GRIFFIN #3
He’s criticizing me and, at the same time, inviting me. “I just wanted to piss you off,” I retort with a half-smile. “But what would be the direct way, Alexei? If I wanted... should I fill out a form?”
His smile widens. He unbuckles his seatbelt. His hands...
“No,” he says. His scent, his presence... “You would just have to ask.”
I stare at him. The fucked-up honesty from dinner is still here.
“You say this shit and expect me to believe you’re not hitting on me?”
Alexei doesn’t deny it. “I’m being direct.”
My breath catches in my throat. Beneath all this discussion, I need to know.
“...Do you really want to… ?”
He doesn’t answer me with words. He looks at my mouth, and I’m no longer in command of my own muscles. I lean into that gravity and pull him to me.
My mouth crushes his, and he tastes of that expensive wine and some kind of violence. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t hesitate. He answers me in kind, his cold hand on my face, the other plunged into the fabric of my dress shirt.
I don’t give him time to think. I throw one leg over the center console, almost awkwardly and almost desperately, and sit on his lap. My hip bumps the steering wheel, the car horn blares. A mess.
I laugh, because it’s absurdly pathetic, two adults making out like teenagers in a luxury car, but he devours me back with a look.
I press my hip against his, rub until I feel his cock respond beneath his pants.
My good hand grabs his face, but the rest of me is already asking for more—I feel his skin warm against mine and his soft hair tangling in my fingers, as I think of pulling hard just to hear the trapped groan he doesn’t want to let out.
The space is so tight that every movement rubs my cock against his abdomen. I grope for the seat lever with a trembling hand, panting, and nearly come just feeling the pressure of my hip scraping against his.
“What are you...” Alexei begins to say against my mouth.
I find and pull the fucking seat back hard, throwing us back and almost making me fall on top of Alexei. He smiles, satisfied; a crooked smile. I take advantage of the extra space to better fit my hip over his. I feel him hard under his pants.
His long, cold fingers slide up my neck. And then, he squeezes enough to warn me: the game has changed levels.
I know this game. In reality, it’s always been this—who gives in, who dominates, who goes all the way with open eyes. And, at this moment, I want to see if he can take it.
“Oh,” I provoke, “so you’re the choking type.”
Alexei accepts the challenge. “And you?” he asks, and squeezes. It makes me shiver all over.
“Fuck, yes...”
I take his hand that’s on my neck, guiding it to grab me tighter, dig his fingers into my flesh. His other hand goes up the side of my torso, testing the reaction. I let him, let everything, because it’s been months since I felt like this. Sex has always been automatic. But with his touch…
“I spent the whole night thinking about these fucking hands…” I whisper, unfiltered, shameless.
The confession burns to come out. “I only really got hard yesterday thinking about you on the other side of the camera, watching. Imagining what those hands of yours would do if I provoked you enough.” I squeeze his fingers hard.
“I kept thinking about those cold hands of yours going down my throat… or jerking me off just to teach me my place.”
The confession hits its target. His hand, under mine, flexes, curving harder around my neck.
“Then pay attention,” he commands.
And as he speaks, his fingers, with a calm that leaves me breathless, undo the button and zipper of my pants.
His hand remains steady, firm, clinical, as if undressing me were trivial.
And that’s what destroys me—the naturalness with which he squeezes me, exposes me, leaves me like this, made just for his hand.
I can’t look away. His hands, the same ones I fantasized about, are now here, real, pushing down the fabric of my underwear and exposing me to the cold temperature of the air conditioning.
He closes his fingers around my cock and starts slowly, dragging his palm against the sensitive head, spreading the moisture that’s already dripping. The rhythm is deliberately slow. It’s torture. Each rise makes me harder, more desperate.
“Fuck...” I gasp. “You’re good at this.”
He does better than answer: he adjusts the pressure of his fingers, alternates the rhythm, changes the angle at unpredictable intervals. I have no other function than to moan.
“Ah… have you done this a lot, boss?” I provoke with a half-smile. “To other guys?”
The image flashes in my mind—such a clean exterior for Alexei to be this good handling some cock.
“Does the idea of me having touched others excite you, Griffin?”
Fuck, yes. My cock throbs in his hand, so hard it hurts.
I grab the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss—a hungry, idiotic one, that bangs our teeth together and makes saliva leak from the corner of my mouth.
It’s my answer, my silent confession. He laughs against my mouth, and his hand moves faster.
The pressure of his fingers increases, and my hips are already moving on their own against his hand.
“Goddamn it, Alex...”
He doesn’t rush. Alexei is methodical even when jerking someone off—he must be taking mental notes, measuring every reaction, every tremor in my body.
“You don’t know how to beg properly,” he says softly.
I laugh. “Then teach me.”
His hand squeezes, rhythmic, precise. It coaxes sounds from me that I never let out.
“Are you trying to kill me?” I say, drawn out.
“You keep asking for it,” he murmurs against my face, kissing my jaw, and I feel my cock throb harder, obeying only him.
My hands tremble with such a desire to tear his control in half. I slide my mouth to his ear.
“I don’t want just your hand, boss.”
Before he processes it, I’m already moving in his lap, rising enough to create space.
That half-smile reappears in Alexei. He helps me pull down my pants just enough, while I undo his belt—genuine leather and a gold-plated metal buckle or some shit. The space is ridiculously tight, but I manage. I always manage.
My breathing is too heavy when I pull down his zipper. Alexei doesn’t even have to do anything but watch me, relaxed and cruel.
I lower myself enough to expose, and my cock already throbs with anticipation just feeling his warmth so close.
“It’s been months since I’ve been fucked properly,” I say as I position myself over him.
And I like the idea of it hurting a little.
I position myself. I try to move on my own, but his hand on my waist guides me with cruel precision. “Not so fast,” he says as he makes me descend inch by inch, slowly enough to drive me crazy, until I’m completely full of him. “Like this…”
“Ngh…”
When I finally settle, his nails dig into my skin—a silent order that he’s in charge here.
Alexei takes a deep breath, I see his control cracking. But he doesn’t groan.
He plunges me into him and I let out a dirty moan. I want to feel everything, I want him to keep me in this place until I can’t take it anymore.
“Fucking use me, Alex... I’m here for it.” My voice comes out hoarse, but soon dies in a moan as I lean back on the seat and start to rhythm, fast, deep, feeling every inch of him tear its way inside me. My hips go down and up hard, the pain burns and it’s a fucking delight.
But his hand immediately stops me. His fingers dig into my waist and hold me in the air for a second, preventing me from going down further. The order is physical: I only continue if he wants me to.
“Slowly, moy khoroshiy*,” he says, and it’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.
He pulls me back into a slow rhythm, slowly down, controlling the weight of my body until I’m completely full of him again. I tremble, gasping, but Alexei maintains a firm grip, regulating every inch, every thrust.
If I speed up too much, he holds me and dictates the cadence. If I try to ease up, he presses me until the pain tears again. He’s the one who orchestrates my entire will.
The cold palm of his hand goes up my throat and squeezes, calibrating my breathing. It makes me see stars. It only makes me hornier.
“That’s it, fuck,” my voice fails, breathless.
I try to get the rhythm back and he corrects me again, pulling me hard onto his lap. The impact opens me up more, hits my limit, and my head falls back, moaning loudly.
“Alex...”
“Look at me.” The command comes with the squeeze on my neck, forcing me to look into his eyes.
“Fuck...”
“Yes,” he whispers. “I want to see your face when you come undone for me.”
The dirty order, the possession in his voice... fuck, it ignites me.
My eyes are fixed on his as he speeds up the rhythm. Faster, deeper. Every muscle in my body burns.
“Look closely, boss... look at what you’re doing to me...”
His composure finally cracks. The hand on my neck squeezes in a spasm. His hips now collide with mine, meeting each thrust with force, and the shock completely disarms me.
“Yes! Yes, fuck, fuck me...”
The words dissolve into drawn-out sounds, each thrust stealing the air from my throat.
And then, I hear it.
A low sound, a growl, vibrates from deep in his chest—and I know I’ve broken the fucking facade. Alexei Malakov, all control and coldness, now moans inside me as if I were the addiction he tries to deny.
That sound. It’s my ruin. It’s the only permission I need.
The pressure on my cock becomes unbearable.
“Alex—“
My orgasm tears through me, a wave of white, blinding heat. Almost at the same instant, I feel his body contract inside me, the squeeze on my neck becoming painful before relaxing.
If I hadn’t just come, the sight of his suit—expensive and impeccable—now stained with my cum would have made me hard.
“I might’ve stained your rich-boy suit,” I say, still panting, with a smile I can’t help. I let my hands slide to his chest, feel the soft fabric and the firm muscles underneath.
Alexei follows my gaze. The hand that once squeezed my neck slides to the back of it, tracing a slow, meticulous caress, and I get goosebumps all over.
This is so different from what I’m used to. It’s not automatic. It’s dense. It makes me feel alive.
“It doesn’t matter.”
A more understanding answer than I expected.
I take a deep breath, and for a moment I just stay there, in his lap, feeling the secure hand on my waist, trying to catch my breath. It’s been months—if not years—since I truly felt this, since I felt sex pulsating in every nerve.
My body slowly relaxes against his. I let out a low, shameless moan, “Fuck... you’re too good.”
He caresses my skin. My head slowly comes back to normal.
Alexei. A Malakov with his hands on me like this.
I pull away, awkwardly getting off his lap and sinking back into my own seat, the movement sticky and uncomfortable. I pull up my pants, not worrying about the buttons.
I need to breathe a little.
“Well,” I say, hoarsely, looking at the car ceiling so I don’t have to face him. “I guess you should skip the camera session for my shower tonight.” I give a crooked smile. “Cleaning up this mess is kind of a turn-off.”
I hear Alexei’s laugh. It’s a low sound, but it’s genuine. He runs his hand over his face, pushing his hair back.
“Got it.”
That smile breaks the tension in his face. The lines of command recede, and what remains is a worn smile, with disheveled hair. Beautiful as hell. It hits me in the stomach, warms my chest.
I have to stop looking.
My face burns. I don’t know what the hell to say. This has nothing to do with the fuck. I hate this shit. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way.
That’s why I change the subject. To anything.
“Uh, your cousin... he thought I worked for another crime organization?” I say, zipping up my pants. “The Volkovs? Is that the story?”
Alexei is impeccable in a second. He adjusts his clothes, buttoning his jacket over the stain as if nothing had happened.
“Is that what you’re thinking about now?” he says with a half-smile.
I shrug. “Post-orgasm clarity.”
He doesn’t care about the joke. “You were a Volkov agent,” he says. He’s so firm that I wonder if I really was. “But now, you’re not anymore. In exchange for protection, you’re ours.”
Alexei starts the car, and the engine roars back to life.
“You could have told me sooner,” I complain.
He, again, doesn’t care. “You deserved it.”
The cameras. Of course. I smile unintentionally.
He continues, “He’ll see your next fight. They’ll put you against an experienced fighter. Don’t underestimate your opponent.”
“I don’t underestimate anyone.”
He looks at me, one hand on the steering wheel.
“Rest, Griffin. I want you ready for the Circuit.”
I put my hand on the door. But I hesitate. I need one more thing.
“Alex.”
He looks at me.
“This... what was this?”
He smiles. It’s discreet. And it’s not genuine, this time; it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“It was the beginning,” he says.
I can’t read that expression. It’s more distant than before, colder.
To be the beginning is too heavy. I don’t know of what. And I don’t do that. Relationships. Connections.
“Look,” I begin. “We’re not—“
“No,” he cuts me off.
He doesn’t even need me to finish. He already knows what I was going to say, and he’s already discarded the idea as... trash.
I nod. We’re on the same page.
But it’s a strange feeling.
I hesitate for another second.
I don’t think there’s anything more to be said.
I get out of the car and go back to my cage.
* Moy khoroshiy (Russian: мой хороший) is an affectionate term of endearment, literally meaning "my good one" or "my dear one”.