Chapter 13 Landon
Chapter Thirteen: Landon
I’m still caught in the undertow of the dream—something about cold white, the old city, running barefoot through slush while someone chases me with a knife.
But my body is warm, too warm for the nightmare to stick.
There’s a dense, spreading heat at my hips, like someone’s poured molten gold down the length of my cock.
I’m so hard it hurts.
I flex my fingers in the sheets. My toes dig into the duvet. I groan, the sound floating up from the pit of me, not quite language yet.
Something—someone—is moving between my legs. The drag of skin, the faint scrape of stubble. Then lips, soft and sure, working up and down the length of my shaft. A tongue curls around the head, slick and insistent. The pressure is perfect, just this side of rough, the rhythm never faltering.
I crack my eyes and the room is flooded with the golden glow of sunrise. The window is a square of pure mountain sky. The glass frost at the edges, a faint glimmer where the sun tries to burn through.
None of it catches my attention. Not now that I can feel everything as my mind catches up to my body.
Briar.
My head drops back into the pillow, hard.
I’m fully awake, but it takes me a second to believe it’s real.
I watch his broad shoulders bracket my thighs, muscles shifting under bare skin, the line of his spine a perfect arrow down to where his mouth is devouring me.
He’s on his knees, ass in the air, body bent over me.
His hands grip my hips, holding me flat. He’s not hurting, but he makes it clear—no moving, no pulling away, not even if I want to. I don’t want to.
I close my eyes and breathe, trying to focus, but he does something with his tongue that wipes every other thought from my brain.
I gasp, the noise too loud in the cold, silent room.
I feel the smile in the way he pulls off just enough to tease, the tip of his tongue flicking across the slit, then back down to the base.
My hands move without my say-so, fisting in the sheets, then reaching for his head.
I lace my fingers into the soft, honey-blonde mess, wanting to touch, to anchor myself in the reality of it.
He lets me, for a second, then moves one hand from my hip to the headboard, pinning my wrist above my head.
His grip is steel. Not cruel, not even tight. Just absolute. I could fight it, but we both know I won’t.
He looks up at me, blue eyes so sharp it’s like being cut. He doesn’t blink. He keeps eye contact as he lowers his mouth, swallowing me to the root.
My spine bows off the bed, heels digging into the mattress. I try to say his name but all that comes out is a stuttered, helpless groan.
He lets me go, slow, every inch a friction burn, until he’s just got the tip between his lips. He licks a drop of precum off the slit, then smiles with his mouth full.
I want to touch him. I want to do something, anything, but he’s got both my wrists now, crossed and pinned over my head against the pillow.
He comes up for air, mouth slick, lips red. His voice is low, not even a whisper. “This morning is about you surrendering control.”
The words go straight to my cock, to the tight, desperate place inside my chest. I nod, but it’s not enough for him.
“Say it,” he commands, and this time his hand tightens just enough that I can’t pretend it’s not a threat.
I swallow, eyes locked on his. “I surrender, Sir,” I croak, voice cracked and breathless.
He makes a satisfied noise, then bends to his work. He drags his tongue up the underside, pays special attention to the spot just beneath the head, then takes me in again, deeper this time.
I can feel my pulse everywhere, even in my fingertips, trapped as they are. My body is on fire. I can’t stop shaking. Every time I get close, he backs off, uses his free hand to squeeze the base, to edge me just enough that I don’t go over.
It’s torture. It’s perfect.
At some point, my legs are over his shoulders. I don’t know how he managed it, but he’s got my knees bent up, thighs framing his face. He slides a hand up the inside of my leg, then down to my balls, rolling them gently in his palm. I whimper, so far gone I barely recognize my own voice.
He lets my wrists go, but only because he knows I won’t fight. He swaps his hands, one cradling my jaw, the other working the length of me with slow, firm strokes while his mouth works the head.
I look down and see him—see the mess he’s made of me, see the hunger in his eyes, see the way his hair falls in his face. He looks back, never once breaking contact. It’s not a request, it’s a demand: Watch me ruin you.
My hands float down, boneless. I want to touch him, but he’s made it clear—this is not my show. So I dig my nails into my own thighs, trying to keep from losing it.
He speeds up, bobbing faster, using his hand in tandem, the pressure and friction building until I can’t stand it. I gasp, “Briar, fuck, I—”
He moans around my cock, the vibration pushing me over the edge. I come hard, hips jerking up, the orgasm ripping through me so violent I see stars. He doesn’t pull away. He takes every drop, milks me with his mouth and his hand until I’m shaking, twitching, ruined.
He lets me go with a final, wet pop. He crawls up the bed, covers me with his body, and kisses me slow, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
I’m wrecked. Utterly.
He cages me in with his arms, his weight pinning me to the mattress. He’s hard, pressed up against my hip, but he doesn’t ask for anything in return.
He brushes the hair off my forehead, looks at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m real. Then he says, “Good boy.”
It should piss me off, but instead it lights up every nerve. The way this man has implanted himself into my very bones has me fucked up. I shiver, sweat cooling on my skin, heart pounding out a code I’ve never learned to decipher.
For a while, we just breathe. My head spins, but it’s not from fear. It’s from the way he’s claimed me, not as property, but as someone who will take what he gives.
Eventually, he rolls onto his back, pulls me with him so my head rests on his chest. His heart is a steady hammer, slower than mine but just as sure.
He drags his fingers up and down my spine, over my bones, my muscles, goosebumps breaking out everywhere he touches.
“You still awake?” he asks, a smile in his voice.
“Barely,” I say.
He laughs, a low, broken sound. “You did good. I thought you’d try to fight.”
“Didn’t want to,” I admit. “You… you do things to me.”
He tilts my chin up, makes me look at him. His eyes are softer now, the hard edge gone. “You don’t ever have to fight me, Landon.”
I believe him.
I close my eyes, let the world fade out, and breathe in the scent of him—salt, sweat, something sharp and clean that’s only his.
I drift, Briar’s arms around me, the mountain morning bright and silent outside.
And when I finally sleep again, I dream not of running, but of being caught.
The world is glassy and white when I wake again, but I don’t know how much time has passed. I’m sprawled naked on top of the comforter. There’s a sense of loss… not waking up on top of him.
Briar is already awake, and he’s staring at me.
He sits at the edge of the bed, legs parted, cock already thick and heavy between his thighs.
He’s half in shadow, the sun slicing across his jaw and catching the blue of his eyes.
He looks at me like he’s trying to memorize everything about me.
There’s something raw in the way he drinks me in—like hunger, or need, or maybe just the thrill of knowing he’s the only person alive who gets to see me like this.
His fingers trace the marks he left on my hips, the mottled red where his hands dug in. I should feel embarrassed, but all I feel is pride.
He notices.
“Pretty.”
I want to answer, but my mouth is dry. Instead, I prop myself on one elbow and let my gaze slide over him, from the mess of his hair to his strong jawline. He must see the heat in my eyes, because his lips quirk, and then he’s crawling up the bed, every move deliberate.
He pins me with a look, then leans in and kisses me, soft at first, just pressure and warmth.
Then his teeth drag my lower lip, and I gasp, which gives him all the invitation he needs.
He slips his tongue past my lips, tastes the inside of my mouth, then pulls away, trailing open-mouthed kisses down my jaw, my throat, the hollow where my shoulder meets my collarbone.
He’s a different animal. No violence, no edge—just patience. He’s careful with his teeth, careful with his hands. He presses me into the mattress, chest to chest, cock to cock, and lets his weight tell me I’m not going anywhere.
He sucks a mark onto my neck, then slides down, tongue flicking over my nipple, his hand stroking lazy circles on my ribs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t do anything but feel.
He keeps going, mouth and hands mapping the whole of me—my chest, my stomach, the curve of my waist. When he hits the waistband of nothing, he pauses, looks up, and grins. He bites the jut of my hip, not gentle, and I flinch.
“Sensitive, pet?” he says, the word loaded.
“Fuck you,” I manage.
He laughs, low, and takes my cock in his hand. I expect him to go for it, but instead he just strokes, feather light, watching my face for every twitch. He likes to see what I’ll do if he keeps me waiting.
I arch into the touch, desperate, but he just pins my hips to the bed and keeps me there, his hand a vice.
He kneels between my thighs, the light catching the planes of his chest, the scars on his arms. He’s gorgeous, but he acts like he has no idea. Like he doesn’t know what it does to me to see him, all muscle and control, looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s almost solved.
His hands are never still. One slides up my thigh, the other cups my balls, rolling them slow in his palm. Then a finger slides lower, behind, finding the place that I want him to be in.
He meets my eyes.
“Okay?”
It’s the first time he’s asked.