Chapter 33 #3
He wheezes, kicking once, more reflex than actual attempt to get away.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you maniac.”
I roll us, using momentum to flip our positions, so he’s on his back and my knees are on either side of his hips. I stab the knife into the ground beside his head, blade sinking into the earth with a satisfying thunk, hilt sticking up like a flag.
“Got you,” I say, breath heavy, but controlled.
He glares up at me, chest heaving, hair full of leaves. “You’re insane,” he pants. “You actually chased me through a fucking forest with a knife. I should have you committed.”
“You ran,” I point out. “Fast, too. I’m impressed.”
“Don’t patronize me,” he snaps, then winces as he realises what he just said.
I grin, leaning down a little. “You like running,” I say. “Your body does. I felt it.”
“My lungs are burning,” he shoots back. “My shoes are full of sticks, there’s dirt in my underwear…”
“You’re hard, baby,” I say calmly, because I can feel it pressed against my thigh.
He makes a helpless, outraged sound, cheeks flushing even in the low light. “That’s… that’s adrenaline,” he protests weakly.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
His chest rises and falls under me, breaths still harsh, eyes wide. Fear and arousal mix in his gaze, the same cocktail I’ve seen a hundred times in victims’ faces for all the wrong reasons. On him, it looks like the most fucked-up kind of trust.
“You’re a psycho,” he whispers, but there’s no real heat in it now. “I thought… I thought you were actually going to kill me.”
“Never,” I say, and this time I let the softness through. I lower myself so that our chests brush, my hands planting on the ground beside his shoulders. “I meant what I said; you’re the one person on this planet I will not harm. I’m not going to break that rule out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Then what was all this?” he demands, eyes searching my face. “Some fucked-up cardio session?”
“It was you,” I say simply. “You get off on fear, remember: on being hunted, on not knowing what I’ll do. I gave you that without anyone else around to see. I wanted you to feel the chase with nothing at the end of it except me.”
He swallows, throat bobbing. “You pulled a knife on me,” he says, but his voice has gone low now, hoarse.
I look down at him—at the dirt smeared on his cheek, the leaves caught in his hair, the way his hoodie has ridden up to expose a strip of skin above his jeans—and my hand itches to touch.
“The knife’s in the ground,” I say quietly. “You’re under me. We’re alone. You know exactly who’s in control here.”
His breath hitches. “You,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me. Who do you belong to, Little Sin?”
His eyes flutter, lashes dark against his skin. “You,” he whispers again.
The word hits me like a drug.
My hand moves almost on its own, leaving the ground and sliding to his throat. My fingers curl around the column of it, warm and slick with sweat, pulse thundering under my thumb. I don’t squeeze; not yet. I just hold, feeling the tremor that runs through him at the contact.
He freezes, then an exhale shudders out of him, lips parting. His eyes go heavy—that dazed, wrecked look I’ve come to crave.
“There’s my brave little coward,” I say softly, leaning in so my mouth is a hair’s breadth from his.
“Fuck you,” he breathes, but it has no bite left in it. It sounds like ‘Please, Daddy’.
My thumb strokes up, pressing just a fraction, just enough that I feel his swallow hitch.
“Breathe for me. I’ve got you.”
His pulse thumps steadily beneath my palm, strong and fast, and the little stutter every time I tighten my grip shoots straight through me.
I watch his lips part wider, his tongue slicking across the bottom one as air gets harder to pull in.
I don’t crush; I coast right on the edge, holding him where every breath is earned, not given.
“Dom…” he whispers, voice ragged around the pressure.
I bend, teeth grazing the corner of his mouth, tasting sweat and the woods on his skin. “Color?”
“Green,” he croaks, the word vibrating against my fingertips. His hips jerk up, half-desperate now, seeking friction he’s too wrecked to chase.
I loosen my hand, just a fraction, and let oxygen burn back through him. He drags it in with a hiss, eyes fluttering open, pupils blown. The moment it steadies, I tighten again, teaching his body the rhythm I want—give, take, give, take.
I ease off the pressure again, letting him breathe and he gasps, arching his body, giving me everything. I savor it, then tighten once more, cut the airflow, hold him right at the brink where sound drops to a husky whine.
His eyes roll, hips bucking greedily, and sweat beading at his hairline. I count, then release. Air rushes back, and with it a moan so guttural, my cock fucking jumps.
His throat flexes once beneath my palm, a soft, involuntary flutter that punches heat straight down my spine.
I watch his pupils dilate to the edge, the fragile rims of green almost swallowed by black, and I ease the pressure a millimeter just to feel the way his next breath shudders back in—ragged, grateful, worshiping the air I allow.
I pop the button of his jeans and drag the zipper down. The sound is tiny in the hush of the trees, but it hits him like a thunderclap; his hips jerk, a helpless stutter that makes his hard cock strain against the denim.
“Dominic—” he whispers, the name breaking on a gasped inhale when I tighten again, cutting the word off halfway up his throat. I hold him right there, my thumb pressed over his pulse, counting beats as they climb, then I loosen just enough that he can sip another breath.
His lips part, damp and pink, eyes glassy as though he’s floating somewhere a step outside his body. I want him exactly there: aware, trembling, pinned between panic and pleasure with no idea which way he’ll fall until I decide.
“Use your words,” I murmur, bending so my mouth grazes the corner of his. “Tell me what you need.”
He tries; the first attempt is only a rasp, no consonants, just want. I give him a fraction more air. “Need—” He swallows against my grip, the motion flexing under my palm. “Need you.”
“You have me.” I slide my hand at his waistband lower, pushing past cotton to wrap around his cock. He’s harder now, hot and slick in my fist. “Anything else?”
“Make me take it,” he breathes, lashes fluttering again. “Please.”
I squeeze—not his throat this time, but the thick base of his shaft, trapping blood until his breath hitches and his eyes roll just a little.
The contrast of my loose hold on his windpipe and the punishing grip on his cock snaps something inside him; his hips lift, grinding into my fist, seeking friction that I don’t give yet.
“Greedy,” I murmur, brushing my nose along his cheek. “You ran so well, Brendon. You earned this. But you’ll take what I give.”
I ease my hand up his shaft slowly, torturing, then stop. His pulse kicks furiously beneath my thumb. I tighten on his throat until the next breath sticks. Seconds lengthen. His eyes search mine with trust or fear, I can’t tell, maybe both. The mixture I crave.
Right before his eyes roll back, I release him, air whooshing in; at the same instant, I stroke him with ruthless precision. The rush of oxygen collides with the burst of pleasure, and he arches beneath me, a strangled moan ripping out as his back bows off the dirt.
“That’s it,” I praise, hand sliding from his throat to his jaw, thumb smearing the moisture clinging to his bottom lip. “Breathe. Feel how alive you are.”
He’s stone-hard and leaking, the proof written in slick against my fingers, as I repeat the same movements: cutting off his air, then releasing it, just to stroke his cock.
His back bows; a strangled sound tears free. “Oh… God…”
“No gods out here,” I growl, pumping him harder, pace synced to the pulse fluttering under my thumb. “Just you and me.”
“You’re insane,” he whispers, but the words melt when I finally kiss him—full, deep, tongue claiming the taste of fear and want off his teeth. He whimpers into my mouth, hands sliding from my hoodie up into my hair.
I break the kiss enough to speak against his lips. “Want more?”
“Yes,” he breathes, that single syllable wrecked, honest.
I grin, shifting grip so that my thumb and middle finger frame his pulse, while the rest of my hand cups the back of his skull against the dirt. “On top,” I order, the words a low scrape against the dark. “I want to watch you ride out what you’re feeling.”
Confusion flickers in his eyes, then heat. He swallows hard, blinks once, twice, and I feel the quick thud of his pulse where my thumb still rests. “Dom—”
“No arguments, Little Sin. Strip, straddle me, and take what you begged for.” I lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Earn the oxygen I just gifted you.”
He pushes at my shoulders, and I let him.
Dirt grinds into my hoodie as I roll onto my back and pull my jeans down, cock hard as a fucking rock.
Brendon sits up, removing his shirt and hoodie.
He fumbles with his waistband, then drags his jeans and underwear down his thighs, breath catching when the cold hits his skin.
I sit up forcing myself to stay still, letting him feel every second of my gaze raking over him. He clambers over my hips, thighs quivering as he settles, the length of him flushed and aching against his stomach.
“Eyes on me,” I remind him, and when he obeys, I see the wrecked trust and the feral need tangling behind his pupils.
I open him up until he’s shaking, edged so close that precum is steadily leaking before I pull my fingers out of his hole. I let the anticipation hang between us for a beat longer, watching the way his chest rises and falls—fast, unsteady, aching for relief he’s still too shy to name out loud.