Chapter 19 Roth #2
“Green,” he answers without hesitation, accepting my invitation.
I take another long drought from my glass before setting it down beside the chair, and stand to face him.
Despite being four inches taller, he bows his head.
Now that he’s close, I can smell what Killian must have; beneath the acrid scent of anxiety, the undercurrents of fear mingled with anticipation, there’s a sweetness that makes my mouth water.
With measured, methodical movements, I divest him of his clothes in silence.
By the time he’s bare before me, he’s trembling, muscles coiled with tension, tattooed skin alight with goosebumps.
I light a fire in the imposing fireplace with a single thought, and it slowly warms the air as I circle him, inspecting his body for any wounds or bruises, ensuring he’s capable of enduring a scene.
“Are you injured or otherwise physically impaired?”
“No.”
“Do you have any new limitations I should know?”
“No.”
“Safeword?”
“Red.” I hum quietly as the light from the growing flames dances over the hard planes of his body, so unlike my own.
Where I am broad-shouldered and proportionally muscled, he is long and lean: the perfect swimmers body, bred to cut through the waves like a knife splitting flesh and withstand the crushing pressure of the depths.
“Kneel. Hands behind your back.” He obeys, plaintive gaze following my path as I continue to circle until I’m facing his back.
I undo the complex knot of my tie and the cool silk slips through my hands until his, and I bind his wrists together.
Not too tight, but not loose enough for him to easily escape. When I’m done, I return to face him.
“How close is your demon at this moment?”
“Feels like he’s going to rip through my skin.”
“And why is that?”
“He… took over, earlier.”
“Start from the beginning.”
His broad chest heaves as he sucks in a deep breath, before exhaling sharply when I tilt his head back to meet my eyes. “Luther came in carrying Nyx. She was unconscious. Mercer had me lead the examination and review concussion protocol.”
“And?”
“She walked me through healing Nyx’s concussion and the laceration on her head.”
“So, how exactly did your fingers find their way into her cunt?” Because now that sweetness is taunting me, too. His cock thickens in response even as he kneels before me.
“Her knee was dislocated, so… I had to cut her pants off.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
He hesitates. His first infraction.
I hum, loosening my belt as I circle behind him, and his breath stutters upon realizing his mistake.
“Three strikes. One for every second of hesitation, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes.” His answer is immediate this time. The leather is supple as I fold it, warming it between my palms.
“Bend over.” He exhales sharply and walks on his knees until his chest is pressed into the seat of my chair, knees spread wide.
My eyes roam the tattooed expanse of his skin, fingers brushing over the bumpy curve of his spine until he shivers.
His submission sates the demon inside of me that seeks to dominate.
His gift of trust is a sacred thing, a precious burden, entirely at my mercy.
Mine to play with.
Mine to own.
My palm drifts lower until it covers his right ass cheek, and I let it stay there, warming his skin, preparing for impact.
Which is why he jumps when I strike the left one. His muffled groan is a symphony of pain and bone-deep relief. As I crave control, he craves release.
Release from the burden of burying his demon’s desire to destroy.
Release from the pain of his past that feeds his nightmares.
Release from the role of Heir we’re all forced to fill.
Pain is his release. Control is mine.
The second strike lands on his right ass cheek, quickly followed by another on his left. He’s panting, knuckles white as I soothe his reddened skin.
“Did you enjoy cutting her clothes off?”
“Yes,” he answers with a breathless whine.
“What did her skin feel like?” I taunt, torturing him with whatever memory is running rampant through his mind.
“Soft.”
“And then?”
“I touched her.”
“Where?” I run my hand down the sensitive skin on back of his thighs.
“I—her pussy.” He trembles.
“And she just let you?”
He hesitates again, and the thrill of impending punishment fills me. “I moved her hand!” he cries out as my belt strikes his right thigh, then his left. His cock remains hard as iron between his shaking thighs, and he jolts when my hand grazes him as I soothe the reddened flesh on either side.
“So… her hand was covering her pussy, and she let you move it out of the way?”
“Yes.” He whines.
“How did you touch her?”
“I spread her thighs and stroked her pussy over her underwear,” he pants out.
A rumble grows in my chest as the image begins to form of Nyx, laid bare beneath Thane’s entranced gaze, his tattooed fingers stroking the crux of her thighs.
I can just picture her wide, red-brown eyes looking at him in confusion, transforming into wonder as he played with her body.
“Was she warm? Wet?”
“Fate, yes.”
“How wet?”
“Fucking dripping.” His hips start to thrust against the chair in search of friction against the softened leather.
“Ah-ah,” I chastise, taking hold of his cock roughly, denying him the privilege of seeking his own pleasure.
He jolts in my grasp with a desperate groan, but his hips don’t stop rutting into my fist. With my other hand, I slap his ass repeatedly until he manages to hold himself still, shaking with the effort of restraining himself.
“Did you fill her tight pussy with your fingers?” I taunt, cock held firm in my cruel grip. My own stiffens as the scene plays out in my mind, and I’m no longer sure if I’m interrogating him, or creating my own fantasy.
“Yes!” he nearly sobs. “She kept whispering “inside” over and over and over again.” I start to work his straining cock with my fist, squeezing his ass cheek with my other hand hard enough to turn the reddened flesh white.
“What did she sound like when you finger-fucked her wet cunt?” I growl out, kneading his ass in time with pumping his cock. Thane pants, pressing his forehead into the chair in frustration.
“She was moaning but covered her mouth so they wouldn’t hear,” he grits out, jaw clenched.
“Did you make her cum?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, too lost in his own pleasure, I release his cock and watch pre-cum drip down the chair from the flushed, swollen tip. His chest heaves with shuddering breaths as he moans desperately for my touch.
“Yes! She begged me not to stop.” I tightly fist his cock again, using his leaking precum as lube as I work him towards a tortured climax, pressing my thumb along the rim of his lubed ass until it surrenders to my intrusion.
His swollen prostate is easy to find, and I press into it ruthlessly.
He cries out, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks in earnest as I work him over the edge.
His balls draw up tight, and with a moan that seems to come from the deepest parts of his being, he finally breaks for me.
It’s glorious.
It’s everything.
I don’t stop stroking until he pleads for me to end his torment. Until his cum drips down my fist and pools on the floor. But even still, when I release him and withdraw my thumb, his body chases me, still desperate for more.
Which I gladly provide.
It’s quick work to draw my own cock out and lather his cum along my length, then his ass.
When I breach his desperate hole, grabbing his still tied hands for leverage, we both moan.
His body is pliant under mine as I ride him roughly, cock bobbing up and down, leaving trails of cum on the chair.
I lean over him and bite his shoulder before laving the spot with my tongue and moving up his neck.
“Good boy,” I growl out roughly. He sobs again—but not from the agonizing pleasure I’ve just wrung from his body. My words aren’t just praise, they’re permission.
Forgiveness.
Absolution.
For touching her. For wanting to do it again.
The sudden, unbidden image of his body over hers, just like mine is over his, sinking into her tight, wet cunt over and over until he pumps her full of so much cum it leaks from where they’re joined, makes my demon rise with sudden ferality.
I sit back up and grab his hips, and suddenly I’m driving into his body at an unforgiving pace while he sobs beneath me.
When his hole tightens once more on the verge of another fraught orgasm, I thrust deep, angling my cock against his swollen prostate until he’s writhing in my grasp.
“Such a messy, desperate boy. You want to cum again?”
He only whimpers in response.
“You want me to stop?”
“NO,” he cries out, and my lips part in a wide grin.
“Good fucking boy.” His body convulses at my growled praise, and then he’s clenching around my cock, driving me over the edge of my own orgasm.
I bury myself deep, grinding my pelvis against his ass as I pump him full of cum until my cock softens.
Pulling out, I spread his ass cheeks to watch my cum rip from his swollen, pulsing hole and his cum leak from his spent cock.
His wrists aren’t too badly marked from my tie, but still I rub the deep indentations where he strained against the restraints. His muscles quiver under my palms, first his ass and then his back, and I pay extra attention to the marks left by my belt earlier.
“Color?” I ask, but he just moans, lost in subspace.
Carefully, I put his arm around my shoulders and help him to the bathroom, where I heave him into the tub and start running him hot bath.
He tilts his head back, eyes closed, and spreads his arms along the back of the tub.
While that fills, I go to the living room and retrieve his blunt, slipping it between his fingers as I finish off my glass.
“What do you think?”
“Of?” he responds, turning towards me with one eye barely open.
“Her.”