Chapter Four Briar #2
I down half my own in a swallow. He watches, then copies, but chokes on the burn. “It’s strong,” he says, voice shredded with surprise.
I watch the flush bloom up his neck, over the tips of his ears. “You’ll get used to it.”
He looks at the glass as if it’s a problem to solve, then sips again, this time slower.
I set the playlist from my phone. The speakers are hidden, but the effect is tantric—a low, pulsing rhythm, something electronic but not aggressive, the kind of music that doesn’t demand attention so much as infiltrate the atmosphere. It matches the city outside: restless, hungry.
I return to the couch, this time sitting closer, close enough that our knees almost touch. He looks at his drink, then at me, then away.
“Relax,” I say. “Do you want to dance?”
He tries to relax, but his body isn’t convinced. “I don’t really dance.”
I take another swallow. “You will.”
He makes a face. “I’m not good at it.”
“That’s never stopped anyone,” I say.
He breathes out, long and uneven. “Do you always get what you want?”
“No.” I mean it.
He studies my face, searching for the lie. “Feels like you do.”
I hold his gaze, then look at the glass in his hand. “Finish that,” I say, and he obeys.
The second it’s gone, he puts the empty on the table, like a challenge.
“Good,” I say. I set my own glass down next to his. “Come on.”
He hesitates, just for a second, but then lets me pull him up. His body is solid, denser than he looks, and his hand is warm in mine.
I walk us to the center of the room. There’s nothing to trip over, nothing to get in the way except the force fields of our own discomfort.
I let him stand there, not moving, until the tension is unbearable. Then I put my hands on his waist, gentle, not guiding yet.
He doesn’t resist. His hands hover at my shoulders, not quite touching.
“Like this,” I say, and move his hands to the right spot. He follows, and for a second, our eyes meet.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says.
“That’s the point,” I say, and start to move.
He follows, awkward at first, but he’s a quick study. I can feel the tremor in his body, the way he’s trying to anticipate my next step, but after a few bars, he stops fighting it. I keep my hold firm, my lead decisive.
His breath is warm on my collarbone. “Why are you doing this?” he asks, voice small.
I let him feel the pressure of my hand at his back, the weight of the question. “Because I want to. And because I don’t think just shoving my cock in your ass will endear you to me.”
He’s silent, but I can see the pulse in his throat, the way his skin prickles at my touch.
We move together, slow, the rhythm less important than the proximity. I tighten my grip, pulling him flush against me. His hands shift, uncertain, then settle around my neck.
He’s so close now that I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. His lips are slightly parted, breath quickening.
“You’re shaking,” I say.
He laughs, soft. “I’m nervous.”
I lower my voice. “You should be.”
I guide him, turning us so the city spins around us. He lets his head drop, eyes closed. For a moment, I wonder if he’ll pull away, but instead he presses in, just a little, as if testing to see if I’ll allow it.
I do.
The song ends, fades into something even slower. I don’t stop.
“Have you ever danced like this?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No.”
I rest my cheek against his hair, just for a second, and feel the shudder run through him.
“You can,” I say, “if you let yourself.”
He nods, and the movement brings his mouth near my jaw. He doesn’t make contact, but I can feel the potential, the electricity.
My hand slips to the small of his back, pulling him in. He gasps, not from fear, but from surprise.
“You’re very…direct,” he says.
I laugh. “Would it make it easier if we danced around this chemistry all night?.”
He doesn’t answer.
We stop moving, but I don’t let him go. The silence is loaded.
He says, “Is this where you break me?”
I tighten my hold. “No. This is where you see how it feels to be wanted.”
His body softens against mine, just a bit. He leans in, the weight of his trust unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
“Are you going to kiss me?” he asks.
I consider, then say, “I don’t know. I don’t normally kiss my pets. Do you want me to?”
He looks at me, eyes steady. “Yes.”
It’s the only answer I need.
I lower my mouth to his, slow, giving him every chance to change his mind.
He doesn’t.
The first touch is hesitant—his lips uncertain, but his body sure. I deepen the kiss, careful not to push too far, too fast. He learns quick, matching my rhythm, opening to me. His hand tightens at my neck, desperate, almost pleading.
I want to see how far he’ll go before he’s scared.
But I don’t want to scare him. Not really. Previous toys were fun to break, but having Landon in my arms like this reaffirms the feeling I had to protect him.
Even from me.
It won’t always be this way, but for his first time, I’d rather not render his ass unusable for the rest of the month.
I pull back, just enough to look at him. His cheeks are flushed, lips red and swollen. He stares at me, dazed.
“You okay?” I ask.
He nods, voice lost.
I brush a thumb across his jaw. “You want more?”
He can’t speak, just nods again.
I step back, keeping one hand on his waist. “Let’s take this slow,” I say. “I don’t want to break you.”
He laughs, and it makes my cock twitch.
“Too late,” he says.
I like that.
I pull him back in, and we keep moving—no rhythm, no rules, just the two of us, together.
This is the closest I’ve ever let anyone get.
It terrifies me.
But for tonight, I’ll allow it.
After all, I can kill him if he so much as breathes wrong.
I keep my arm at the small of his back as the music shifts, my hand splayed over the line of his spine. He lets me guide him, his head tipped slightly down, hair brushing my collarbone. For a moment, we just move together, the only rhythm the slow, unhurried thump of my heart.
I shift my grip, running my palm up his back, along the knotted muscle there. He breathes in, shallow, and I can feel his muscles tense underneath me. The way he shivers is so genuine I have to restrain myself from sinking my teeth into the curve of his neck.
Instead, I trail my hand to his shoulder, squeeze. He looks up at me, eyes wet, pupils wide as coins.
He’s trembling, not with fear, but with anticipation. I feel the vibration in him, and in response, my own body tightens. The world outside the penthouse is gone. All that’s left is my cock straining against my pants, the flush on his cheeks and the burning need to devour him.
I want to take him apart, piece by piece, but not here, not in the cold center of the room.
Stepping back, I reach for the top button of his jacket. He tenses, but doesn’t stop me.
“You can say no,” I remind him, just in case.
He shakes his head, voice rough. “I don’t want to.”
I nod, then slide the jacket off his shoulders.
The lining catches at his wrists, so I tug, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric fall in a heap behind him.
His shirt is cheap cotton, one button already loose.
I take the liberty of finishing the job, popping each one open until I see the flush creep down his chest.
He shivers again, bare skin goose bumped in the cool air. I lay a hand flat over his sternum, feeling his heart slam against my palm. He’s got a splattering of hair across his chest, down a surprisingly sculpted abdomen and leading down into a V before disappearing in his pants.
“Still good?” I say, softer this time.
He looks at me, desperate, and I know the answer before he says it. “Yes. Please.”
It’s the ‘please’ that does something ugly to my composure. I want to see what other noises he’ll make if I push just a little further. Grabbing my jacket, I slip it off and throw it on the couch before unbuttoning a few buttons on my shirt.
Moving towards him, I slip my fingers under his open shirt’s collar, splay them over his collar bone, and watch as the sensation chases itself down his arms. He keeps his hands at his sides, knuckles white, like he’s afraid to touch me back. I decide to fix that.
I grab his wrist, bring his hand to my chest, hold it there.
He inhales, hard. “Your heart is—”
“Fast,” I finish, and smile. “You’re doing that to me.”
He doesn’t reply. He just presses his hand against me, tentative, then with more confidence. His palm is warm through my shirt, and I can feel the need in him, unpolished and bright.
I reach down and undo his belt, slow, giving him every opportunity to bolt. He just stares, eyes glazed, skin burning with embarrassment and want.
The zipper is next, then the careful slide of fabric down his hips. Underneath, his briefs are laughably innocent—gray, thin, barely holding him in. I palm his cock through the cotton, and he gasps, knees threatening to buckle.
“Sit,” I order, and he does.
He perches on the edge of the couch, legs awkward, arms crossed over his chest as if trying to hide the sudden exposure. I kneel in front of him, push his knees apart, and let my hands drift over the inside of his thighs.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and it’s not a lie.
He laughs, small and disbelieving. “No one’s ever said that.”
I run my tongue up the line of his thigh, feel him shudder. “Then no one’s been paying attention.”
He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so I take them, bring them to my head. “Hold on,” I instruct, and he obeys.
I mouth at the fabric, then drag the briefs down, slow. His cock springs out, flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. I look up at him, waiting for permission.
He nods, frantic, biting his lip to keep from making noise.
I take him in, slow, letting my lips memorize every inch. His hips jerk, uncontrolled, but I hold him steady, savoring the taste. I hear him whimper, raw and unguarded, and the sound makes my own cock throb.
Fuck me.
He tries to hold back, but I can feel how close he is. I slow down, pull off, stroke him with my hand. “Not yet,” I say.
He’s breathless. “I—can’t—”
“You can,” I say, and kiss him, hard.
He groans into my mouth, desperate, and the taste of him is electric.
I strip my own shirt off, toss it aside, kneeling between his legs and press our bodies together. The heat is instant, overwhelming. He clings to me, hands raking my back, unsure where to grab, but wanting to touch everywhere at once.
Bringing my mouth to his, I bite his lip before letting go and sucking on the place where his neck meets his collar. His skin is slick with sweat, and a sweet little gasp escapes him.
“Briar—” he moans, and it’s the first time he’s used my name.
I want to own that sound. I want to own him.
I ease him back against the couch, straddle his lap, and kiss down his neck, then chest, then stomach. He arches under me, needy and so, so pliable.
“Tell me what you want,” I say, voice dark.
He hesitates, then, eyes wide, whispers, “I want you inside me.”
It’s almost a plea. It makes my hands shake.
Getting off him, I stumble to the side table, opening it and frantically searching for what I need. I find the lube, snap it open, and slick my fingers.
He watches, terrified and fascinated, as I slide a hand between his thighs. I find his hole, rim it, gentle at first. He tenses, but doesn’t close up. I push one finger in, slow. He whimpers, but not in pain.
“Okay?” I ask.
He nods, biting his knuckle.
I add a second, working him open. He grinds down on my fingers, chasing the sensation.
“You’re greedy,” I tease.
He manages a laugh, desperate. “I want all of you.”
“It’s gonna hurt.”
“I don’t care. I need it. I need you.”
Fuck, he’s gonna be the death of me. I don’t make him wait. I slick myself, line up, and push in, just the head at first.
He cries out, but it’s a good sound.
I go slow, let him adjust. His hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in.
“Mmm, pet you feel so fucking good.” My balls are already tight, ready to cum inside his ass. But I hold back, looking down at the man who has unravelled me. This unsuspecting little fool, who is making me go against everything The Silent expects from me.
Making me betray my own House, just because he is exactly what I thought he would be.
A perfect home for my depravity.
I bottom out, and for a second we just stay there, joined, his eyes locked on mine. His glasses are skew and I pull them off, tossing them onto the couch beside him. Without them, I can see the light dusting of freckles over his nose and onto his cheeks.
“Move,” he begs, and I do.
I set a pace, steady, letting him feel every inch. He moans, louder now, not even trying to hide it.
The pressure builds, and I can tell he’s close. I reach down, stroke his cock in time with my thrusts.
“Come for me,” I whisper.
He shudders, then spills, hot and messy between us. His hole clenches around me, and I lose it, spilling inside him, groaning his name.
Not moving, I stay inside him, his ass twitching around my cock. I cradle him, stroke his hair, kiss his temple.
He clings to me, not letting go.
We stay like that for a while, bodies tangled, until the playlist runs out of songs and the world returns.
He looks up, eyes soft. “Is this real?” he asks.
I chuckle, my cock already getting hard inside him. “It’s as real as you want it to be.”
I want to keep him. I want to keep this.
And I will.