“Again.”
“Yes, sir.”
My knuckles graze higher, ghosting over the bulge straining at his jeans. He chokes on a sound, bites his lip, writhes in the seat, but I don’t let him move. My hand presses down, pinning him in place.
“You think you get to argue with me?” My voice doesn’t rise. “You think whining makes me change my mind?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Good.” I squeeze enough to make him yelp. “Say it right.”
His head tips back against the seat, lips red from chewing on them. “No, sir.”
“Better.” My thumb strokes along the line of his zipper, slow, merciless, until his whole body trembles. “And if I tell you you’re off the ice tomorrow, what do you say?”
He whimpers, chokes, squirms—but I don’t lift my hand. Not until he whispers, raw and broken, “Yes, sir.”
My smirk sharpens. I press against him, feel him twitch under my palm, hard and leaking already.
“Louder, pup.”
His cry cracks into the cab, desperate and filthy. “Yes, sir!”
Good.
The city lights streak past the windshield, a blur of neon and shadow, while I keep him pinned under my hand, wringing yes, sirs out of him like confessions.
By the time I finally ease off the gas and pull us into a darker street, his thighs are trembling, his lips bitten raw, his eyes glassy with need.
And he’s said it enough times that the word doesn’t even sound like English anymore. Just prayer.
The drive stretches long and slow, city lights flashing across his face, every red glow from a traffic light painting him brighter, every shadow cutting him sharper. Elias squirms in the seat beside me, shifting under my hand like he’s trying to escape and grind into my palm at the same time.
He knows where we’re going.
That’s why his thighs won’t stay still. That’s why he keeps tugging at the hem of his hoodie like it’ll save him, eyes darting to the windshield, the window, back to me—like there’s anywhere else in this city he can look that won’t remind him what waits upstairs.
My hand never moves. Heavy, steady on his thigh, knuckles brushing just enough to keep him gasping every few blocks.
By the time I roll into the underground garage, his breath is ragged. His lips are bitten raw, curls sticking to his forehead, eyes wide and glassy with wrecked anticipation.
I park. Shift into neutral. Let the engine settle into a low purr.
Then, finally, I take my hand off him.
He gasps like I ripped air out of his lungs.
“Out.”
One word. Calm.
His door clicks open immediately, hoodie half-sliding off his shoulder as he stumbles out. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t dare. He just follows, every nerve in him buzzing, his sneakers scuffing against the concrete as he trails at my heel toward the elevator.
My stride is steady. Deliberate. His is twitchy, uneven, breath catching with every step like he’s already halfway to his knees.
The elevator hums, steel doors swallowing us whole. His reflection trembles in the chrome—cheeks flushed, throat bare, chest heaving. Mine doesn’t twitch.
He doesn’t look at me. Not until I tilt my head and catch his eyes in the mirrored steel.
