Chapter 33 #4
Then I reach for the hunting knife, half-buried in the loam beside me, wrap my fingers around the worn leather grip, and bring it up between our bodies. I turn it so the edge faces harmlessly away from him, and the broad, blunt pommel sits heavy in my palm.
Brendon’s eyes lock on the weapon, pupils flaring wide. He’s trembling, but he doesn’t dart off my lap or ask me to stop, not even when I remove one of the packets of lube from my pocket and coat the hilt.
I drag the blunt edge of the knife down the line of his sternum, over his stomach, and his breath stutters.
“Ride my knife, Little Sin,” I murmur, guiding the handle forward.
A shiver rips through him. His hands brace on my shoulders, nails biting through cotton. “Dom… ”
“You’re safe,” I promise, even though safety is the last thing either of us is really chasing.
My free hand settles at the small of his back, anchoring him.
“You set the pace. You say stop, it stops. But if you keep going—” I tilt the hilt against him, just enough pressure to make his breath stutter. “—you do it all the way. Understood?”
He answers by shifting his knees wider in the dirt, the moon washing him in silver, turning sweat to starlight.
Then, with excruciating slowness, he lowers himself on the knife in my hand between my legs, letting the rounded pommel slide past the first tight resistance.
His gasp tumbles out, half-pain, half-prayer, eyes fluttering shut.
I hiss through my teeth, every muscle in my body coiling. “Look at me.”
He forces his lashes up. The vulnerability there—terror and want braided tight—is enough to punch the breath from my lungs. I keep the knife steady, angle it so it fills him deeper by fractions; nothing rushed. Every tremor that racks his body ripples straight through me.
“That’s it,” I breathe, steading the knife. “Show me how hungry you are.”
He sinks farther, thighs quaking, soft sounds spilling from his lips each time the hilt stretches him wider.
When he bottoms out, he’s shaking so badly I have to lock my arm around his waist to keep him upright.
The sight of Brendon impaled on my weapon, moonlit and panting, burns itself into my memory.
I hold the knife firmly and let him use it, let him set the rhythm, slow, rocking thrusts that grow greedier as heat overrides fear. Every downward glide draws a new sound: a whimper, a gasp, my name bitten off like blasphemy.
“Still think you’re righteous, preacher’s pet?” I growl against his ear. “Running from a killer, just to fuck the blade that ended so many lives.”
His answer is a wrecked little gasp, more exhale than word, followed by the barest tilt of his hips that drives him down hard, like he’s desperate to carve me deeper.
His blown pupils are drowning as his green eyes turn glassy, almost vacant, and I know that look.
Subspace has him floating, pliant, so wide-open he can’t remember where he ends, and I begin.
“Stay with me,” I murmur, threading a hand into the sweat-damp curls at his nape. I tug to tip his head back so I can see that perfect, vacant surrender. “Good boys don’t float too far, do they?”
“Daddy,” he whimpers, riding the knife harder now, rhythm messy, desperate. Every downward stroke drives a ragged cry past his teeth, and the sight—him split open on something that could gut him in an instant, taking exactly what he begged for—nearly undoes me.
“Enough,” I whisper against his ear. “You’re ready.”
I slowly pull the knife free and toss it aside. He whines at the loss, but the sound turns into a gasp when I position myself and press the blunt head of my cock to where my weapon had just been.
“Breathe, Brendon. You know how to take my cock,” I growl, fingers digging into the muscle of his ass to steady him.
Inch by inch, he lowers, lips parting, a tremor racing through his thighs. When he bottoms out, his entire body quakes, nails carving crescents into my skin. I exhale hard, fighting the instinct to thrust.
He lifts himself enough to drag back down, and the breath he rips from my lungs feels stolen.
Then again—up and down—finding a rhythm that’s more hunger than grace.
I let him chase it, rocking my hips only when he starts to lose cadence, guiding him with subtle rolls that punch little gasps from his throat.
Sweat beads at his temples, trickles down to meet the flush blooming across his chest. Every time he bounces, the chain of the crucifix he refuses to take off flickers against his sternum, something holy caught in sin, and it damn near undoes me.
“Harder,” I order. “Give me all of it.”
He slams all the way down and cries out. I meet him with an upward snap of my hips, and his head tips forward, mouth slack, moan spilling warm across my lips.
“That’s it, filthy boy,” I praise, tightening my hold at his nape, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “Use me until you can’t speak.”
He rides me faster, desperate; the slaps of skin and rasps of breath filling the clearing. When his legs start to shake, I squeeze the sides of his throat again, just a warning pulse, and the tension arcs through him like a live wire. He clenches around me, eyes rolling, rhythm stuttering.
“Dom, I—I’m… ” The confession dissolves into a whimper. I loosen my hold, let air rush back in, then clamp down once more. His whole body bows, pleasure detonating in a shiver so violent it rattles my teeth when I catch his mouth.
My hand slides down, fingers splaying over the bruise blooming on his hip from an earlier grip. I press there, and his whole body seizes in exquisite shock.
“Look at me, beautiful sinner,” I order. It takes him a breath, but then those dark, blown eyes find mine: unfocused, worshipful, entirely mine. “Ride the edge for me. Hold it until I say.”
“Please, Daddy,” he pants—and Brendon’s gone. What’s left is this pliant, trembling thing that only breathes when I let him. He digs his nails into my shoulders, chasing friction, voice breaking on every word as he claws for purchase, losing rhythm, drowning in it.
When his lashes flutter, and his rhythm starts to falter, I continue to stroke his cock and pull him down until our foreheads touch. “Come for me, beautiful prey,” I whisper against his lips.
He obeys—hips locking, back arching, a hoarse shout ripped from somewhere raw, while heat spills between our bellies.
The sight, the sound, the feel of him breaking on top of me drags me over the edge.
I thrust up hard once, twice, bury myself as deep as physics allows, and empty into him with a guttural growl against his throat.
When his gaze clears, he looks dazed and pliant, lips swollen. I lift my wet fingers to my mouth and suck his taste clean while holding eye contact. His breath catches anew, softer now, all surrender.
“You alive?” I ask softly.
A shaky laugh. “Barely.”
“Good.” I kiss the corner of his slack mouth. “That’s how I want you. Told you the chase ends with me.”
He hums and pulls my bottom lip between his teeth. “You going to let me up?”
“Eventually.” I palm his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of a slowly forming bruise that must have come from a tree branch. “But first, you’re going to lie here and feel every beat in that neck I didn’t break.”
He closes his eyes, exhaling steadily. “Yes, Beast.”
When the world settles, he’s slumped against my chest, breath hitching, lashes fluttering like he’s coming down from a high only I’m allowed to give him. I stroke his spine, soothing the shudders, and press my mouth to his temple.
“You belong to me,” I whisper, a promise and a threat all at once.
He nods, boneless in my arms. “Always, Daddy.”
And the monster inside me purrs—sated, for now.