8. Tate #2
“Every part of you is my responsibility while you’re here,” he finally says, a pointed tone in his voice. “That includes your cock. Your cum. It is all mine. If you wake up in the middle of the night and feel the need to go get fucked by some stranger, you will come to my room.”
A bead of precum pushes out from my tip and travels slowly, in a clear trail, down the underside of my strained shaft.
Roman’s eyes travel to it, watching it fall, like a king surveying his land.
It’s so unfair.
Mental warfare, really.
He wants to see me come, needs proof that I did it, so that he knows I won’t go out and seek relief elsewhere.
A breeze catches in the air and the faint scent of roses hits my nostrils. Someone could come outside at any time, and all they’d have to do is walk around to the side of the house to find us here like this.
Me, tied up.
Leaking for him.
Roman standing over me like he’s conquered me.
I finally wrap my fist around my dick and hold my gaze on his again.
“If you insist on watching me come,” I tell him, “then get down here and let me kiss you.”
He furrows his brow. “You’re crazy.”
“And I’m a good kisser, too. I come a lot harder when I have someone’s tongue in my mouth. I want it so badly, Roman.”
I know he’ll refuse. But on the off chance he doesn’t…
“Not happening.”
I exhale, trying not to stroke my dick too quickly.
It’s hot when he denies me, too.
I see his eyes looking down at my cock every few seconds, and now I’m desperate for more contact.
“Just get close to me, then,” I exhale. “I won’t kiss you.”
“Can I trust you on that?” Roman asks.
“I don’t know. Come find out.”
“Fuck you.”
“Please, Roman,” I say, my voice a little broken as I grip my cock harder.
For a few beats, he doesn’t move. His gaze makes a circuit from my eyes, to my lips, then my cock.
My heart lurches in my chest when he actually gets down on his knees in front of me, and I feel like I just somehow won the lottery.
“I am not kissing you,” he says firmly.
He’s at eye level with me now.
It’s far more intoxicating than it should be.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
His face is so close, and I can smell his clean skin again. My gaze travels over his tattoos, looking at the ones that loop over his shoulder, and when he reaches up to push his hair back, his bicep flexes in a way that looks incredible.
The proximity is everything I wanted. I test my boundaries, leaning forward and dropping the side of my head onto his broad shoulder, and just that amount of direct touch from his skin makes me throb in my fist.
I squeeze my cock harder, and I can’t help it.
I lean in.
I move closer to his neck, with my mouth parted, until my lips hit the side of his neck.
He doesn’t pull away.
I kiss him softly there, just a brush of my lips against his skin, expecting instant retaliation. But I’m still following the rules. I’m not kissing his mouth. And instead of shoving me away, he stays there, frozen, letting me continue.
I suck a slow kiss against the side of his neck, letting my tongue slide out a little, and he exhales at the moment of contact.
“Do you want me to stop?” I whisper.
“Quit talking and come.”
“Tell me to stop, if it’s…”
His hand finds its way to the back of my head again, and he pushes against me, increasing the pressure of my lips on his neck.
“Your tongue feels very good,” he murmurs, leaning harder into my mouth.
I moan softly as he reaches to grip my free wrist in his hand, cuffing it. Each of my limbs is constrained now other than the hand I’m using to get off. I kiss higher along his neck, moving upward, and when I bite his earlobe I hear him mutter a soft curse in Russian.
“Jesus, you are so fucking hot,” I murmur near his ear.
He grips my wrist harder like it’s a punishment.
I turn my head so that I’m near his face, and I lean in to rest my forehead against his. I can feel his breath on my lips. All I would have to do is get a couple of inches closer and our lips would touch.
“So needy for it,” he murmurs, his accent coming out.
“Mm,” I hum, “But you like that, don’t you?”
“Hush.”
But a rush of warmth from his palm hits the center of my chest. He grips the front of my tank top in his fist, clutching at the material, yanking at me like he’s trying to fucking merge with my body.
I move lower and clasp my teeth around his lower lip, biting it and pulling back.
He lets out a low moan as I bite his lip, and I don’t even know if it’s pleasure or raw anger.
It’s not a kiss.
I’m following the fucking rules.
It’s far more aggressive than a kiss, and other than my teeth, no part of me is touching him. I want him to explode. I want him to give me anything, and I would enjoy it all the same.
I slowly release my teeth from his lip, pulling it once more before I force myself to let it go.
His expression looks shattered. Like someone just dosed him with a sedative, and the only thing he’s fixated on is me.
He clutches at my shirt again, then brings his other hand up under my jaw, tilting my face with his fingers.
He gazes at me for a beat and I swear to everything holy that any person would do anything for him if he looked at them like that.
He leans in, closing the gap between us.
His teeth close down around my lip this time, instead.
I groan into his mouth and it pushes me over the edge as I stroke my cock harder, losing any scrap of control I was still clinging onto.
His teeth stay clamped over my lip and he pulls it back with much more ferocity than I gave to him. My cock pulses in my fist, and I don’t even know where I’m coming, it’s so sudden.
Everywhere, as far as I can tell.
I shoot hard, tensing up and then going slack, my chest pushing against his clenched fist. Roman’s teeth linger on my lip as I come, and the moment I catch my breath, he releases his bite.
I need more.
I just came, and I already want more.
I want his teeth all over me. If he ever gave me his tongue…
So fucked.
So, so deeply fucked.
He finally lets go of the balled up fabric of the front of my shirt. But he doesn’t yank away from me quickly like I expect him to.
Slowly, he moves backward. When he leans back I see streaks all across his stomach and one that landed at the center of his chest, painting white over one of his tattoos.
My lip still throbs with the echo of his teeth.
I barely register the feeling of him untying the braided belt from my ankles. I’m free to move again, but I stay in the same place, sucking air into my lungs.
He stands up and looks away toward the house, the faraway glow of light from a window highlighting his face.
He’s perfect.
Awful.
And fucking perfect, too.
“Come on,” he tells me, stretching out his neck. “Get up. We’re going upstairs.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re sleeping in my room. I’m making it a rule.”
I exhale, shaking my head. “Biggest fucking ego on planet Earth.”
He just gives me a calm, almost serene look. “I need you to promise you’ll follow my rules.”
“Why? Is it going to make you hard again?”
He glares at me. “Say it.”
“I’ll follow your rules, Roman.”
He bends lower and presses a soft kiss to the side of my head. “I know you will.”
When he turns, I look at his back.
I can see two symmetrical dimples in the planes of muscle above his waistband, and the strong ridges that lead lower toward his ass.
He has a giant Onyx Society tattoo, a stylized depiction of a stone and flame spanning his entire upper back, going from one shoulder blade to the other.
The shadows are drawn thick, with some parts being shrouded in full black, but there’s also a thicker, fleshy slash diagonally through the center of it where the ink bends and warps.
Holy hell.
It’s a scar.
A deeper, more prominent scar than any of the ones on his hands.
He was hurt badly at some point, and the wound cut right through the center of the tattoo.
Who on Earth could ever hurt you like that?
Roman is dangerous… but he’s so tender, too. I feel it when he opens up to me, in beautiful, intense moments, before he drops back behind his walls.
It doesn’t make any sense.
But I find myself wishing I could get up and run my fingers along that scar, to erase it and whatever pain it caused.