Chapter 12 #2
He snorts, but his body arches into my touch.
Slicking my cock with lube, I work slow, feeling the heat in my spine build even before I touch him.
I settle between his legs and guide the head along the line of his taint.
I stall there for a heartbeat. I should stop.
I should let him breathe. But the way his body already curves into mine, moving toward the pressure instead of away, decides it.
I want the way he gives without asking. I don't think about later.
I only think about the weight of him under me.
I press my aching cock between the heat of his ass cheeks. I don't go inside. Instead, I grind against him, letting the wet friction build. The sensation is raw, cutting past my injuries. His hips jerk. “Oh, fuck,” he murmurs.
“That’s it, krasavchik. Take the weight of it. Feel how hard you make me just by moving like that,” I growl, my voice vibrating against his spine. “You're so tight, and I'm not even inside you yet. You're already shaking for me.”
I change my angle, dragging along the cleft for a while, then sliding back between his legs again, letting us feel every scrape and glide. After a moment, I pull away and reach down, curling my palm around his cock and drawing it toward me. “Feel good?”
“More, Viktor. Please.”
“Fuck. You're a treasure, krasavchik.” He doesn't know what I want yet, so I guide him with my voice. “Lie flat. Open those legs and show me how much you want to be ruined.”
I savor his small whines as he obeys. Pressing myself between his ass cheeks, I drive down. He bucks and twists as I grind against his taint, teasing his hole with my crown while my hand works both our cocks at the same time.
“Look at you, making a mess of the sheets. You're so fucking needy for me, aren't you? Cry for me, Jonah. Let me hear how much you need this.”
He cries out as he comes. Pressing my tip against him, I catch the heat, feeling the way his cock jerks and spills.
“Yes, take it all. Good boy,” I rasp. My words catch in my throat.
A growl tears out of me as I break, teeth clenched while release rolls through me in hard waves. I didn't expect that to finish me, but it does. I empty myself over his lower back and the sheets between us, shuddering until the last tremor fades.
We drift there for a while, suspended in the aftermath, before I ease back and start tidying. The blankets need washing, so I shift the fabric aside. When Jonah tries to push himself up to help, I lift a hand, stopping him with a look.
He watches my hands. “You're in pain.”
“It’s okay.”
Jonah moves closer, settling between my legs. “Food. We need to eat. And then I'll look at your injuries again.”
We share the tray. Cold eggs, beef, fruit. I don't know when the guards brought it in, but it's enough to keep us both fed. Jonah eats leaning into me, his shoulder pressed to my chest like he belongs there. When we're done, his gaze drifts across the room.
“That’s the first thing I noticed when they brought me here.” I follow his look to the piano near the window. Jonah gives me a sheepish grin. “That, and the daggers. Do you play?”
“A little. My mother played. When I was born, she had it made for me. It was crafted by someone from her home village and sent from Moscow to the US.”
His eyebrows lift. “I didn't expect that.”
“Which part? That my mother played or that the piano comes from Russia?”
He hesitates, like he's checking whether it's allowed. “It's just that the piano is such a romantic instrument.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And I'm not a romantic?”
He flushes. “That isn't what I meant. Is it okay if I—”
“Yes.” I cut him off.
That seems to catch him off guard. Jonah crosses the room slowly and lifts the lid. He presses a key. “It's tuned?”
“Of course it is.”
He turns back to it, unsure.
“You don't play?”
“No.”
I don't know why that surprises me, but it does.
He presses another key. “My mom did.” Another key. “Before she got sick.” Another key. “And then she died.”
I don't respond. I don't know what response he expects to that. I know what it's like to lose a mother. He plays a few more notes, softer this time. I watch his hands, the way his fingers pause between keys.
They hover over the keys. “I've always wanted to have a piano. To keep her close. But she's gone, and if I don't pay attention I'll soon be gone too.”
He stops and looks back at me. “Maybe that should terrify me, but it doesn't. I've always believed she's somewhere up there, waiting.”
I watch his fingers curl into a fist on the lid.
The knuckles go pale. He says it like it's simple, but the belief sits in the room like a ghost. It's a softness I don't know how to touch, a kind of open that makes my hands drift toward the daggers on the wall.
He's reaching for heaven, but he's stuck here in the dark with me.
For the first time, I want to be the kind of man who can keep him.
“I won't let them kill you, Jonah.”
He dips his head, blond hair falling forward, then lets the lid drop with a heavy thunk. “Let me take a look at your injuries.”
Later, when he curls back into me, I think about the piano again.
About his dead mother. About the piece of shit father who sold him to our family.
I'm getting him out of here. Then I'll take this house apart from the inside.
I think of Sergei in my father's chair. I think of the look he gave me in the basement.
He made a mistake letting me live long enough to remember who I am. He'll pay for it. Then I'll find the man who sold Jonah, and I'll make sure Jonah never has to remember his name again.
I lower my mouth to Jonah's hair. Mine. And I don't lose what I claim.