Page 21 of Empire
“You won’t,” he breathes, eyes glittering. “You like my neck too much.”
He’s right, and we both know it. I dig my thumb into the hinge of his jaw, force his head back, and spit a slow stream onto his tongue. He groans, rolls the taste in his mouth like sacrament. The sight almost undoes me.
I shove his trousers down to mid-thigh, not caring when the fine wool tears at a seam. The desk edge carves into the soft flesh of his lower back; the bruise will be perfect tomorrow, purple blooming under golden skin exactly where my hands are bracketing him now.
I drag my knuckles up the front of his briefs, feel his cock jerk, then tug the fabric down viciously. He’s hard, flushed, wet at the tip. Beautiful. I could feast on the sight alone.
“I’m going to hurt you,” I promise.
“Finally,” he growls, voice wrecked with anticipation.
I drop to my knees—my favorite vantage point because it puts bruises on me, too—and push his thighs wider until the desk wobbles. I grip the base of him, lean in, and drag my tongue from root to tip in one long, filthy stripe that makes him hiss as if I’ve burned him.
I don’t give warning; I swallow him to the base, nose buried in musky hair, sucking until his thighs quiver against my ears. I scrape teeth under the crown and feel him choke off a shout. His hands slam the desk, wood groaning, but he doesn’t lift them.
He tastes like salt and expensive sin. I suck him until my jaw aches, pull off with a pop, then slap the head against my tongue, eyes up, loving the impossibly starved expression on his face.He’s panting, a bead of sweat trickling from his hairline down his temple, his control shattered into glittering shards only I get to hold.
“Hands,” I warn, just as his left twitches.
He wants to kill me; I can see it. Wants to kill me and thank me in the same breath. He slams them flat again, whimpering, “I’m losing it—please.”
“Ask,” I say, and his nostrils flare because he hates asking. “Say it, or I stop, Salvatore.”
He shakes his head, jaw clenched.
“Ask me nicely,Lyubimiy.”
“Please,” he chokes out eventually, everything in the word a contradiction: pride and surrender, defiance and devotion tangled up until neither of us can tell which is which. “Please let me come.”
“Where?”
“Your mouth. Need to see you swallow it.”
I fucking love him for that. I take him back deep, press my tongue flat, hollow my cheeks. Five thrusts and he’s gone, voice strangled as he spills, hot, bitter, and messy, down my throat. I swallow every pulse, ride the aftershocks until he’s sagging, chest heaving, hands finally breaking position to tangle in my hair.
When I stand, he’s shaking violently, eyes glassy with ruin and pride both. I flip him without ceremony, bend him over the desk so his cheek kisses polished wood. Yank the remnants of his trousers the rest of the way off, and spread him open with rough hands. He moans into his arm, pushes back eagerly.
I suck my fingers into my mouth and drag them over his hole, pushing past resistance in one slow thrust.
He groans, shoulders tense, head bowed. “More—need you inside me. Hard.Now.Fuck me, Ruslan—make me feel it tomorrow.”
I don’t make him wait. Condom on, lube quick and careless, then I grip his hips and bury myself to the hilt in one relentless drive. He’s tight, pulsing around me, greedy as sin for every brutal inch.
I shove him flat and use the leverage to pound him hard. The desk slams the wall repeatedly; a lamp topples and shatters across the floor, glass chiming in time with my thrusts. Tomorrow, someone will wonder about the noise. Tonight I own every sound.
“Harder,” he begs again, cheek streaked with sweat, lips parted, voice ragged.
I brace one hand at the back of his neck, shove his face down, and fuck him hard. Every thrust is punishment and gift. The slap of skin, the crack of wood, his breath hitching on every impact—it’s music. I reach around, fist his half-hard cock, jerk him in rhythm until he’s babbling Italian endearments back at me between moans, too far gone to hide how much he loves the hurt.
“Mine,” I growl, biting his shoulder hard enough to leave teeth marks. “My refined Italian prince, just a hole for me now.”
He clenches around me at the degradation, and I snarl, pistoning faster. Stars burst behind my eyes as pleasure shreds what’s left of shame.
“Tell me who owns you.”
“You—fuck—Ruslan Dragovich owns me—”
“That’s right.” I fist one hand in his hair, jerking his head back so he’s forced to look at his reflection in the dark pane of the window: him, feral, beautiful, mine. “Touch yourself,” I order.
