Page 118 of Slashed Bonds

Fast enough that he can’t talk. Wet enough that every sound echoes in this small room and I forget about the door entirely. His hips try to thrust and I let them—a few times—then pin him with my forearm across his hips, making him take what I give. He swears in Russian; I know three words.

One of them is my name, sounded out like a sin.

“Killian. Stop. Stop, or I’m going to come, and I am not coming until I’m inside you.”

I pull off slowly.

One last deliberate lick under the head—petty, and I learned from the best.

He glares down at me, chest heaving, cock shining wet under the light, furious in that way that really means thank you.

“Desk,” he says. “Now. Before I lose the plot and fuck you on the floor like an animal.”

“You are an animal.”

“And you locked the door for it.” His hand cups my jaw; his thumb strokes my wet lower lip—gentle, which is so much worse than rough. “Turn around.”

* * *

~NIKOLAI~

He turns around because I told him to.

That’s the part that ruins me, every time—the way his shoulders square up like he’s bracing for a check, then give.

The obedience lives all wrong on a man built like a load-bearing wall. Killian Graves could put me through drywall and apologize to the plaster. He bends over my desk, worn oak digging into his hips, and the sight is so violently out of character I have to bite the meat of his shoulder or I’ll say something unforgivable.

Like stay. Like mine.

I leave him bent while I get the bottle from the drawer. Twist the cap.

Slick on my fingers, warmed between them for a second because I’m not a complete animal, whatever he thinks.

Whatever I am.

The line of his back under the thin cotton shirt is a map I’ve had my mouth on in worse rooms than this: dorm bathrooms smelling of mildew and cheap body spray, the away bus with a coat thrown over our heads and someone’s skate bag digging into my knee, a hotel in Calgary with Cash snoring pointedly on the other side of the wall. He holds still badly.

His shoulders tense like he’s arguing even now. His ass doesn’t argue. When I drag his sweats down past the curve, he pushes back a fraction—involuntary, honest—and I file it where I keep every tell he thinks he doesn’t have.

I bite him. Not playfully. Teeth and intent.

He jolts against the desk, wood groaning. Good. I want him here, in the room, in his body, not pacing some hallway in his head.

“Marking your work?”

“Reminding you whose mouth you just had.”

I open him up slow because the alternative is thirty seconds and a sulk, and I like him lucid for this. One finger. The clutch of him is hot and reluctant, then yielding.

The way he exhales—rough, like a man putting his shoulder to a heavy door. Two fingers. I crook them just so and he makes the sound—low, gutted, private—and my cock throbs so hard I have to press my forehead between his shoulder blades and breathe juniper and sweat and him.

He tells me if I call him baby he’ll come before I’m even in.

So I call him baby.

And I push in.

The stretch is a live wire for both of us. I watch it because I’m filthy and because I don’t trust anything I can’t see: the slow give of him, the slick shine where we meet, the way his hand fists in an old scouting report until the paper crumples like grief.