Chapter Five Landon
My body won’t move.
The world is a blur above me—ceiling, then Briar’s face, then nothing but the wet ache inside me.
I try to focus, but there’s too much: the smell of sweat, the stick of my skin against the leather, the heat of my own breath trapped in my lungs.
I want to curl into myself, but my limbs are heavy, boneless.
My chest rises and falls in shallow, tight jerks, like the air’s been poisoned and I’m not sure I want more of it.
I just got thoroughly fucked by a man.
And I like it.
Oh fuck.
I’m still half hard, somehow. Every movement of my legs drags a shock up my spine, and when I blink, the world comes back into focus.
Briar’s cock is still inside me, and he hasn’t moved. He just leans over me, forehead to my shoulder, his breath cool and damp on my skin. His hand is splayed on my chest, pinning me, but there’s no pressure anymore. He’s just… there.
My ass throbs, a dull, persistent burn, and when he finally withdraws, it’s slow, steady. I feel every inch slide free, every muscle flutter and then clench around empty space. I want to make a noise, but my throat is raw.
Then there’s slick trail left behind. It leaks out, warm, and runs down over my ass, into the crack of the couch, and I don’t know if I should be ashamed or proud.
I’ve never let anyone this deep, not even a woman, not even a finger, not even a fantasy.
And now Briar owns that place inside me, filled it, left something in me that’s more than just cum.
He sits back, looking down at me. His hair’s a mess, sweat clinging to his brow. There’s a line of red where my teeth must have found his shoulder at some point, but I don’t remember doing it.
His face is soft. Not soft like gentle, but soft like he’s not ready to put his mask back up yet. The look is hungry and satisfied at once.
He wipes a thumb over my lips, pressing into them. I shiver at the touch, but don’t look away. The intensity is too much, so I look past his shoulder, at the slick of my own release on his abs. He doesn’t care. He’s proud of it.
A minute passes. Maybe two. He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do I.
When he finally moves, it’s not to put his cock away, or to dress himself, but to pull me up, peeling me off the couch and into a standing position. My legs almost give out, and he has to keep me upright, one arm circling my waist, the other under my arm.
I try to say, “I’m fine,” but it comes out as a grunt.
He smiles. “You will be.” His voice is low, and there’s a note in it I’ve never heard from anyone, let alone someone like him. Possession, maybe, or satisfaction. I can’t tell the difference.
He leads me, not to the bedroom but down the hallway, past glass cases of art, past doors that must lead to places I can’t imagine.
My knees buckle with every step, the aftermath of what he did to me leaking down my leg.
He doesn’t look at me, just keeps me moving with a steady grip and the unspoken threat that if I fall, he’ll pick me up and carry me anyway.
The bathroom is pure money. Marble everywhere, black and white and gray in perfect geometric slabs. The tub is free-standing, a solid white oval big enough for three. The faucet is gold, not brass, and there’s jets circling just below the rim.
He sets me on the edge of a marble bench attached to the tub, and kneels to start the water.
His hands are practiced, precise. He runs a finger under the stream, tests it, adjusts the knob by the tiniest amount.
His attention to detail is almost absurd.
Like he’s making sure not to scald me, but not to coddle either. He wants it perfect.
I sit there, shivering, arms folded around myself. My head feels disconnected from my body. I can still taste him, still feel the weight of his hands on my back, still sense the way he looked at me when I came apart for him.
He turns to face me and stands, wiping his hands on a black towel. I look down at my lap, then at the line of bruises already forming on my thighs.
He says, “You should get in.”
The words are an order, but softer than anything he’s said so far.
I hesitate, but only for a second, then slide off the marble bench and into the tub.
The water bites at first, so hot I almost jerk away, but then it’s just right—burning away the soreness, the sweat, the residue of what we did.
The heat climbs up my body, seeps into my bones, makes me feel like a new creature.
I sink down until the water laps at my chin. My eyes sting, but I keep them open.
Briar stands there, arms crossed, watching me. His cock is still half-hard, hanging heavy against his thigh, but he doesn’t stroke it, doesn’t touch it. He just watches. Maybe he’s waiting for me to speak. Maybe he just likes the view.
“Is this part of the service?” I murmur, trying to figure him out.
He smirks. “You’ll thank me for it when we go again.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes me feel less like a victim and more like a… I don’t know. A partner? A prize? I can’t name it.
I sink deeper, until just my nose and eyes are above water.
The silence isn’t awkward. It’s loaded, but not threatening.
He walks to the cabinet and pulls out a set of small glass bottles.
He unscrews one, tips a few drops into the tub.
The water clouds, then clears, leaving behind a scent I can’t name.
Not lavender, not citrus. Maybe something musky, expensive.
He says, “You need to let your body recover. For an hour at least. Next time won’t be so gentle.”
I want to ask, “From you or from what you made me feel?” but I keep it to myself.
He walks back over, sits on the edge of the tub. He’s close enough that if I reach out, I can touch his knee. I don’t.
Instead, I run my fingers over the water’s surface, watching the way the light bends and warps around them.
“You sure you’ve never done this before?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He nods, like that’s what he expected. “You took it well.”
I want to laugh. “Felt like I was being split open.”
He smiles again, but it’s a different smile. Not the predator, not the conqueror. Something almost human.
“That’s what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says. “First time always hurts.”
I close my eyes. I can still feel the pulse of him inside me, the way my hole stretched to take him, the burn and then the pleasure. I never thought I’d like it, never thought I’d need it again, but even now my cock stirs under the water, eager for more.
“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” I say.
He leans in. “What did you think I’d be?”
“Colder. Meaner.”
His eyes narrow. “I am. Just not with you. For now. Your ass got me fucked up.”
I open my eyes, and he’s watching me with that same intensity as before. Like I’m a puzzle he’s half-solved, and he likes the uncertainty.
I can’t help myself. “Why?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping to a hush. “Because I want to see what you become.”
It makes my skin prickle, not with fear but with anticipation.
He stands, finally, and heads for the door. Before he leaves, he looks over his shoulder. “Take your time. When you’re done, come find me.”
The door shuts with a soft click.
I let myself sink under the water, hold my breath until my lungs burn, then surface and gasp. I scrub at my skin, at the sticky slick between my legs, at the bite marks on my chest. I stare at the ceiling, feeling the world tilt and settle.
For a long time, I just float there, letting the water hold me up.
When I finally get out, I feel lighter.
I dry off, find a robe on the hook, and tie it tight around my waist. My body still aches, but it’s a good pain, a reminder.
Walking slow, I leave the bathroom. The hallway is empty, but I hear the low rumble of Briar’s voice from the living room.
I go towards him, because I have no other choice.
The robe is too big. It swallows me, hiding every bruise and bite mark, but nothing can hide the ache in my ass or the taste of him still lingering at the back of my tongue. I pad down the hallway, bare feet silent on polished stone.
In the living room, Briar stands with his back to me, phone clamped between shoulder and jaw, arms folded so tight his muscles bunch under the skin. He’s not talking, he’s spitting acid, each word a death sentence.
“…You assured me the transfer would be seamless. No, listen to me. I don’t care what the records say, I want it re-confirmed, now. Yes, I’ll take care of the rest. I always do, don’t I?”
A pause, as the voice on the other end tries to mollify him.
His hand goes to the bridge of his nose, pinches.
“Don’t get cute with me, motherfucker. If you want to keep your job, you’ll do it.
Good. Shut the fuck up.” Another pause. “I said I’d fucking take care of it.
Now fuck off and do your own fucking job. ”
He cuts the call, doesn’t move for a full ten seconds.
I stay rooted in the doorway, not sure if I should announce myself or vanish.
Eventually, he turns, and his eyes are sharp enough to slice me in half.
He registers the robe, the flush on my skin, and for a second there’s a flicker of something, but it’s gone before it settles.
“You didn’t have to get out so soon,” he says. “I would have come to you to make sure you didn’t drown.”
I shrug, arms crossed under the terry cloth, pretending to be smaller than I am. “Felt weird, being in there alone.”
He tilts his head, studies me. “You like being watched.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Better than being left alone with my thoughts. Right now, anyway.”
A ghost of a smile. “You’re honest, I’ll give you that.”
He moves to the wet bar, pours two fingers of something dark into a glass. He doesn’t offer me any. Instead, he drains it in one swallow, then pours another, this time slower, controlled.
He gestures to the couch. “Sit. Please.”