Silver in the Dark #2
I took approximately fifteen seconds. “Okay. I'm ready.”
He crossed to where I was standing and put his hand to my jaw and tilted my face up and looked at me with those eyes and said, “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” I said.
His thumb moved along my jaw, a slow, deliberate sweep that sent a shiver straight down my spine. The amusement in his eyes had bled out, replaced by a heavy, ancient dark that felt like gravity.
“You want me,” Draco repeated, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated against my collarbone. “You brought a bag of amateur novelties into my house, bleeding from a silver wound, and decided tonight was the night you were going to claim the monster.”
“I'm not claiming anything,” I managed to say, though my breath hitched when his other hand settled on my hip, right over my clothes, fingers pressing into the fabric with terrifying precision. “I'm just... participating.”
“You are going to do exactly as you are told,” he corrected softly. He didn't wait for my agreement. His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. The grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute. “Walk.”
He led me past the padded bench and the low cabinets, straight to the center of the room. A heavy, high-backed wooden chair sat under a single, dim spotlight. It looked like an antique, carved with intricate, unforgiving lines, with thick leather straps hanging loosely from the armrests.
“Sit,” Draco ordered.
I sat. The wood was hard beneath me, forcing my posture straight. Draco didn't move to secure the straps. He didn't need them yet. He stood in front of me, a dark silhouette blocking out the rest of the room, completely unbothered by the fact that we were both still fully clothed.
“You are so eager, Nico,” he murmured, stepping into my space. His knees brushed against mine, forcing my legs apart just enough to let him step closer. “So desperate to prove you aren't afraid of what I am.”
“I'm not,” I lied.
“You are terrified,” he said smoothly. He reached out, his long, cool fingers tracing the line of my collarbone over the thin cotton of my shirt.
The touch was agonizingly light, a ghost of pressure that made my skin prickle.
“You are terrified of what I can do to you, and you are even more terrified of how much you want me to do it.”
I swallowed hard, gripping the armrests. “Draco—”
“I didn't give you permission to speak.” His hand trailed lower, dragging down the center of my chest. He stopped just above the waistband of my jeans.
He didn't unbutton them. He just pressed his palm flat against my stomach, the heat of his skin bleeding through the layers of fabric.
“You think taking your clothes off is surrender. You think being naked is the vulnerable part.”
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. His eyes were entirely black now, the pupils blown wide.
“I don't need you naked to strip you bare,” he whispered, his breath ghosting over my lips. “I can see exactly how frantic you are under this shirt. I can feel your heart hammering. I know exactly how hard you are right now, straining against that zipper, praying I'll touch you.”
My hips jerked upward instinctively, a pathetic, involuntary twitch against his hand. He laughed, a low, dark sound that settled heavy in my gut.
He traced the seam of my jeans, dragging a single finger down the heavy, aching ridge of my erection through the thick denim. The friction was a sudden, violent spark. I gasped, my back arching off the wooden chair.
“You want me to take it out,” Draco murmured, repeating the slow, agonizing stroke over the denim. “You want my cold hands on your skin. You want me to hurt you just enough to make you forget the knife in the Crimson Room.”
“Yes,” I choked out, completely abandoning my pride.
“Say it properly.” His finger stopped right at the tip, pressing down hard through the fabric, pinning me in place. “Tell me what you are right now, Nico.”
I looked up at him, my vision blurring at the edges, entirely consumed by the heavy, clothed friction and the sheer, overwhelming weight of his dominance.
“I'm yours,” I breathed. “I'm whatever you want me to be.”
“Good,” Draco said, the word a soft, lethal purr in the dim light. “Hold that thought.”
He stepped away, leaving me stranded in the sudden, freezing absence of his body heat. My breath sawed in and out of my lungs, my hands gripping the carved wooden arms of the chair so hard my knuckles ached. I watched him move to the low shelving against the far wall.
The predator with his prey already caught and cornered.
When he turned back, he was holding a whip.
It wasn't a crop or a flogger. It was a braided leather bullwhip, thick at the handle and tapering down to a vicious, frayed fall. It looked old, the leather supple and dark with use.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
But Draco didn't strike. He walked back to me slowly, letting the long tail of the whip drag across the stone floor with a sinister, slithering hiss. He stopped just out of arm's reach.
He lifted the handle, and with a flick of his wrist, the braided leather swept through the air.
The soft, frayed tip dragged lightly across my chest, a whisper of texture over my shirt.
I shivered, the contrast between the threat of the weapon and the agonizingly soft touch sending a jolt of electricity straight to my groin.
“You think you know what pain is, Nico,” Draco murmured, tracing the whip down my torso, the leather catching slightly on the metal button of my jeans. “You think you know what it means to be broken.”
He flicked his wrist again. The leather snaked up, wrapping loosely around my neck. He didn't pull it tight, but the weight of it was a terrifying reminder of exactly whose room I was in.
Then, he moved faster than my eyes could track. The whip uncoiled from my neck, and the thick, braided belly of the leather slapped sharply across my cheek.
It wasn't a full-force blow, but it stung fiercely. I gasped, my eyes watering instantly. The degradation of it hit me harder than the physical pain.
Draco stepped in close, crowding my space again. He grabbed my jaw with his free hand, forcing my face back to center. His thumb pressed right over the blooming red mark on my cheek.
He leaned in, his lips parting. He gathered a thick mouthful of saliva and let it drop directly onto my mouth.
The warm, heavy spit landed on my lips, running down my chin. I whined and instinctively darted my tongue out to catch it, tasting him.
“You take whatever I give you,” Draco whispered, his eyes completely black. “And you beg for more.”
He released my jaw and took three deliberate steps backward, putting himself under the center of the dim spotlight. He tossed the whip carelessly onto the padded bench.
“Watch me,” he commanded.
I couldn't have looked away if the room was on fire.
Draco reached up and unfastened the button of his suit jacket. He slipped it off his shoulders with a slow, agonizing grace, the expensive fabric pooling on the floor. He didn't rush. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, discarding it just as casually.
Then came the shirt. His long fingers worked the buttons one by one, starting from the collar and moving down. He pulled the crisp white cotton open, and my breath hitched in my throat.
Vampires, in all the lore and all my limited experience, were supposed to be smooth, cold marble.
Draco was pale, yes, but he was not smooth.
A thick, dark pelt of coarse hair covered his broad chest, swirling around his defined pectorals and trailing down the flat, hard plane of his stomach.
It was aggressively, overwhelmingly masculine, a stark contrast to his usual refined elegance.
He shrugged the shirt off, letting it fall. He stood there in just his dark trousers, his chest heaving slightly. He flexed, the heavy, ancient muscle rolling under his pale, hairy skin. The sheer physical power radiating off him was intoxicating.
He reached up, his cool fingers finding his own nipples through the dark hair. He pinched them, twisting the nubs roughly. He let out a low, rough sigh, his head tilting back, exposing the long, pale line of his throat.
“You like this?” he taunted, his voice thick with arousal. “You like watching the monster touch himself?”
“Yes,” I choked out, my hips grinding uselessly against the hard wood of the chair. My cock was an absolute agony of pressure inside my jeans, weeping thick strings of pre-come that soaked into my underwear.
Draco’s hands moved down to his belt. He unbuckled it, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet room. He popped the button, unzipped the trousers, and pushed them down his long legs, stepping out of his expensive shoes to kick the fabric away.
He was left in a pair of tight, black boxer briefs. And he was massive.
The heavy, thick outline of his erection strained against the dark fabric, jutting out aggressively. He didn't pull it out. Instead, he cupped himself through the underwear, his large hand wrapping around the thick bulge.
He looked right at me, his eyes blazing with a sadistic, predatory heat, and slapped his own cock.
Smack.
The sound was wet and heavy. I jolted in the chair, a choked sob tearing out of my throat.
Smack.
He hit himself harder, his hips snapping forward slightly with the impact, highlighting the staggering length and girth hidden beneath the cotton.
“Look how hard I am for you, Nico,” Draco growled, his hand slapping rhythmically against his own erection, the friction clearly pushing him closer to the edge. “Look what you make me do.”
I was losing my mind.
“Draco, please,” I begged, tears of sheer frustration blurring my vision. “Let me. Please let me.”
He stopped slapping himself, his hand resting heavily over his jutting bulge. He smiled, a cruel, beautiful curving of his lips.
“No,” Draco said softly. “You're going to sit there and ache until I decide you've suffered enough.”