Chapter 14
VAL
I turn to face him in the men's room, my ears thudding.
Fuck, he looks like a lost lamb. A huge, built-like-a-brick-house, swarthy, sexy as fuck lamb.
The juxtaposition of it all hits me again: the six-and-a-half-foot tall, thickly muscled, ultra-masculine Bratva heir who tussles in underground fight clubs and looks like he commits murder before breakfast…
…Contrasted against that hungry, subby look in his eyes when he gazes at me like he desperately wants me—needs me—to take away the last of his control.
To tell him exactly what to do.
To tell him what a good boy he is.
But I cannot do the whiplashing back and forth any longer: one minute, he’s putty in my hand, whimpering and moaning and coming all over himself. The next, that self-hating, closeted asshole part of him comes out swinging, and we go right back to square fucking one.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Roman?”
His throat works up and down, his mouth tight as he eyes me.
“I—I don’t know.”
I’m so close to telling him to fuck off and figure it out on his own.
Not because I want him to get away from me. I don’t, not at all. But I can’t be his fucking guide through this.
It’s the reason I’m alone. The reason I enjoy casual, fun, and temporary.
I’m incapable of anything more than that, whether it’s because of my childhood in the brutal foster care system, or the monsters in the dark, or my addict, derelict parents, or even that maybe something got knocked loose in my head the day I lost my memories.
But when he looks at me with such fucking need in his eyes, like he’s truly lost in the woods, and I might be his only guide through the trees, and when he sucks his lip between his teeth and bites down just so?
I’m fucking captive.
Disarmed. Wrecked.
Part of me hopes that he spooks, turns, and runs the fuck away when I start to move toward him. I want to break his spell, to slap some common sense into him and maybe a decision that his best option is to be what they—and he—want him to be.
The tough, macho bratva heir.
One that isn’t confused.
Who’s every inch what he’s “supposed” to be: in control, engaged to a woman, and straight, without any doubts or confusion on the subject.
But the motherfucker doesn’t bolt. He just fucking stands there, staring at me, eyes wide, teeth worrying his full lower lip in a way that makes my pulse roar.
He takes a shaky, nervous breath as I move closer, until I’m standing right in front of him, looking him in the eye as he looks right back at me with that desperately yearning little look.
I breathe in his scent: citrus and bergamot, with a clean, masculine note swirling through it that ensnares me. I don’t even realize my hand has lifted until my fingers are curling into the collar of his shirt.
A choked sound tumbles from his throat.
You never should have followed me in here, wreckage, I want to scream in his face. You won’t leave here the same as when you walked in.
Roman’s breath catches, his eyes bulging wide as I drag him back toward one of the stalls. He shuffles in after me until we’re both inside, and I’m shutting and locking the door.
The Earth stops rotating as we stand there frozen, staring each other in the eye, breathing each other’s air, our bodies pressed tight together.
I can feel his pulse. Feel the hum of his nerves and the way he trembles.
The way he aches for this.
The way his big cock has swelled so hard in his pants that I feel it twitch against mine.
“Tell me to take control, Roman,” I growl quietly. “Do it. Tell me to fucking take control like we both know you want me to.”
Roman moans.
“Please,” he chokes, breathing heavily, his muscled chest rising and falling. “Val—”
“Use your fucking words like a good boy.”
He groans, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes flit across my face, his lips opening and closing. “Please take control,” he finally croaks.
Dark, vicious, all-consuming thunder rumbles inside me.
I’m going to fucking ruin this man.
“Take your belt off again.”
He sharply sucks in his breath and goes still, his eyes bulging. I smirk as I lean right into his space, breathing in the scent of his skin and the pure need radiating off him.
“Now,” I growl darkly.
Roman’s hands drop to his belt. They shake with nerves or maybe excitement as he quickly unbuckles it and yanks it out of the loops of his pants before handing it to me.
I’m already so fucking hard it hurts.
“On your knees.”
Power surges through me, and dark, needy desire burns into my brain when I see the utter capitulation in his eyes.
I’m not usually this commanding, this dominant. But the deeper we get, I'm realizing that Roman is even more submissive than I originally thought.
More eager. Starving desperately for this thing he’s denied himself.
The needier and subbier and more lost he looks, the more I want to fucking consume him.
Capture him.
Bend him over right here, right now, and make him shake, whimper, beg, and quiver when I fuck him so hard he sees God.
But when I see Roman’s throat bob, and the vein in his temple pulse, and then watch him slowly, unblinkingly, drop to his knees in front of me?
It's my turn to be well and truly lost.
I look down at him, getting fucking high off the way he looks up at me with eager, desperate submission in his gaze.
“Take out my cock.”
Roman’s eyes bulge, and his mouth falls open a little.
“Be a good boy, open my pants, and take out my cock,” I say again. “I’m so fucking hard for you, wreckage.”
I almost think I’ve gone too far, that I’ve pushed beyond what he’s capable of.
But then, shockingly, he lifts his hands and brings them, trembling, to my belt. His eyes glazed over, he tugs it open, then undoes the button on my pants. His big, tattooed hands drag lightly over my bulge as he fingers my zipper.
He looks up at me briefly, his eyes wide, before he drops his gaze again.
The zipper goes down, and he starts to pull my pants open. I watch, my pulse roaring, as he slips that damned bottom lip back between his teeth and his fingers slide to the waist of my boxers.
“Yeah, just like that,” I growl as his fingers slip inside the waistband.
I watch his hands tremble as he slowly lowers them, sliding the fabric past my lower abs, exposing the line of hair trailing down.
The grooves of my v-lines, the phoenix tattoo on my right hip.
His eyes stare at my body as he slowly reveals it, like he’s utterly fascinated and captivated by it.
The waistband slides down to the base of my swollen cock and the short, trimmed hair there, together with his gaze.
He keeps pulling, lower and lower, his eyes getting wider and his mouth falling even more open as inch after inch of my thick cock comes into view.
He tugs my boxers down the rest of the way, sliding the waistband over my swollen head and letting my cock spring free. Roman groans—fucking groans, eagerly, hungrily—when my dick bobs right in front of his little-lost-lamb face.
“Stroke it,” I murmur darkly. “Stroke it like a good boy. Like you’d want that gorgeous dick of yours stroked, remember?”
I expect hesitation and slow, tentative movements. Instead, Roman’s big hand instantly raises, and when his tattooed fingers wrap around my cock, he lets out this deep “uhnnngh” sound that makes my balls twitch.
He squeezes my dick, the fingers of his large hand not even touching as they curl around my shaft, which is such an outrageously hot visual that my abs clench.
He starts to move his hand, pumping back and forth, jerking me off in front of his big, dark eyes.
“What…” His voice breaks a little as he trembles. “What next?” he growls quietly, his voice low and husky.
“Keep stroking. Open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and run it over my head while you do.”
That sexy fucking “uhnnngh” sound falls from his throat again. There’s little hesitation, his breath quick and shallow, teasing soft and warm over my leaking crown.
He wets his lips, just staring at my cock with a reverence that makes me want to pull him up and kiss the fuck out of him.
But before I can do that, Roman lowers his mouth, sticks his tongue out, and drags it slowly over my cock.
Fuck. Me.
I hiss, grunting and letting my head drop back as Roman’s warm, wet tongue swirls over my head. He drags it tentatively over the hole at the tip, and when I growl, and my dick twitches and leaks precum onto his tongue, the man fucking whimpers.
Oh, I’m going to enjoy this.
Teaching him.
Training him.
Owning him.
Mine.
“Open your mouth, wreckage,” I growl through clenched teeth as his tongue sends ripples of pleasure through my belly. “Open your mouth and put your hands over your head.”
He looks up at me, shivering, questions in his hooded eyes. When I just nod, he flushes and slowly does as he’s told. His arms raise, hands moving over his head.
“Cross them at the wrist.”
Blood hums in my ears, my muscles twitching with a consuming need. My cock pulses, precum dripping from the swollen head as I loop Roman’s belt around his wrists and pull it tight. Roman shivers, and when I give the belt a sharp yank, a moan spills from his throat.
“This is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it,” I growl. “For me to take what I want. Your control. Your submission. Your fucking mouth.”
Roman’s muscled thighs squeeze together, and I groan, seeing the huge bulge in his pants as he squirms like my greedy little cock slut.
“Open,” I command.
Like I said, I’m usually a top. But this is quickly moving past anything I “usually” am.
And it’s all. His. Fault.
He makes me want to break him, utterly. To take full control and fucking use him. And every step I take further into that dark, consuming place in my head, he’s clearly eager to follow me.