Page 6 of Glass

It's at the base of his cock, where it joins his body under the opened slacks. There's a streak of it, a wet warmth on my tongue when his cock slides deep, and it hits me like a punch—my gums ache, my jaw floods with heat, my cock throbs so hard I see white at the edges of my vision. I moan around him, loud, helpless, and the vibration must do something because his fingers tighten in my hair and his hips roll forward an involuntary inch. He makes a quiet oh under his breath that I will think about for the rest of my life. Pre-come is smeared all over my stomach now, a steady leak I can't control, and I want to get lower, get under him, lick the source, bury my face between his thighs and drink until he pushes me away.

I try to ask with my eyes. Mouth full. Drool running down my chin. Cheeks wet. He pulls out.

"Not yet."

No.

"Later. You'll earn it."

A fresh pulse of pre-come drips onto my thigh. I nod. Okay. I'll earn it. I will earn it so hard.

He slides back in. I do better. I relax my throat a little. I get half of him down before I gag again, and he strokes my cheek once, saying good boy, good boy, and keeps going. The other hand comes down off his hip and settles loosely around the back of my neck. Not gripping, just resting. The weight of his palm on the top of my spine is the most grounded I've ever felt in my body.

I could die like this. I would be fine dying like this.

He pulls out.

Grips my jaw. Holds me still. Looks down at me. I look up at him, mouth open, wet, ruined.

"I'm going to hit you, Teddy. Open-handed, across your face. Tell me no now."

I answer before I think. "I don't—I don't want to say no."

"Good boy."

The slap lands. It's not hard. It's measured, palm-flat, the sound louder than the sting. There's a sharp crack that bounces off the concrete walls, and my whole body jolts. My cock jerks, a thick visible bob, and I make a sound that's half sob and half laugh, and I don't know which direction it's coming from. The sting blooms across my cheek and sinks down into my jaw and my throat and my chest and meets the thing I've been holding down all night—the rough, territorial, alpha thing—and instead of fighting it, I let the slap push it deeper. Let it press the animal flat. Let it hold.

He waits. Watches me.

"Again?"

"Yes, please."

The second slap lands on the same side. My face burns. My eyes water, not from pain, but from being allowed. From being on my knees, getting slapped by a stranger whose face I haven't seen, and finding out I like it. Finding out he knew I would. And being grateful. So grateful. My scent must be a wreck—I can smell myself now, the alpha musk I usually keep under control gone thick and dark and desperate, mixing with his slick until I can't tell where he ends and I begin.

Fingers in my hair again. Fist. Yank my head back so my throat is long and open and he can see the pulse in it.

The other hand wraps around my neck.

He doesn't squeeze. He just holds it. The weight of his palm on my throat, the heat of it. My pulse slams against his palm—I can feel it, and I can feel him feeling it. Everything in me goes still and warm and quiet, and the word for whatever I am now is his.

"Thank you," I whisper. I don't know why. I just have to.

He smiles. I see it—small, private, almost surprised—and it's gone before I'm sure I saw it.

"You're going to be very dangerous for someone, Teddy."

I don't know what this means. My cock is leaking a steady trickle of pre-come onto my thigh. A part of me wants to tell him that I'm already dangerous for him, that I could lift him off this bench with one arm, that I could put him on his back and pin his wrists and watch his composure shatter, that the only thing stopping me is that he said good boy and I would rather die than make him stop saying it. I don't say any of that. I kneel. I drip. I wait.

He lets go of my throat. Steps back. Tucks himself into his slacks. Zips. Buttons. I watch this happen and I don't understand for a full three seconds, and then I understand, and the understanding lands in my stomach like a stone.

He's not going to come. Was never going to come. He denied himself to deny me.

My eyes burn again. Not because I'm hurt, but because he's pacing this. He's pacing me. He knows exactly what he's doing, and he's doing it to both of us on purpose.

"Hands behind your back."

I do it. My wrists cross behind me. Still on my knees. Naked. Throat warm from his hand. Face warm from being slapped. Mouth still tasting his slick. My cock harder than it's ever been, flushed dark, leaking steadily, and my alpha scent thick enough in the air that I can taste it in the back of my own throat.