Chapter 24 #2
He’s a moment away from calling the guards.
A moment away from sending me back to my cold cell, where I’ll lie awake thinking about this—about him.
I can’t stand it.
I lean forward, pressing my lips to—
Marco twists his head so my kiss lands only partly on his mouth, catching the corner instead. His breath hitches against my cheek. “We’re not doing this.” He doesn’t even raise his eyes as he says it.
My hands are still free, and I take full advantage, sliding one arm around his waist. “Doing what?”
He lets me keep it there, even if his neck flexes away from me, bulging veins in that too-strong, too-alluring neck that I want to run my tongue all over. “We don’t fuck anymore.”
“Mmm. Yeah, you said that.” My other hand runs up the chain to meet his tight, hot fingers. “Right when you let me fuck you on that balcony like I was the only thing in this world you wanted.”
There’s a tremble to his lashes as they settle closed. I let my head dip softly to the side, let my breath play on his cheek.
“It appears you have me in chains, sir.”
“So the guards can walk you home,” he says, voice calm. Factual.
“Because we don’t fuck anymore.”
“That’s right.”
I step back, my fingers finding the top button of my shirt. Marco’s eyes track the movement as I work it free, the small disc of bone slipping through worn fabric. His throat moves as he swallows.
The second button. Third. Each one deliberate, unhurried. Marco doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just watches with those dark, bottomless eyes. The lamplight catches the hollow of his throat, the slight parting of his lips.
Fourth button. Fifth. The shirt falls open, hanging loose from my shoulders. Cool air hits my chest, raises goosebumps across my skin, but Marco’s gaze burns hotter than any flame.
I shrug the fabric off completely. It pools at my feet between us, soft cotton against cold stone.
Marco raises an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting choice for walking through the city streets, but you do you.”
My hand moves to the waistband of my pants.
Marco stiffens the chain, stilling my movement. “Robin,” he warns.
So I step forward, slide my hand up his arm instead, rest it on his chest. Feel his heart hammering beneath my palm.
“You can’t touch me, Robin,” he says, breathless.
I slide my palm down, find his cock through the linen fabric. He’s already rock hard, straining against the cloth.
“Is that so?” I smirk.
Marco rattles the chain, wrapping it around his fist. “You can’t touch me,” he repeats.
I move back, run a finger over the length of my collar.
The metal is warm from my skin, a perfect circle of possession around my throat.
Bare-chested, collar gleaming, chain pulled tight to Marco’s fist. The way his eyes drink me in—like I’m something he owns, something he wants to devour—sends heat pooling low in my stomach.
I open my mouth and say, “That’s too bad, then, that we don’t fuck.” Eyes on his bulging cock, I add, “I hate to have to leave you like that…”
A mocking smile tilts his lips. “You think I need you?”
But I meet him head-on, eyes clear against his, and I tell him the plain truth. “I think you do need me.” And we both know I’m not just talking about sex.
I can see it in the darkness that pools in the blacks of his eyes. In the way his lip curls. “I don’t need you.”
“Really?” I take the liberty of kissing that hard, cool edge of his mouth. “Prove it.”
Marco’s control snaps. He groans, a sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest. “On your knees.” With the sharp growl of the words comes an even sharper pull on my chain, and I’m down on his cold floor in a second, begging for him, praying he’ll feed it to me.
But Marco only leans back against a table, widening his stance, and he places one bare foot on my shoulder, holding me down while his muscular arm flexes with his grip on my chain, pulling my head up to watch.
He brings his free hand to himself, his dark eyes boring into mine as he tugs at the fabric of his short tunic, freeing his magnificent cock. Thick and flushed, already glistening at the tip, framed by those enormous thighs that I’m desperate to sink my teeth into.
“Is this what you want so badly?” he rasps.
I lunge for it, but he kicks me back with his foot, ripping my neck to attention with his chain, the metal clinking against the floor. He brings his hand to his mouth, spits into his palm with deliberate slowness. The gesture is obscenely crude, and my own cock twitches, thickens, begs.
Marco touches himself. Long, languid strokes, his fist sliding from base to tip. His breathing deepens as he picks up the pace, thumb circling the head before sliding back down. The chain grows taut as his grip tightens, pulling my neck toward him.
Fuck, I want him so badly. Just one taste.
I slip my hand down between my legs, desperate for some relief from this agony he’s putting me through. But this infernal collar. He yanks me so hard I almost fall over, steadying me with that commanding foot of his.
His eyes never leave me as he works himself faster, harder. I watch the muscles in his forearm flex with each stroke, watch his lips part as his breathing becomes ragged. The sound fills the room—skin against skin, his quiet gasps, the clink of the chain.
“Marco, please.”
Without warning, he breaks that intense eye contact, snaps his eyes shut. His hand becomes a blur, pounding his cock so fast I can barely track the movement.
He cries out—loud, raw, desperate—and thick ropes of cum shoot across the marble floor.
Fuck. He’s like a god. His big dick, his enormous thighs, that light sweat about his beautiful brow. I want to lick him all over. And those dark, angry, distant, deep eyes, fixed on me.
We stare at each other across the space between us. His chest heaves, cock still twitching in his grip. The silence stretches as taut as the chain connecting us. His dark eyes burn into mine, wild, undone, hungry.
And then he says, “Lick it up.”
It’s degrading. Or it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be Marco testing me, Marco showing me he doesn’t need me. That I’m nothing to him. Not even worth sticking his cock into.
But he does need me. Because there’s no other man in this world who could turn him on as much as I’m about to.
I lean forward and lap it up, tongue flat against the cool stone.
It’s everything I want.
Atrean salt. Heat. Him.
My cock throbs against my shorts as I chase every drop, the marble cold against my knees, the chain pulling taut as I move.
He’s surely watching me, but I have to check—I glance up through my lashes to catch his eyes fluttering open, and the hunger in his gaze only fuels me.
I hold that stare as I lick the last traces from the stone, savoring the way his chest rises and falls, the way his lips part like he wants to say my name.
I don’t stop until I’ve cleaned every drop from the floor.
I climb to my feet, the chain clinking as I close the distance between us. Marco’s breathing is still uneven, his cock slowly softening in his hand, but he doesn’t step back. Doesn’t push me away.
He lets me come to him.
I press my lips to his, and this time he doesn’t turn his head.
His mouth opens. My tongue is still coated with him, and I brush it against his, letting him taste himself on me.
Marco’s tongue lashes against mine, even if that’s the only part of him he’ll let show his feelings.
He lets me take what I need. Lets me explore his mouth, lets me press closer until my bare chest touches the silk of his tunic. His lips are soft, pliant under mine.
His hand comes up to touch my collar, fingers sliding along the bronze until they find the hollow of my collarbone. He holds me there, not pulling me closer but not letting me go either.
I pull back just enough to speak, our lips still brushing. “It doesn’t matter what you do or say, Marco. I’m yours.”
I kiss him again, quick and fierce, tasting the sharp intake of his breath.
“And you’re mine.”
His fingers tighten on the collar for just a moment, and I see something flicker across his face—want, fear, surrender. All of it there and gone so fast I might have imagined it.
I reach down and gently unravel the chain from his other hand. Our fingers brush as he releases it, and oh, how I feel the tremor that runs through him. The weight of the metal settles into my palm, cold and final.
Without another word, I take my clothes, turn and walk toward the entrance, where the guards wait just outside in the shadows. My bare feet make no sound against the marble, but the chain drags behind me with each step, a whisper of metal against stone.
I don’t look back. But I know he’s watching me.