Chapter 21
twenty-one
Nikolaj
Idon’t bother finishing the coffee.
I set the cup aside, crowd him until the counter presses into the small of his back, and catch his chin between my fingers because I want every bit of that grin wiped clean.
“You remember what happens when you gloat too long?” I ask, voice low, thumb dragging across his lower lip.
He keeps smiling, the reckless kind that says he already knows I’m going to make good on every threat. “You lecture me about hubris, then you do something unforgivably filthy to prove a point.”
“Right.” I twist my grip and tilt his head back, making him look at me dead-on. “Guess which part comes next.”
His pupils blow wide. The grin falters, then shifts—less smug, more hungry. “You’re the king, Nikolaj. In here, anyway.”
Wrong answer; it sparks instead of soothes. The word king has never sounded more like a dare.
I shove the coffee mug farther away with a clatter, curl my hand into the waistband of his boxers, and spin him.
His hips hit the marble edge; the breath leaves him in a grunt that punches right into my pulse. I flatten him over the counter, palm splayed between his shoulders to keep him there.
“No crowns right now,” I growl against the nape of his neck. “Just you learning how it feels when you talk too much before breakfast.”
He laughs—breathy, cocky—then tries to push back like he’s testing the hold. I tighten down. “Behave,” I warn.
“Make me.”
Challenge accepted.
I yank his wrists behind his back, pin them with one hand, and shove the boxers low with the other.
He sucks in air, hips jerking when the cold marble kisses hot skin.
The muscles across his shoulders bunch beneath my palm, tattoos flexing like wings ready to tear free, and for a beat I just look—at the bruises I left last night dusting along his hips, at the imprint of my teeth just below the line of his ribs.
Evidence. Proof. Mine.
“Still so proud,” I whisper. “But you’ll give me what I want.”
“Take it,” he dares.
My mouth trails lower, finding him lush and ready, and I eat him open with ruthless patience—nothing hurried, nothing gentle, every stroke purposeful until the marble squeaks beneath his palms and he’s cursing in languages we both bled for.
His breath racks against the countertop—sharp, shaky, and edged with the same defiance that kept him alive long enough to reach me again. I savor the tremor coursing through him, the way his hips cant back as if to shorten a distance that’s already gone.
“Eight years,” I murmur against the ridged line of scar tissue along his spine. I trace it with my tongue, a slow apology and a promise rolled into one. “Tell me you didn’t dream of this. Tell me you didn’t wake up wanting my mouth on every inch you tried to forget.”
He hisses something vicious in Italian, and I drink it down like penance. The marble groans beneath his grip, the tendons in his forearms snapping taut as he fights the instinct to yield first. Pride always was his favorite poison.
“Thought so,” I breathe, dragging my teeth just high enough to make him jolt. “Wait here for me. If you move, I stop.”
“You fucking bastard,” he moans, and I can do nothing but chuckle at my impatient little slut.
I walk over to the counter, where I spotted the coconut oil, then I head back to where Vincenzo is waiting for me with his ass bared.
I slather some between my fingers, then say, “Hold on to the counter, My King. You’ll need it.”
His reply dies in his throat when I begin—slow, relentless, coaxing him open one patient sweep at a time.
I don’t rush; I want the memory of this to haunt the next summit, and every gilded throne room he walks into wearing that unshakable crown.
I want him ruined on cold marble and in morning light, just for me.
He tries, once, to wrestle control back—rocks against me, gasps my name like a warning—but I catch his hip and pin him, a low growl vibrating through my chest. It’s enough.
He softens, his surrender coaxed rather than stolen, and when I finally pull my fingers out, the sound he makes isn’t a challenge at all. It’s relief. The raw, wordless kind that slips out before pride can mask it.
I press close, chest to his back, letting him feel how far my restraint has frayed.
“Still sore?” I ask.
He tries to be nonchalant. “I’ll live.”
“I didn’t ask if you’d live.” I scrape teeth along the shell of his ear. “I asked if I hurt you.”
His breath hitches. “Maybe.”
“Good.” I shift my stance, thigh wedged between his legs, grinding slow enough to drag another sound from him. “Because I’m not finished with your hole.”
Vincenzo’s reply is a half-snarl that melts into a groan when I line up and push the thick head against him, just enough pressure to make him fight for breath. He spreads his stance wider, feet sliding on the tile, knuckles white on the counter edge.
He tries to keep it dignified—back straight, chin up—but dignity dies fast when I smear coconut oil down the crease of his ass, then shove in a single hard thrust that buries me halfway before his body clamps down.
A sharp hiss sings through his teeth. I don’t give him time to adjust, I just hold there, grinding, letting him feel the stretch pulse by pulse.
I grab a fistful of his hair, yank his head back so he’s looking at the ceiling, throat stretched. I watch his eyelids flutter, watch the flush crawl up his chest. The sight punches straight to my cock; I shove another inch inside, hiss a curse when the grip of him burns.
“Fuck, you’re tight even after last night. You miss this? Eight years eating European croissants and smiling for cameras while your hole went hungry?”
He tries to snort, but it breaks like glass when I ram the rest of the way home. The slap of my hips against his ass echoes off stainless steel and stone.
He chokes out my name, one part accusation, three parts devotion, all of it mine. I let go of his hair, palm flattening between his shoulder blades, and I pin him hard, pull out almost to the tip, then slam in again, pace brutal from the jump because slow has never kept our demons fed.
Somewhere a cup skitters, but he’s not thinking about fine china now; he’s thinking about staying on his feet while I wreck every civilized inch of him. I lean forward, bite the joint of neck and shoulder until his knees buckle, and he yelps.
“Up,” I growl, dragging him back by the hair. “I’m not fucking you on the floor.”
“You’re—ah—fucking impossible,” he pants, voice splintering as I piston faster, each thrust scouring the soreness I put there last night. I scrape my nails down his spine hard enough to leave red tracks, then soothe with a palm, and laugh roughly.
“Watch the compliments, king. Might start thinking you enjoy this.”
He answers with a curse that slips into a moan when my cock nails his prostate dead-on. His hips jerk, and I feel him leak, wet and hot against the edge of the counter.
I don’t let him drift. I wrap one hand around his throat from behind, squeezing just shy of cutting off air. His pulse slams against my thumb, frantic, a staccato drum begging for mercy he’ll never voice.
“Say it,” I snap, hammering in so deep his breath whooshes out. “Say whose cock fills you before you have to go back to your wife. Whose cum are you gonna feel sliding out while you sign trade agreements?”
“Yours, Nikolaj,” he gasps, the words shredded, honest, ruined. “Always fuck—yours.” He tries to push back harder, greed flaring. I let him ride for a few strokes, then catch his wrists again, shove them higher on the counter so his chest compresses, lungs working overtime.
My grip’s iron; he couldn’t break free if he tried. I find the coconut oil bottle where I left it, pop the top with my teeth, drizzle a slick trail over his twitching hole, and my cock where it pistons in and out. The extra glide turns the slap louder and more obscene.
“You’re dripping all over the marble,” I taunt, voice thick with my own need. “Gonna have to get housekeeping to scrape our mess out of the grout.”
He shivers, throat working as he tries for composure. I suck a bruise under his ear, right where a collar would hide it, then fuck into him so hard the counter physically scoots a couple of centimeters. He cries out, knees shaking.
“Do it,” I snarl, jackhammer pace turning savage. “Let everyone know the king bent for his monster.”
I snake my hand on his throat downward, grip his cock slick with pre-cum, and stroke in a rough counter-rhythm.
He’s so fucking hard it’s obscene. Each pull drags a strangled sound out of him.
His back bows, tattoos flex, sweat drips off his jaw.
The entire room stinks of oil and sex; no hint left of fancy coffee. Just raw need.
I feel the tremor start deep, the way his ass clamps, the muscles in his legs lock. He’s close. I tighten my hand at his base, cock buried balls-deep, and hold him on the edge.
He whines—a broken, desperate noise that makes my balls tighten. “Nikolaj, please, shit, fuck, let me—”
“Beg better,” I grunt, breath punching out hot. “Tell me what you want.”
“Want to come,” he rasps, trying to roll his hips, but I pin him mercilessly. “Need to spill for you, need to feel you breed me, goddamn it—”
That tears the last shred of restraint. I release my chokehold grip, fist his cock viciously, piston into him so fast everything blurs. He shouts my name like a fucking prayer, spills hot across the gleaming counter, thick ropes painting white over marble.
The moment he clamps tight, milking me, I snap. Heat surges, and my vision whites out. I slam home, hold, and empty with a roar that rattles pendant lights. It feels endless—eight years’ worth of claim pouring into him.
When it finally ebbs, I sag forward, sweat dripping off my chin onto his spine. We stay fused, both shaking, heat rising off our skins into the cool suite air.
His breathing stutters, then settles into broken chuckles. “You fuck like a man making up for lost time.”
I nuzzle sweaty hair at the crown of his head, pull out slowly, hissing at the sensitivity, and watch my spend drip down the inside of his thigh. “I am making up for lost time.”
He pushes off the counter, legs wobbling, turns, and slumps back against the edge. His chest rises and falls—he looks destroyed in the best way. Bruises spread, bite marks leak pink, his cock softening, but still weeping.
He cups the back of my neck, pulls me into a kiss that tastes like coffee gone stale and sweet like victory all the same.
His smile is loose, satisfied, eyes blown and fond. “Coffee’s cold now.”
“Worth it,” I say, and kiss him slowly this time, tasting happiness on his tongue. “Sit. I’ll make another pot.”
He laughs, shaky but bright, and perches on a stool, still naked, dripping my cum, and completely unashamed. “Domestic again. Dangerous trend.”
I pour water, grind beans, and refuse to look at him because my knees still feel loose, and my chest too open. Behind me, he hums, fingers tapping the counter.
“Nikolaj?”
I glance over my shoulder.
He raises a brow. “You’re making enough coffee for two, right?”
I roll my eyes, shove a fresh mug across the counter, and lean in until our foreheads touch. “I’ll always make enough for two,” I say, and mean it in ways coffee will never cover.