Chapter 20
Dominic
Ipace the living room like a fucking caged animal while the wall clock drags its hands toward eight—every sweep of the second hand tightening the coil in my gut, because I know exactly what Brendon’s doing.
He thinks tonight is another tutoring session, the same stilted back-and-forth we’ve danced through all month.
Good boy that he is, he also never comes over without the faint scent of antiseptic on his hands.
Brendon Lane always makes damn sure he’s clean for me. He admitted as much the other night.
The little fucker thinks he can control the pace, but I’m done letting him drive. If he’s going to warm himself up for me, I might as well supervise. Guide those trembling hands. Make sure he’s open enough that I don’t damn well shred him when I finally give him everything he keeps begging for.
Tonight, I’m tuning every string of him, until the only sound he can play is my name punched out on a broken moan.
The house smells like leather and the cedar candle I lit twenty minutes ago.
I figure if I’m about to ruin him, I might as well corrupt every sense he’s got.
I drop onto the couch and pull the laces of my gray sweats a little looser, because I want him thinking about how little effort it would take me to shove them down.
I don’t rush to answer when he knocks; anticipation is a weapon. When I do open the door, I keep my frame in the gap, leaning one forearm against the jamb and letting him look his fill. He tries for composure, but his gaze drops to my abdomen.
He’s wearing charcoal slacks that ride a little too tight over his ass—and fuck me, I know he did that on purpose.
The navy button-down is tucked so neat it’s almost prim, but his collar’s open two buttons, showing the fine chain with his little silver cross.
The one I teased between my teeth last week until he gasped my name.
“Evening, Little Sin,” I drawl, stepping back so he can come inside. The nickname lands like a slap and a kiss all at once; his pupils blow so wide I almost fucking grin.
He murmurs a polite greeting that would fool anyone who doesn’t know how his hands shake when he’s turned on. “You said we needed to review the poli-sci outline.”
I strip the satchel from his shoulder and let it thud to the floor. “Later.” I hook a finger under the neckline of his shirt, and tug him close enough that our chests align and he can feel that I’m already half-hard under the sweats.
“We should at least cover chapter six—”
“Chapter six will still be there tomorrow.”
My hand slides to the back of his neck, thumb stroking the soft hair at his nape while I walk him toward the bedroom. He follows with that tight, nervous posture that makes every instinct in me snap.
The lights are already dimmed; charcoal sheets turned down. A bottle of silicone lube, black nitrile gloves, a rolled hand towel, and an onyx bead rosary wait on the nightstand—each tool laid out like surgical instruments. Brendon spots them and sucks a breath through his teeth.
I step behind him, gripping his hips, pressing him to my chest. “You stretched before you came, didn’t you?” I murmur against the shell of his ear.
“Y-yes,” he whispers, shame and pride braided tight.
“That’s fucking hot, baby. You, lying in that twin bed, spreading your legs and working yourself open because you know I like it easy. Fuck.” I cup his cock through the wool with my palm, feeling how brutally hard he is already. “Did you get yourself off, or did you keep it aching for me?”
His voice breaks. “I…kept it.”
I squeeze until he whines. “That’s why you’re my favorite sin: you loosened up, but stayed empty. Perfect.”
I unzip him at a crawl, then shove his slacks and briefs down far enough to free him. His cock bobs, flushed, leaking, so I smear the wetness down his shaft.
“Dominic—”
“Step out,” I tell him. Pants, underwear, socks; gone. He stands with his shirt still on—sleeves rolled, lower half naked, thighs tense. I guide him forward by the cock until he’s up on the mattress, then pick up the rosary.
Black onyx beads glint under the lamp, the crucifix cool against my palm. Brendon’s eyes are huge.
“Color?” I ask, because consent is a ritual I never skip.
“Green,” he answers, shaky but sure.
I loop the beads right beneath the crown of his cock, cinching tight enough to make him hiss.
One coil after another winds down his length, edging him in polished stone and inherited guilt, until the crucifix lies heavy against the thickest part of him.
A tiny tug has the metal kissing sensitive skin, and his breath stutters.
“Good. Knees apart, elbows down, ass up.” My tone isn’t cruel, it’s pure fucking heat. I slide two fingers down the seam of his cleft and find the slick evidence of his earlier prep.
Then I see the fucking plug: matte black, silicone, snug, though not as large as I’d like. But that’s a good thing, because I want to be the one to train his hole.
I run my thumb along the seam again, then press lightly on the base. “You warmed yourself for me? Sweet Little Sin.”
He gasps. “Yes, Daddy.”
The pride in his voice is shy, but unmistakable. I lean forward, mouth brushing the curve where ass meets thigh, and bite just enough to make him gasp, before I lick the sting away.
“Good boy.”
I look down at him, drinking in the sight: Brendon Lane, preacher’s son and legal prodigy, spread open under soft light with beads of penance strangling his cock and a plug in his ass. A low growl rolls out of me, half pride, half promise.
I grip the base of the plug and work it—slow twist, slow pull—teasing him with the gradual stretch. The plug slides free with a wet sound that has him whimpering, then I drop it on the nightstand and bring two lube-slick fingers right back to that fluttering hole.
He’s shaking so badly I have to brace his legs wide with my knees.
I spit once between his cheeks, let it roll down the seam, then trace it with those same two fingers, teasing the puckered skin until he groans my name.
He pushes back before I even ask, greedy fucker, and I reward him with both fingers at once, scissoring gently, feeling him open more around me.
“Tell me what you imagined while you were stretching alone,” I say, voice steady even though the pulse in my cock hammers.
He sucks in a breath, then exhales on a shaky confession. “Thought about your voice; the way you call me ‘Little Sin.’ Thought about you behind me, making me—god—take more than I wanted.”
“My dirty boy,” I mutter, sliding deeper, crooking just right until his hips jerk. He tries to stifle a moan, and I slap his thigh. “Let me hear it. You know I love your fucking sounds.”
He groans, head hanging. “Dom… feels— fuck—feels good,” he moans, clutching the sheets, spine bowing deeper. His inner muscles flutter around the intrusion as I work them slowly, stretching, coaxing, forcing the tremor into a quake.
“Relax, baby,” I murmur, free hand stroking up his flank to soothe the tension before driving it higher. “I’m taking care of this hole tonight.”
When I slide a third finger in, he chokes on a groan, hips jerking back instinctively, chasing the burn. My cock aches, but I force myself to focus; I want him loose enough he doesn’t tear, but not so loose he forgets who’s filling him.
I keep the rhythm relentless as I add more fingers, my voice a constant string of filthy praise as I open him—“So fucking tight, Brendon, but you’re taking it like you were built for my hand; fuck yes, breathe”. Sweat beads at his temples and his thighs tremble even harder.
He starts babbling half-formed prayers as I withdraw, snap off the glove, coat my bare hand in lube, and line up my thumb with the pads of my fingers, forming a tapered point.
“Bigger step, Little Sin. You ready?”
He turns his head, cheek pressed to the sheet, eyes glazed, and says, “Need it, Daddy. Need you inside.”
That’s all the permission I require. I breach him up to my knuckles first, letting him feel the stretch as his ring of muscle flares.
He whimpers and claws at the duvet, but pushes back hungrily.
My breath hisses out between my teeth when the tight heat swallows past my knuckles; his body is trembling so hard now the mattress shakes.
“Good boy. You wanna take my cock, you gotta get used to my fist.”
“Feel how full you are.”
“Breathe through it for me.”
“You’re doing so well, baby.”
He sobs something that might be my name, might be God’s, and I push up to the widest part—the thick hill formed by my hand—and pause, letting his body accommodate as sweat drips off my brow onto his lower back.
“Yellow!” he gasps, voice breaking.
I freeze the second the word leaves his mouth. My heartbeat’s a jackhammer, but my hand doesn’t budge another millimeter. I keep it right where we are,halfway in, wide stretch, enough heat to fog my skull, and force a long breath past my teeth.
“Talk to me, Brendon,” I murmur, the rasp stripped out of my voice. “Tell me what’s too much.”
His fists unclench, then curl again. He’s panting like a sprinter at the tape, but the panic in his eyes flickers instead of burns. “Just… a lot. Need a second. Feels… big.”
“That’s the point,” I remind him softly. “But you call the pace. You want me to back out?”
He shakes his head straight away, then sucks in a steadier breath. “No, just hold on. Let me catch up.” His thighs still tremble, but I can feel him coaxing his own muscles to unclench around my hand, opening in tiny waves instead of fighting the intrusion.
I stay perfectly still, pressure constant, other thumb rubbing small circles into his hip. “Good boy. Breathe in for four, out for six.” I count for him until his shoulders drop half an inch and the tremor in his calves evens out.
After a few minutes, his voice comes small but clear. “Green, Daddy.”