Chapter GRIFFIN #5
I don’t withdraw my hand. Neither does he. His other hand moves, pointing to the pieces on the board, returning to a teacher’s tone, but everything has changed. His physical presence, his pleasant and irritating scent, the way he doesn’t back down.
“Look,” he says. “If you move the knight, the bishop takes your pawn, opening a direct line of attack. Your queen is threatened, and your king is trapped in this corner.” He demonstrates the massacre with the pieces. I understand, but I also don’t.
I feel a knot in my stomach, the same I feel before a fight. “What’s the defense for that?”
“You don’t attack,” he replies, and his thumb brushes my wrist in a gesture so small it makes me laugh nervously. “You sacrifice.”
He points to one of my pieces. A rook. “You lose a piece to save what’s important. It’s the only way out.”
He talks about the game, but I don’t feel like I’m hearing the rules of chess. It seems like his philosophy. Losing a piece to save what’s important.
I let him lead the move, but I don’t let go of his hand. He shows how to sacrifice the rook to save the king. The move is clean, gentle. He says something about “calculated loss”, but I barely listen.
All the blood spat on the canvas, every bone cracked by someone stronger, every smell of ether and rust from the infirmary seems so distant, so small, compared to what I feel now. A ridiculous urge to break all the pieces and press my face against his.
I want to kiss him.
The idea is so stupid. But it won’t go away.
I look at the board. The king. The most important piece. And I look at Alexei. The player.
I know which of the two I want.
I make a shitty move. Instead of following his advice, I pull my king and place the piece directly in the center of the open field—a move so suicidal that I deserved to be kicked out of the room. His gaze wavers, catching fire and freezing at the same time. It’s the only move he didn’t predict.
“Fuck the king,” I say. “I want the player.”
I lean forward, cross the board, cut the distance between us. His face is there, waiting, and I see the exact moment he understands: the smile pulls his mouth upwards, his gaze bids farewell to logic, reason, strategy. He doesn’t shy away.
I kiss him.
The board tips and its pieces clatter like the little rules we both pretend to follow.
It’s strange, rough, clumsy at first. Then, he kisses me back with hunger. His hands go up to my neck, pull hard, and I let them. I feel the warmth of his body, the smell of expensive perfume, the sound of my heart beating fast. All at once.
But the table is hard, the angle is terrible, and it’s not enough.
I break the kiss, breathless, his mouth inches from mine. “Not here,” I say.
Before he can answer, my hand grabs the collar of his expensive dress shirt. I pull him. Hard. He doesn’t resist. He gets up, coming with me.
I drag him back towards the bed—even limping, trying to ignore this damn pain in my thigh—his mouth seeking mine again. We kiss like we’re drowning, a mess of tongues and gasping breaths as he holds me by the waist, firm, stabilizing me without ever breaking the kiss.
When my legs hit the soft mattress, I pull him with me. He falls back on top of me, his mouth still devouring mine.
I arch my hips, seeking friction, trying to rub against him through the layers of expensive fabric that separate us. A sound of frustration escapes my throat, muffled by his mouth. I want more. I need more.
He seems to enjoy my impatience. Instead of helping me, his hand, which was on my waist, begins to descend. Slowly. Torture.
I feel the warmth of his palm sliding down my belly, and when his fingers finally stop, resting on the bulge in my groin, over the fabric of my pants, the air escapes my lungs in a trembling sigh against his lips.
He breaks the kiss, his face inches from mine, his eyes dark, his breath as heavy as mine.
And then, he starts to rub the palm of his hand slowly over the fabric of my pants, a circular and lazy movement that makes me want to scream. It’s a shitty friction, almost nothing, but the combination of his gaze and the pressure is enough to drive me completely crazy.
“Fuck…” it comes from my throat in a harsh moan, my hips arching against his hand.
He smiles, that small, cruel smile that disarms me. His fingers slide to the zipper, and he unzips it slowly on purpose.
His hand goes inside my pants, inside my underwear. The contact of his skin on mine is so immediate and hot that I curse aloud. He wraps his hand firmly around my cock, his long fingers closing as if they were made just for that.
He jerks me. Slow. Down, up—precise. Painful. Perfect. The friction is dry and wet at the same time, and the warmth of his hand burns.
I become obsessed with his hands—always have been. Long fingers, subtle veins, elegant strength. Now they’re wrapped around my dick, and I’m trapped, hostage to this fucking model hand that knows exactly how to dismantle me.
Every movement is too slow. He stops for a second just to rub his thumb in circles on the head, spreading pre-cum and eliciting a dirty groan from me, a growl.
“Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers.
“I want… fuck, Alex, I want you,” I say, more like a grunt of frustration.
He restarts the movement. His thumb remains still at first, just lightly brushing, until I start to lose my breath—then he suddenly rubs a wet circle right on the head, and my hips rise uncontrollably.
He stops again mid-way, just holding me, warm and enclosed around me. I’m already trembling with the simple weight of his hand. He slides to the base, in a lazy rhythm that elicits a low moan from me, and rises again in the same controlled cadence, each pull dismantling me a little more.
“Fuck, Alexei,” I groan, arching against his hand, but it’s useless. He controls the cadence, every thrust of his palm.
I try to push myself deeper into his hand, but he traps my hip with the other, his fingers sinking into my skin like a handcuff.
“Alex...” My voice comes out hoarse, broken. “Stop fucking playing.”
He doesn’t answer. He leaves my cock and plants his hand on my stomach, flat and ownership-heavy.
He leans in and kisses me. It’s a slow, deep kiss that leaves me even more fucked up.
His mouth leaves mine and descends, tracing the line of my jaw with slow, open kisses. He goes down to my neck, and I expose it to him. He sucks the sensitive skin just above my collarbone, careful not to touch the dressing, and a groan escapes me without permission.
At the same time, his hands grab the hem of my shirt. With excruciating slowness, he pulls it up, exposing my abdomen, my chest, the map of scars that I am.
His mouth follows the path his hands opened.
He kisses the knife scar on my rib, his tongue tracing the line of hardened tissue.
The sensation is so unexpected it leaves me dizzy.
No one has ever touched my scars with anything but disgust or morbid curiosity.
He touches them as if they were part of the prize.
“Alexei,” I gasp, “What are you doing?”
He lifts his head for a second, his eyes dark and fixed on mine.
“Relax,” he whispers.
And then he goes back to his work. His mouth descends along the line of my muscles, each kiss bringing me closer to begging.
His warm breath descends to the edge of my pants, and I’m already arching against the mattress, hard and throbbing.
He reaches my hip, and his eyes meet mine. He places a hand on each of my knees, spreading my legs apart.
“Hands on the mattress,” he commands. “Don’t move.”
My body obeys on its own. I grip the sheet tightly.
And then he leans in, and the almighty Alexei Malakov’s mouth descends upon me.
It’s slow. First he runs his tongue along the shaft, slowly, sliding. Traces circles on the head. The wet warmth of his mouth surrounds me, and my hips arch on their own.
“Fuck, boss... your mouth’s gonna milk me dry…”
His hand holds the base firmly, and each time he squeezes, I feel the precise force telling me who’s in charge.
His mouth finally closes around the head. Wet, hot, sucking lightly, but enough to give me goosebumps all over. I hold the sheet—my last piece of sanity.
“You feel better than any pussy I’ve had,” I let out as the pressure builds deep in my belly, that familiar heat about to explode, and my body is already arching without permission.
His mouth squeezes me deeper, perfectly, and for a second I believe he’s going to let me come.
But no. He suddenly lets go, the suction disappears, and the shock pulls a hoarse, frustrated groan from me.
His hand doesn’t let go, on the contrary: it closes even tighter at the base, his long fingers squeezing to hold everything inside.
I throb there, one step from the abyss, trapped in his fist, which keeps me in this delicious hell.
His gaze rises to mine, and the calm I find in it only makes everything worse.
“Sadistic motherfucker,” I gasp, more as a compliment than an insult.
He returns. His mouth closes again, sucking harder now, circling and pressing his tongue.
I moan loudly, his hand holding my base firmly while his mouth devours me. The sensation is maddening, each suck making me lose more control, and my gaze can’t leave him, his hands, his mouth. Fuck, his mouth.
The suction increases, his tongue presses me in such a perfect way that I feel the orgasm rise violently, ready to explode.
And again, he lets go.
I tremble all over, unable to even breathe.
“Boss… fuck, boss… let me come…” My voice is broken, a request, a plea.
He slowly runs his tongue over the tip, spreading saliva, and smiles.
“Say it again.”
“Please,” I gasp, breathless. “Let me come, Alex...”
He swallows me again, this time deep, sucking hard, his mouth hot and closed over half of my fucking sanity. His tongue presses the underside as he sucks, and the hand at the base doesn’t stop, sliding in a rhythm that only breaks me.