Chapter 15 #2
One hand latched around my wrist, tugging me forward, curls wild, eyes gleaming like he’s vibrating with whatever beat is thudding from inside. The bass is probably rattling the windows already, but I can’t hear it. All I hear is Elias’s laughter, breathless and giddy.
“Come on, sir, it’s my birthday and you promised me one drink,” he says, dragging me through the roped-off entrance like I’m the arm candy instead of the captain. The bouncer raises an eyebrow at the entire feral mess behind us and waves us through without blinking.
Cole lags behind, sulking a little, hoodie up, muttering. Probably still recovering from earlier. Or maybe just irritated no one’s bought him a fruity drink yet.
I lean into Elias’s ear as the music hits full blast—dirty and infectious—and murmur, “You’re gonna get us kicked out in twenty minutes, aren’t you?”
Elias grins so hard his dimples pop. “That depends, Captain. Can I climb you in public or not?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
Elias stomps to the bar, plants his hands on the counter, and grins at the bartender. “Your fruitiest, pinkest, most aggressively colorful drink,” he says. “I want it to look like a unicorn bled out in the blender.”
The bartender, a tall guy with a man-bun and arm tattoos, doesn’t even blink. “Frozen or shaken?”
“Surprise me.”
And of course, surprise means the thing that lands in front of him five minutes later has whipped cream, a flamingo stirrer, an umbrella, edible glitter, and a goddamn glowstick.
Elias beams. I order a whiskey neat, the bartender gives me a smirk like he’s mentally comparing my soul to burnt toast, and we both silently agree I’m not the fun one tonight.
Elias takes a sip. Then another. Then a big slurp. “I love capitalism,” he sighs, licking foam off his lip.
I lean an elbow on the bar beside him, glass in hand, and arch an eyebrow. “You dragged me to a club so you could drink liquified crayons?”
“No, sir,” he chirps, reaching for the cherry and popping it in his mouth, “I dragged you here so I could celebrate my freedom. I’m legal now. You can’t stop me.”
“I stopped you before. Being legal changes nothing.”
He turns, fluttering his lashes at me. “It changes everything. Now when you corrupt me, it’s patriotic.”
I sip my whiskey. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“Yeah,” I admit, letting my fingers brush his wrist just once before pulling away. “I am.”
And fuck, the smile that lights up his face makes it all worth it. Even this ridiculous drink he’s holding that’s somehow turning bluer by the second.
Elias reaches into the radioactive swirl of his drink and plucks the second cherry off the little sword. His fingers are sticky with syrup, and he twirls the stem like he thinks it’ll distract me from the glint in his eyes. It doesn’t.
He lifts it and holds it out. “To us,” he says, soft but cocky. “To birthdays. To legal corruption.”
I raise an eyebrow. He moves the cherry closer and I lean in to bite it clean from his fingers, eyes never leaving his, tongue slow as I drag it off the stem and chew once—hard enough to make sure he hears it.
Elias’s mouth falls open, pupils blown wide as his breath stutters, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. And then he’s squirming in his seat like someone turned the music up inside his spine. He shifts his legs, adjusts his waistband, and has the audacity to glare at me.
“You okay, pup?” I murmur, sipping my whiskey, unbothered.
“No,” he hisses. “That wasn’t fair.”
“Life isn’t fair. But I am.”
“Your definition of fair involves edging me for three days and calling it a lesson.”
“You loved every second.”
His mouth opens like he’s going to deny it. But instead, he just groans and slumps forward onto the bar, muttering into his arms, “I need ten more cherries or I’m gonna die.”
I chuckle low in my throat and press one hand against the back of his neck, just enough to ground him. His skin is warm, flushed as he melts into the touch, whining quietly.
Cole explodes into view, a tray of neon-colored shots in one hand, his other arm flung around Shane like he dragged the poor bastard with him for moral support.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CURLS!” he roars, nearly knocking Elias off his stool.
The tray wobbles, Shane yells, and the bartender flinches—all in one chaotic, synchronized mess.
Elias jolts upright with a yelp, nearly elbows his drink into his own lap, and grabs the counter like it’ll stop the chaos from landing directly in his pants. “Jesus Christ, Cole…what is that, antifreeze?”
“Whatever it is, it’s glowing and you’re drinking it!” Cole shouts with glee, slamming the tray down. “Birthday rules, baby!”
“It’s radioactive,” Elias mutters, poking the nearest shot glass. “If I grow a second dick, I’m blaming you.”
Shane leans in, peering at the liquid. “That one’s mine,” he says, snatching the brightest green. “If anyone’s mutating tonight, it’s me.”
“I am surrounded by toddlers,” I mutter, nursing my whiskey while they descend into madness. Elias takes a breath, shrugs, and downs the glowing red shot in one brutal toss-back. His eyes water, his face scrunches—then he explodes. “OH MY GOD IT BURNS.”
Cole howls with laughter. Shane slams his and immediately starts coughing like he inhaled napalm. And I just stare as Elias’s hand slaps down on my thigh, gripping tight like he needs anchoring. “You good, pup?”
He blinks. “What day is it?”
“Still your birthday.”
“Okay.” He nods. “I want cake. And your dick. Maybe at the same time.”
I drain my whiskey in one slow, satisfied sip and say nothing.
Elias is a menace. One second he’s giggling against the bar, cheeks flushed, curls sticking to his forehead, sipping something blue out of a pineapple—a pineapple—and the next thing I know, he's up on a table with Cole, shirt riding up, arms in the air, screaming lyrics.
Fans are circling like sharks. Phones are out. Someone’s chanting his name. Cole is halfway to crowd-surfing. Elias is…grinding.
I’m at the back of the club, with my second whiskey, pretending this is normal.
Like I didn’t tell him to behave. Or didn’t warn him he’d regret it if he got drunk on his birthday in public with cameras around.
Like I’m not two seconds from dragging his ass down and bending him over the closest surface.
Viktor slides in beside me, arms crossed, face stone-still as he watches Cole shout “SHOW US YOUR TITS” into the void. Elias nearly faceplants.
I throw Viktor a look. One brow lifts.
He catches the look and glares. “Don’t you dare.”
My smirk spreads slow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” he mutters, already glancing back at Cole, who’s now somehow got his shirt halfway off and is yanking Elias into a spin.
Elias nearly falls.
I start to rise from my seat, but Viktor’s hand clamps around my arm. “Wait until he at least finishes the song.”
I snort under my breath. “He’s going to finish something.”
Right on cue, Elias throws both arms around Cole’s shoulders, spins, and screams, “I’M TWENTY-ONE, BITCHES!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, already planning the damage control.
Yeah. I’m ending this night with him in cuffs.
The city lights cut through the blinds in sharp silver slashes.
Elias is glowing in them. Spread across my sheets, wrists bound to the headboard with one of my old Reapers jerseys—black fabric biting into flushed skin, curls stuck to his forehead, mouth red and ruined from moaning sir like it’s the only word he remembers.
He's wrecked. And still not nearly wrecked enough.
He writhes under me, back arching, thighs trembling as I grind in deeper, slower, just to hear him whimper again.
"Fucking—shit, sir—" His voice is shattered. Drunk, thick with syrup and need. His head slams back against the pillow. “You’re—fuck—you’re so deep I can’t—I can’t even—”
“You can,” I growl, fisting his thigh and slamming in again, hard enough to make the bed creak and the walls shake. "You always take me, pup. Don't start lying now."
He chokes on a gasp, his face flushed. And God, his cock’s leaking against his abs, untouched, twitching every time I grind against that spot that makes him see stars and saints and nothing at all.
I slow it down just to torture him. Just to watch the madness bloom behind those green eyes.
He bucks. Useless, bound and whiny. "Faster," he gasps, the words slurring like he’s melting. "Please—please, I’m—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come without—"
I still and he screams. The kind that would get noise complaints if I gave a fuck.
"You’re loud when you’re drunk," I murmur, dragging my fingers up his throat, slow and firm, pressing enough to make his breath stutter.
"You realize that? The neighbors are going to hear every time I ruin you tonight. "
He moans like that’s the hottest thing he's ever heard. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the fact he’s twenty-one and wild and finally mine like this, gutted open on my bed, begging without shame.
“I don’t care,” he says. “Let them hear. Let the whole city hear.”
I chuckle, low and mean. “Oh, they will, baby.” And then I thrust deep, brutal and perfect.
He shrieks, fists clenched in the sleeves tied around his wrists, legs spread so wide I’ve got bruises blooming on his hips from how hard I’m holding him down.
"You said one drink," I murmur against his jaw, biting beneath his ear. "That was six. And a half."
“Seven,” he pants. “Cole made me do the last one. Said it was a—fuck—a team-building exercise.”
I snap my hips again, and he screams, raw and wrecked. “You think this is what he meant?” I ask.
“Not—not exactly—” he gasps, writhing under me, drunk and delirious, so hard he’s flushed pink at the tip, cock twitching uselessly against his belly. “Sir—I can’t—I need—please—touch me—”
“Do you deserve it?”
His whole body trembles. “I—I don’t know—”
“You forgot your shirt, pup.”
“I wore yours,” he pants.
“You climbed me at the bar.”
“I had to claim my prize!”
“You licked glitter off a cherry and almost got arrested.”
He whimpers, hips jerking up into nothing, straining for friction he’s not allowed. “I said I was sorry—”
“You’re not sorry.” My voice drops, right against his open mouth. “You’re fucking glowing.”
And he is. God, he is. Flushed and gorgeous, tied to my bed with glitter in his curls and sin in his smile, wrecked and radiant and mine.
He’s shaking so hard the mattress trembles under him.
Drunk Elias is a different creature entirely—louder, needier, shameless to the point of madness.
Every part of him begs, even when his mouth is too wrecked to form the words.
His voice is hoarse from shouting in the club, but it still breaks beautifully every time I deny him.
“Sir—please, I can’t—I can’t—” His head thrashes, curls sticking to his temples, teeth sinking into his lip like he’s trying not to scream even though he already is.
His cock leaks thick against his stomach, twitching with every rock of my hips.
“I’m gonna come, I swear—sir, it’s right there—I can’t hold it—”
“You will.” I rest one hand on the center of his chest, pinning him to the mattress. He gasps, chest bowing up into my palm, body wild with adrenaline and alcohol. “You’re gonna hold it for me, pup, even if it kills you.”
“It is killing me,” he chokes, the words nearly a wail. “Please, sir—please—I’m begging—”
“You haven’t even started begging,” I growl, leaning down until my mouth is against his jaw, my breath hot against his slick skin. I grind in slow enough to make him whine. “You want to come? Then give me something real.”
His eyes blow wide, pupils huge and glossy and terrified in a way that tells me he knows exactly what I mean. Drunk Elias has no filter. No brakes. No shame. And I want every filthy, unguarded truth he’s drowning in right now.
“S–sir—what do you want—?”
“What you always want to say,” I murmur, thrusting deep enough to make his voice crack. “What you think about when you’re high on me. What you dream about when you’re sleeping on my chest. What you whispered into my mouth the first time you broke for me.”
He’s panting. Tears spill hot and fast from the corners of his eyes, streaking down his flushed cheeks. His arms flex above his head, fingers clawing uselessly at the restraints, thighs shaking so violently I have to grip them hard to hold him steady.
“Say it,” I whisper, rough. “Or you don’t come.”
He lets out a sound, raw, strangled, humiliatingly beautiful, like the truth is clawing its way up his throat and he’s too drunk, too desperate, too mine to stop it.
“Please,” he sobs. “Please—I want—I want—fuck—I can’t—I can’t say it—”
“You can.” I slam in once and his whole body bows, back arched, toes curled, mouth open in a soundless scream. “You can and you will. Say it, pup.”
Then it hits him all at once. The pleasure, the pressure, the alcohol, the week-long chokehold of the finals, the ring he can’t stop thinking about, the way I held him after the Bastards win, the way I whispered good boy against his cheek.
His whole face crumples, body shattering under mine, voice breaking open in a wrecked sob that tears straight out of his lungs.
“I want to wear your name,” he cries. “I want to wear your name, sir—I want your ring—I want everybody to know I’m yours—I want to be yours forever—please, sir, please—just let me come—”
I lose control.
I slam into him like the answer is yes, like it’s carved into my bones, like I’ve been waiting to hear it in that voice, that desperation. He sobs harder, whole body shaking, thighs clamped around my hips in a trembling vice as I pound him into the mattress.
“Again,” I snarl, hand closing around his jaw, forcing him to look at me even through the tears. “Say it again.”
He breaks. “I want your name,” he screams. “I want your name—I want your ring—I want to be your husband—sir, please—please—please—”
“That’s it,” I growl, fucking him so hard the headboard slams the wall. “Come for me.”
He screams, a hoarse, beautiful, drunken wail that echoes off the apartment walls as he comes untouched, shooting across his stomach, his chest, his throat, his whole body convulsing under mine.
His orgasm is endless, messy, loud, his voice breaking, sobs and gasps tangling with my name in a way I’ve never heard from him before.
I fuck him through every second of it.
And when he finally collapses, shaking and crying, I don’t pull out. I cage him in with my body, mouth against his ear, both hands cradling his face like he’s the only thing alive in my world.
“You want my name?” I murmur, ruined. “You’ll have it.”
He whimpers.
“You’ll have everything.”
He sobs once. A quiet, broken, perfect sound.
“Now,” I whisper, hips rolling again, slow and deep. “We’re not done.”