Chapter Six
Chapter Five
~ Vadim ~
I let the silence go on because I wanted to see if he could break it.
He didn’t.
Not with words, anyway.
Iren held the pose, knees spread on the hardwood, chin tilted just enough to look defiant if you missed the quiver at the corner of his mouth. His hands hovered at the edge of my knees, not touching. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. I didn’t move. I let him work out the odds.
He moved first.
I’d expected a show—something sensually artistic, a slow crawl, the bow of a head or a scripted plea.
Instead, Iren went practical. He braced both hands on my knees, hauling himself upright with the efficiency of a gymnast resetting for a second attempt.
He was smaller up close. Not in a fragile way, but in the way a blade is small—concentrated. His mouth was a line, lips plush and a little swollen, the flush at his cheekbones deeper than the club’s lights ever managed.
He looked at me, then the zipper of my pants, then me again. “Can I?”
It caught me off guard. I’d assumed consent. I liked that he made me say it. “Yes.”
His hands were steady. He worked the zipper slow, as if it was fragile, and when he freed me it was with a kind of surgical care.
My cock was already hard—had been since the pole, maybe before.
He didn’t pretend to be impressed. He just let it rest against the flat of his palm, weighing it, measuring.
He went in without a preamble. The heat of his mouth was a shock, almost electric, and he didn’t start tentative or slow. His lips sealed just beneath the head of my cock, tongue doing a slow roll, and he set the pace with absolute control.
No teeth, not even a graze.
I felt the flex of his jaw, the wet suction, the practiced flick at the spot just under the ridge. He used both hands: one at the base, squeezing, the other cupping my balls, rolling them with the kind of pressure that could have been playful or warning, depending on interpretation.
I watched his eyes. They stayed open, even when I tightened my grip on the arms of the chair. He wanted to see what it did to me.
I let him.
He went deeper, hand moving in counterpoint to the slide of his lips.
There was no gag, not even when he took me all the way back, tip nudging the wall of his throat.
He hummed, low and deliberate, like he was trying to vibrate it out of me.
Pre-cum leaked salty on his tongue, and he took it with zero change in tempo.
I let him have control for a minute. Just to see if he’d abuse the privilege.
He didn’t. He just kept it, worked it, until I felt the edge coming and decided I’d had enough.
I put a hand on his head, threading my fingers through the short ponytail. He stopped, looking up. “Open wider,” I said.
He did.
I pushed in, slow at first, then harder. He took it, eyes never leaving mine, letting me set the rhythm. I rolled my hips, watching the way his lips stretched, the faint sound of wet friction, the saliva slicking my cock.
I gripped his hair tighter, used it to pull him closer, until his nose was buried in my groin and his hands had to grip my thighs to keep from falling.
He was perfect for this. The size of his mouth, the way he never tried to pull back, just adjusted to every demand.
The only time he hesitated was when I pressed in hard enough to block his breath, and even then he waited for the burn before he drew back, inhaling slow through his nose.
There was something almost reverent about it, like he was memorizing the taste, the texture, the inevitability.
I felt the orgasm building. My thighs tensed, my breath came in harder intervals. Iren caught the signal, bracing himself. I wanted to see if he’d finish.
I warned him. “Now.”
He nodded, just a fraction, and I fucked his mouth with three hard thrusts, coming in a pulse so rough I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. He didn’t let go. He kept me deep, swallowing around the head, working his tongue to milk every last drop.
When it was done, he slid off with a slow drag, sucking the head clean before he let it slip from his lips. His mouth was red, wet, open. He licked his lower lip, then looked up at me again, a question in the lift of his eyebrow.
I sat back, heart still racing, and exhaled.
He stayed kneeling. He didn’t look away.
I wanted to reach for him—pull him up, drag him into my lap, kiss him or bite him or something equally primitive—but I forced myself to stay still. I wanted to see what he’d do if I didn’t give him the next cue.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at the vodka on the side table. “You got a cigarette?”
I laughed, sharp, surprised. “No. You want the vodka?”
He nodded. I poured two fingers into the glass and handed it down. His hand shook, just a little, but he didn’t spill. He downed it in one go, winced, then set the glass back on the table with a soft click.
He rested his chin on my knee, waiting for instructions.
“You’re good at that,” I said.
He smiled, small and secret. “I like to be useful.”
I considered that. Then I reached down, cupped his jaw, and forced his mouth open with my thumb.
He let me, pliant. I pressed two fingers past his lips, feeling the heat, the spit, the faint scrape of his teeth.
He closed around them, sucked, and when I pulled them out, he kept his mouth open, tongue out, daring me.
I resisted the urge to break him right there.
Instead, I grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to his feet. He stumbled, caught himself, and stood waiting, hard and beautiful and a little unsteady. I wanted him. Every inch, every cell, every insolent flicker in his green eyes.
The next move was mine.
I didn’t give him a chance to steady himself.
The second he was upright, I fisted his hair and pulled him into my lap. He landed with a surprised yelp, knees bracketing my thighs, hands instinctively gripping my shoulders.
I wrapped one arm around his lower back, pinning him, and with the other I reached down and stripped the mesh shorts off him in a single, practiced motion. The waistband caught for a fraction of a second on the curve of his ass, then surrendered, leaving him bare and already half-hard.
He squirmed, but it wasn’t resistance.
I gripped his hip and forced him back against my chest, settling him with his legs splayed wide and his arms hooked behind my neck like a human harness. His ribs flexed under my palm, soft but unbreakable. His heartbeat was fast enough to register in the hollow of my own chest.
I ran my hands everywhere. Up his spine, thumbs pressing each vertebra into memory. Over his nipples, which were already sensitive enough that the lightest touch made him gasp.
I pinched one, rolled it, watched him arch against my hold. The other hand traced the sharp line of his jaw, the column of his throat, the fragile shape of his clavicle.
He was saying things now, none of it words.
Just noises. Little whimpers that started as protests and ended in broken pleas.
I ignored all of it. I was more interested in how his body refused to lie.
How his cock was already leaking onto my stomach, how his whole body trembled every time I bit down on his shoulder or dragged a palm across his belly.
I squeezed his nipple harder. He moaned, full and desperate, rolling his hips in helpless little circles. I let him for a moment, enjoying the friction, then locked him down with one arm and reached between his legs.
His hole was tight, almost prim, and it clenched around the tip of my finger as I pressed in. No resistance, only heat. He shivered, head lolling back against my shoulder. I bit his ear, just enough to make him squeak, then licked the skin clean.
I reached into my pocket for a condom and a single packet of lube, dropping them both on the side table. I grabbed the lube, and tore it open with my teeth.
I squeezed a dollop onto my fingers, cold enough that he flinched, and then worked it into him in slow, deliberate circles. First one finger, then two. He gripped my forearm with both hands, panting into the crook of my neck, eyes screwed shut.
I pressed in a third finger and felt him go rigid in my lap. “Breathe,” I said, low in his ear.
He did. It took effort, but he did. The ring yielded, inch by inch, until I had him open enough to take anything I wanted.
His cock was purple at the tip, drooling onto my thigh. I let go of his hip and stroked him with my slicked hand, matching the thrust of my fingers inside him. He keened, a noise so sharp I felt it in my teeth.
“Please,” he managed, voice hoarse.
I didn’t reply. I fucked him open until he was making those high, desperate sounds, until his hips were jerking in time with my hand and his ass was swallowing my fingers to the root.
I slowed, pulled out, and wiped my hand on his thigh. He made a noise of protest, but I shut him up by wrapping a hand around his jaw and forcing him to look at me. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, sweat slick on his temples.
“You want it?” I asked.
He nodded, mute.
I slapped his cheek, not hard, but enough to bring him back. “Say it.”
He hesitated, then, “I want it.”
I smiled, small and private. I made a show of tearing open the condom, rolling it down over my cock. I slicked it with more lube, just to see his eyes go wide again. I lined him up, using both hands to steady him.
He was ready. More than ready.
I wanted to see if he’d break.
I let him try to take it slow.
He lined himself up, hands braced on my chest, knees shaking. The tip pressed against his hole, and he paused there, trying to steady his breath. I held his hips, just barely, letting him set the angle. I wanted to see if he’d take me without being told.
He pushed down, shallow at first. His body fought the invasion, but he was stubborn. I watched his face, the bite of pain and the stubborn tilt of his chin. He managed half the length before he had to stop, exhaling sharp through his nose.
I waited three heartbeats, then lost patience.