Chapter 10 Quiet Watcher
QUIET WATCHER
VIKTOR
The summons came through my comm at seven in the morning.
My chambers. Now. We need to discuss today's schedule.
No please. No courtesies. Just a command delivered like he had the right to order me around.
Which, technically, he did.
I stood outside his door for three seconds, composing myself. Professional distance. Clinical detachment. Just another briefing with a principal who didn't respect boundaries.
I knocked once. Heard his voice call out. “Come in.”
I opened the door.
And stopped.
Sebastian was in bed. Still. Propped up against a mountain of pillows, covers pooled around his waist. Wearing soft grey pyjama pants and a black t-shirt that clung to his frame. Hair messy from sleep. Looking deliberately casual in a way that felt calculated.
Apollo was sprawled at the foot of the bed, tail thumping once in greeting before settling back down.
Traitor.
“Good morning, Viktor.” Sebastian's voice was lazy. Warm. Like this was completely normal. “Close the door.”
I did. Kept my eyes firmly on his face. Professional. Detached. “You said we need to discuss schedule.”
“Mmm. We do.” He stretched, arms going overhead in a way that made his shirt ride up slightly. Just a flash of skin. Gone before I could process it. “The economic advisors. Three-hour meeting this afternoon. Sounds thrilling.”
“Is required meeting. Finance minister will be there.”
“I know.” He settled back against the pillows, one hand resting on his stomach. “That's why we need to discuss strategy. Can't have me falling asleep in front of the money people.”
I forced my gaze to stay above his shoulders. “You could have called briefing in your office.”
“Could have.” His fingers traced lazy patterns over his shirt. “But I'm comfortable here. You don't mind, do you?”
Mind. I minded everything about this. Minded the way he sprawled in that bed like an invitation. Minded the heat crawling up my spine. Minded that my cock was taking interest despite every attempt at discipline.
“Is inappropriate,” I said.
“Is it?” His hand drifted lower. Resting against his abdomen. “We're discussing business. I'm just doing it from bed. People work from bed all time.”
“Not with their bodyguard present.”
“You're not just my bodyguard though, are you?” His eyes met mine. Challenging. “You're the man who ground against me in the workshop. Who came in his pants like a teenager. Who looked at me like he wanted to devour me.”
“That was mistake.”
“Was it?” His hand slid down to his thigh. Innocent. But the intention clear. “Because I've been thinking about it. About the way you felt against me. About how hard your cock was. About the sounds you made when you came.”
“Sebastian.” Warning. Threat. Plea.
“Viktor.” He mimicked my tone perfectly. “Come closer. I can barely hear you from over there.”
“Can hear me fine.”
“Closer.” Not a request. A command.
I didn't move. “We can discuss meeting from here.”
“Afraid of me?” His smile was wicked. “Afraid you'll lose control if you get too close?”
“I do not lose control.”
“Don't you?” He shifted, covers slipping lower.
My jaw clenched. “That was—”
“Hot,” he interrupted. “That was hot, Viktor. Watching you fall apart. Feeling your cock pulse against mine as you came.” His hand moved to the waistband of his pajama pants. Fingers tracing the edge. “Want to see if we can make it happen again?”
“We are supposed to discuss meeting.”
“We are discussing it. I'm just making it interesting.” His fingers slipped just under the waistband. Not pulling down. Just resting there. “Come to the foot of the bed. Stand at attention. Maintain your precious professional distance while we talk business.”
It was a game. A test. He was asserting dominance the only way he could, by making me uncomfortable, by pushing boundaries I'd tried to establish.
I could refuse. Should refuse.
Instead, I moved to the foot of the bed. Stood at attention. Hands clasped behind my back. Eyes fixed on the wall above his head.
“Better,” Sebastian said. Voice dropping lower. Rougher. “Now. The economic advisors. What do I need to know?”
“Finance minister will present quarterly reports. Budget proposals. You will need to approve—”
“Boring.” His hand moved under his waistband. I could see the shift of his wrist. The slow movement. “Give me the parts that actually matter.”
I kept my eyes on the wall. “All of it matters.”
“Does it? Or is it just three hours of old men lecturing me about fiscal responsibility while pretending they care about anything other than maintaining their own power?” His wrist moved in slow circles now. “You're the one who seems uncomfortable. What's wrong, Viktor? Something bothering you?”
“You know exactly what you are doing.”
“Do I?” Innocent. Playful. “Tell me. What am I doing?”
“Asserting control.”
“Smart man.” He pushed the waistband down. Just an inch. Just enough to show a line of bronze skin. Trail of dark hair disappearing beneath fabric. “And is it working?”
Yes. God, yes. My cock was half-hard in my pants. My hands were clenched so tight behind my back my knuckles ached. Every instinct I had was screaming to either leave or cross that distance and show him exactly what happened when he pushed too far.
“No,” I lied.
“Liar.” He pushed his pants lower. Not all the way. Just enough to expose the base of his cock. Thick. Hard. Straining against the fabric still covering most of him. “I can see it in the way you're standing. The way your jaw is clenched. The way you're trying so hard not to look.”
“We are supposed to discuss meeting.”
“We are discussing it. I'm just doing other things at the same time.” He wrapped his hand around what was visible. Squeezed. Made himself gasp softly. “Multitasking. Very efficient.”
“This is not appropriate.”
“You keep saying that. Like appropriate means anything between us.” His thumb swept over the exposed head. Gathering the wetness there. “We're past appropriate, Viktor. We crossed that line when you came all over yourself while grinding on me like an animal in heat.”
“That was—”
“What you wanted. What you needed.” He stroked slowly. Deliberate. “Tell me about the budget proposals. While you watch.”
I stared at the wall. “Finance minister wants to cut social services by eight percent. Reallocate to defense.”
“And what do you think I should do?” His hand moved faster. Cock sliding against his palm. Still mostly covered by fabric but the movement unmistakable. “Approve it?”
“Not my decision.”
“But if it were. What would you do?” Stroke. Breath catching. “Would you cut services? Leave children without support because old men think bombs are more important than food?”
“I would tell them to go to hell.”
“Good answer.” He arched slightly. Hips lifting into his hand. “What else?”
“Transportation budget needs approval. New rail lines. Infrastructure.”
“Boring.” Stroke. Squeeze. “What else?”
“Tax reform proposal. Will affect working class—”
“Viktor.” My name came out breathy. Strained. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me or I'll strip completely. Let you see everything you're trying so hard not to think about.”
The threat was effective. I dropped my gaze. Found his eyes. Saw the challenge there. The heat. The absolute certainty that he was winning this game.
His hand was moving steadily now. Cock hard and flushed where it was exposed above his pushed-down waistband. His other hand gripped the sheets. He was flushed. Breathing harder. Putting on a show designed to destroy me.
“Tell me about tax reform,” he said. “While you watch me stroke my cock.”
I forced words out. Clinical. Professional. “Tax reform will increase burden on working class. Decrease burden on corporations. Is bad policy disguised as economic stimulus.”
“And you think I should reject it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” His hand squeezed harder. Precum leaking steadily now. Making his strokes slicker. Faster. “Convince me. Make an argument.”
“Because people are struggling. Because cutting their taxes matters more than corporate profits. Because—” I stopped. “You already know this. You do not need me to tell you.”
“No. But I want to hear you say it.” His thumb swept over the head again. Gathering more wetness. Spreading it down his length. “I want to hear you talk about policy while you watch me get off. Want to see how long you can maintain that control.”
“You are playing game.”
“Yes.” His hand moved faster. Wrist twisting on the upstroke. “A game I'm winning. Tell me more about tax policy, Viktor. Tell me about the working class while I fuck my own fist in front of you.”
This was torture. Exquisite. Designed to break me.
I kept talking. “Reform will hurt small businesses. Will force families to choose between food and rent. Will increase poverty while making rich richer.”
“Good.” He stroked faster. Hips lifting to meet each stroke. “What else?”
“Opposition will be strong. Labor unions will protest. You will face political consequences.”
“Don't care.” His breath hitched. Free hand fisting the sheets. “What else?”
“You should reject it. Publicly. Make statement that crown stands with workers, not corporations.”
“Yes.” He was close. I could see it in the tension in his body. In the way his thighs trembled. In how his cock was leaking steadily. “Tell me something true.”
“What?”
His eyes locked on mine. Desperate. Demanding. “Give me something real while I come.”
The demand was outrageous. Manipulative. Calculated to break my control.
It worked.
“I want you,” I said. Voice rough. Raw. “I want to cross this room and shove those pants down completely. Want to replace your hand with mine. Want to make you beg. Want to hear you say my name like prayer while I stroke you until you break.”
His eyes went wide. Then he came. Hard. Cock jerking in his fist, cum spilling over his hand, painting stripes across his shirt and exposed skin. He gasped, back arching, eyes never leaving mine. Hips stuttering up into his grip as he rode it out.
Beautiful. Devastating.