Chapter 10 Kings Don’t Sleep Easy #4
His cock buried so deep I felt it in my stomach, and for a second neither of us moved.
Just the full-body tremor of it, both of us recalibrating to the pressure and the stretch and the heat.
His grip on my hips had gone white-knuckled.
The composure on his face was held together by nothing more than sheer will and it was cracking at the edges.
“Move,” he said. It came out rough. Not a command this time. More like a request, or maybe a plea.
I moved.
Rolled my hips first, getting the feel of it, finding the angle, then lifted and came back down and the sensation punched all the air out of me.
I did it again. Built a rhythm that was slower than I wanted, grinding down on each drop, working out exactly where he hit to make my thighs clench and my vision blur at the edges.
I found it fast.
I braced both hands on his chest and rode him properly.
Working up and down with intent, each drop coming with enough force that the sound of it filled the room, skin slapping against skin, his cock dragging through me in a way that was going to make walking interesting tomorrow and I didn't care.
His hands on my hips started guiding, pulling me down harder to meet the upward roll of his pelvis, and the combined force of it was making stars burst behind my eyelids.
“You feel insane,” he said. His voice was ruined, all gravel and rough edges. “Every fucking time, you feel like this and it drives me out of my mind.”
I rode him harder. The headboard had started knocking again, a rhythm that matched ours, and the spit was still drying on my face and his cock was hitting everything right and his hands were on my chest and the whole of it together was too much, was exactly enough, was building in the base of my spine like a live wire.
He sat up fast, changing the angle completely, wrapping both arms around my back and pulling me against his chest, and suddenly he was fucking up into me with short hard thrusts while I held on and took it. His mouth found my throat, teeth closing on the pulse point there, and that was it.
I came apart.
The orgasm hit without any more warning than that, his teeth on my throat and his cock buried deep and his hands gripping my back hard enough to leave marks, and I spilled between us with a sound that was low and open and pulled from somewhere I didn't usually let things come from.
I felt it in my thighs, my spine, the backs of my knees, rolling through me in waves that made my rhythm stutter and grind and lose all pretense of control, my ass clenching around him in pulses I couldn't stop.
Luka felt it. The clench of me around him, the way my whole body locked up and then released, and his grip went brutal.
“Fuck, Troy, I can't—”
He drove up into me three times, short and hard, seated as deep as he could get on the last one, and came with his face pressed into my neck and a sound that was rough and genuine and nothing like the composed version of himself he presented to the rest of the world.
I felt him pulse inside me, felt the heat of it filling me in waves, felt his hands shaking where they gripped my back like he needed to hold on to stay grounded.
Neither of us moved for a long moment. The city hummed outside the window, completely indifferent to what had just happened in this room.
“Fuck,” he said finally, into my skin.
“Yeah.”
He pulled back enough to look at my face. His hair was wrecked, jaw flushed, mouth swollen. He looked nothing like the man who'd opened the door in a perfectly tailored suit and I found that deeply satisfying.
He reached up and wiped my chin with his thumb, collecting the dried mess there from earlier, and looked at it for a second before looking back at me.
“Bathroom's through there,” he said, nodding toward the door to his left. Completely matter-of-fact, like we were colleagues who'd just finished a meeting and not two men who'd just fucked each other raw.
I stumbled to the bathroom on shaking legs. Cleaned myself up as best I could, splashed water on my face, and tried to look like I hadn't just been taken apart and put back together by my former mentor.
When I came back out, Luka had two glasses of whiskey waiting on the nightstand. He'd pulled on his boxer briefs but otherwise looked put together in a way that should have been illegal after what we'd just done, sitting against the headboard like nothing had happened.
I took the glass he offered. Drank half of it in one go, felt the burn slide down and settle warm in my chest.
We sat on opposite ends of the couch, both of us settling into the comfortable silence that came from years of knowing each other. The easy version of quiet where neither of us felt the need to fill the space with bullshit.
“You look like shit,” Luka said finally.
“Thanks. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”
“I'm serious.” His eyes tracked over the bruising on my face, the careful way I was sitting to keep pressure off my ribs. “How bad is it?”
“I've had worse.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's the only one you're getting.” I took another drink. “So are we doing this? The whole concerned mentor routine?”
“Would you prefer I pretend not to notice you're moving like someone worked you over with a crowbar?”
“I'd prefer you remember I can handle myself.”
“Handling yourself and getting the shit kicked out of you aren't mutually exclusive, Troy.” But there was warmth in his voice, almost fond. Like he'd missed arguing with me. “You win the fight?”
“I'm here, aren't I?”
“Also not an answer.”
“Yeah, well, you're not entitled to all my secrets just because you fucked me.” I stretched out slightly, testing my ribs. They screamed. I ignored them. “How's New York?”
“Complicated.”
“You said there were issues with the survivors from last month. What issues?”
“The version where half of them don't have legal documentation, two are minors without guardians, and one tried to bolt the first night because she thought we were just another trafficking operation with better branding.” He swirled his whiskey, watching the liquid catch the light.
“Ash has been running point on getting them stable. Placement, therapy, legal aid. The works.”
“That's a lot.”
“It's necessary.” His jaw tightened. “We pulled them out of a nightmare. Making sure they don't end up back in one or dead in a ditch somewhere is the bare minimum.”
I'd worked enough Sentinel operations to know the statistics. Knew how many survivors got retrafficked within the first year. Knew how many disappeared because they didn't have support systems or resources or any fucking reason to believe the world could be different than what they'd been shown.
“How many are we talking?” I asked.
“Fifteen. Twelve women, three men. Ages ranging from sixteen to thirty-four.” Luka set his glass down, leaned back.
“The two minors are the biggest headache.
One's from Moldova, barely speaks English.
The other's American but her family's been looking for her for three years, and now that we've found her she doesn't want to go back.”
“Why not?”
“Because they're the reason she ran in the first place.” His voice went flat. “Father was abusive. Mother enabled it. She figured the streets were safer than home, and she was probably right until someone picked her up and sold her.”
“What's Ash doing about it?”
“Working with a family law attorney to get emergency custody transferred to the state, then finding a placement that isn't a group home or back with the parents.” Luka rubbed his eyes.
Looked tired in a way I didn't see often.
“It's a mess. Legal red tape, bureaucratic bullshit, and a system that's designed to fail these kids even when they're trying to help.”
“Sounds like Ash is having a great time.”
“He's ready to burn down half the New York family court system.” But there was pride in Luka's voice. “He's good at this. Better than I am. He gives a shit about the details, about making sure every single person gets what they need instead of just what's efficient.”
I'd seen Ash work. Knew the difference between Luka's calculated strategy and Ash's bleeding heart determination to save everyone even when it was impossible. They balanced each other. Made the Sentinels more effective because they could play both angles.
“How much longer's he stuck there?” I asked.
“Depends. If the custody hearing goes well, maybe another few days. If it doesn't, could be a couple weeks.” Luka picked up his phone, checked his messages, then looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. “Want to say hi?”
“To Ash?”
“No, to the Pope. Yes, to Ash.” He was already pulling up FaceTime. “He's been asking about you.”
“We were on the plane together.”
“And he's still asking.” Luka's mouth twitched. “You know how he is.”
The phone started ringing. Ash's face filled the frame a moment later, all sharp features and dark eyes that went from tired to amused the second he saw me.
“Well, look who's still alive,” Ash said. “How's Chicago treating you?”
“Like a bitch.”
“So, business as usual.” Ash grinned. “You settling in okay? Declan's place working out?”
“It's fine.”
“He means it's weird as hell but he's too stubborn to admit it,” Luka said.
“I don't remember asking for your commentary.”
“And yet here I am, providing it anyway.” Luka settled back, whiskey in hand. “Ash, update on the placement situation?”
“Hearing's tomorrow morning. Attorney thinks we've got a good shot at getting the state to take temporary custody, but it's going to depend on the judge.” Ash ran a hand through his hair.
Looked exhausted. “The Moldovan girl's doing better.
We found a translator, got her connected with an immigration attorney.
She's scared as hell but she's talking now, which is progress.”
“What about the others?” I asked.