’s face as David eased his zipper open beneath the desk.
He forced himself not to react to the brush of fingers, the careful movement.
His hand resumed its thinking pattern against the wood, tap-tap-tap, covering any whisper of sound while his expression remained neutral.
Under the desk, David freed him from his suit pants.
Henri felt the heat of breath, then the soft pressure of lips.
Not sucking yet, just holding him in the warm cavern of his mouth.
Henri’s hand twitched toward stopping him, but he caught himself and flattened his palm against the desk surface instead.
“What happened, Henri?” Gabriel pressed. “Michael is… concerned. You don’t look like yourself.”
Henri marshaled a laugh that wasn’t there. “You think I need saving? I’m not some damsel, not a princess locked in a tower guarded by dragons. I’m fine.”
Beneath the desk, David’s mouth moved with careful intention. Soft suction, gentle pressure. Henri felt himself hardening despite everything, his body betraying him.
“Are you?” Gabriel’s pity was worse than anger. “Because you look like hell.”
David’s tongue traced along his length, coaxing him fully hard. Henri’s breath caught, but he forced it steady.
“I’m fine,” Henri repeated, sharper now. “And I don’t need you interfering.”
Gabriel’s jaw worked, pity curdling into resolve. “I’m always here if you need me.”
“I won’t.”
The silence stretched. Finally, Gabriel rose. The pitying look lingered, a knife Henri hated. Then the door clicked shut.
Henri’s mask shattered with the sound. His hand snapped to David’s hair, dragging him off with a ragged exhale he hadn’t known he was holding. “What the fuck was that?” he hissed. “I told you to stay hidden.”
David’s cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide with something perilously close to satisfaction. He lifted his phone.
On screen: Marc’s face. Not static, not shadow. Marc himself, watching live. Fury burned in his expression, sharp enough to strip Henri bare.
“You lied to me,” Marc said. The softness in his tone was worse than shouting. “A fling? Nothing more? Prove it. Take him. Hard. I want his mouth stretched, his throat ruined. Hold him down until he cries.”
Henri’s stomach dropped, shame scalding through him. Horror clawed at his throat, but he swallowed it down, teeth pressed together against the curse that wanted to escape. Any sound, any protest, would only feed Marc’s rage.
His fingers fumbled as he yanked the mount and phone from David’s hands under the desk.
Normally smooth and efficient. Now clumsy, rushed.
He slammed the clamp onto the desk’s edge, metal scraping wood, adjusting it just enough to catch both of them in frame.
David still crouched beneath the desk, Henri’s chair visible, the angle crude but functional.
The phone slipped once in his grip before he wedged it into the jaws and shoved it secure.
“Do it,” Marc said, voice low and cutting.
Henri’s hand trembled, then stilled by force of will. He didn’t dare look at the screen again. “Come here,” he said, voice stripped of gentleness.
David obeyed, mouth parting.
Henri gripped the back of the intern’s head and drove him down onto his cock. David opened easily, lips sealing around him with a wet heat that made Henri’s gut clench. He hated the jolt of pleasure, hated how his body betrayed him with a shudder that felt too close to desire.
David gagged almost immediately, throat spasming, hands clutching at Henri’s thighs, knuckles white.
The vibration rolled sharp along Henri’s cock as he thrust brutally into the boy’s throat.
But beneath the panic, beneath the tears already forming, Henri felt the hard press of David’s erection against his shin.
The young man was terrified and aroused in equal measure, turned on by the very rules that were choking him.
“Deeper,” Marc ordered. “Bury yourself. Don’t let him breathe until I say.”
Henri obeyed, shoving deeper until his cock was seated fully in David’s throat, until his shoulders shook, until tears blurred his wide eyes. The hands once clinging to his thighs were now bruising them.
Panic clawed up Henri’s spine. Not his own, but remembered.
Marc had done this to him many times. But once, back in college, he pressed Henri down and simply watched, curious, clinical, measuring how long before Henri’s body failed.
Henri had clawed at his wrist, tried to wrench free, panic turning every movement frantic.
Marc didn’t budge. When Henri jerked back harder, desperate for air, Marc’s boot caught his ribs and held him there.
His lungs burned, vision swam, humiliation tightened around his throat until he thought he might die gagging on Marc’s cock, reduced to nothing but airless terror.
Marc’s voice had been calm, almost amused. “Look at you. Squirming, crying, and you still can’t get enough.”
The echo gutted him. Because David was squirming now, gagging, tears streaming down his cheeks, clinging to Henri’s thighs with white-knuckled hands. Henri could feel the hard press of David’s cock rutting against his shin, desperate, needy, unbearably familiar.
And Henri couldn’t, he wouldn’t, be Marc.
He ripped David back too early, spit dripping down the boy’s chin, breath gasping wet and ragged. Tears streaked his flushed face, red-rimmed and trembling. Henri’s chest clenched, because he remembered another time, another man.
Michael had held him the same way once, cock filling his throat until tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
But Michael had watched his face, had eased back the moment Henri’s hand tapped twice against his thigh.
Henri should have panicked. Instead, he’d felt something closer to calm, weightless under Michael’s hand stroking through his hair.
He remembered Michael’s gentle murmurs, the words falling soft as balm even as his lungs screamed.
Michael had eased him back with care, wiped the tears from his cheeks with a Thumb, kissed the salt away, pride warm in his voice as he praised Henri for how well he’d taken it.
Henri wanted to give David that. To ease him, to praise him, to make it something other than punishment.
Marc’s voice cut across the line, sharper than before. “You think you can decide when he breathes? I said until I was satisfied.” A pause, venom thickening the air. “Again. Harder this time. Prove you’re not still his.”
Henri’s throat closed. Rage burned under his skin.
Still, he obeyed, dragging David down again, brutal, until his throat convulsed, until sobs broke loose around the wet choke.
Tears spilled hot down David’s face. Henri’s own vision blurred.
The tears were real. So was the arousal straining between David’s legs, so hard it had to be painful.
David wasn’t scared of what was happening.
Henri hated Marc for this. Hated himself more for the savage pulse of pleasure that rose anyway.
His release tore out of him, angry, violent—his knee slamming the desk, the old wood reverberating. David swallowed every drop, eager, lips clinging, tongue lapping, almost entranced as if the act itself were a reward.
Marc’s voice came, low and cutting. “Pull him up. I want to see him. That little cock straining. Pathetic, perfect. Show me what belongs to me.”
The words were meant to humiliate, but the slip was there, threaded between the cruelty. Perfect. Henri heard it, and his stomach turned. Marc’s hunger wasn’t just for control. It was for David. And that was worse.
Henri dragged David onto his lap, chest to back, one arm locking across his body as he shoved his pants down.
Pale skin, slight frame, cock and balls exposed, displayed for the camera as if Marc had reached through and positioned the intern himself.
Henri stroked him firmly, mechanical, forcing the boy’s body to react while Marc watched.
His mouth found David’s throat, teeth grazing, lips pressing, all while his mind slipped somewhere else…
Michael’s hand guiding his rhythm, voice praising him, calling him beautiful, telling him how good he was. Michael’s mouth on his skin, not a camera in sight, no orders, no audience. Just warmth. Just want.
David came with a sharp gasp, thin spurts striping his dress shirt, his spent cock twitching helplessly in Henri’s grip. Marc’s eyes devoured it all, and then, with a click, the feed went dead.