I am. Christ, I am.
“Good boy,” he rasps against my lips, thumb stroking slow across my throat where my pulse hammers. “My perfect center. My pup. You love when I tell you that, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.” The words tumble out broken, breathless, like I’d choke if I tried to hold them back.
He smirks. Sharp. Cruel. His hand drags lower, palm flattening against my chest, feeling every hard, shallow breath I suck in. Then his fingers trail down, slow, deliberate, until they press over the bulge in my jeans.
I choke on a sound—high, pathetic, a whine that echoes way too loud in this little steel box.
“Shh.” His eyes cut into mine, burning calm. “You want the cameras to hear you beg?”
Oh, fuck. Cameras. I’d forgotten. Heat floods my face, burning scarlet all the way down my throat. I jerk against hishand, desperate, but he presses harder, palm firm against the ache.
“You’ll behave.” His voice is steady, calm, like stone pressing into me. “You’ll take my hand like a good boy. Quiet. Obedient. Can you do that for me, Elias?”
“Yes, Captain.” My whisper breaks, cracked sharp against the mirrored walls.
“Good.” His thumb drags slow across my zipper, enough to make me shudder hard, enough to wring another pathetic whimper out of me that I can’t swallow.
The hum of the elevator rises, the numbers blinking higher, and every second stretches forever. His hand cups me harder, thumb pressing cruel over the spot that makes my hips buck. I bite down on my own lip so hard I taste blood, my body shaking, my thighs trembling under his weight.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear now. “Look at you—red, wrecked, grinning even while you whine. The Wrath never stood a chance. You’d bleed yourself dry just to hear me say you’re good.”
“Yes, sir.” I gasp it sharp, my forehead pressing to the cold mirror, desperate for something solid to hold me up.
“Eyes up.” His command cuts through me, sharp as steel.
I obey instantly, dragging my eyes back to his. Our reflections glare back at us from the steel panel—him towering, broad, calm as a predator; me flushed, trembling, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. The leash is invisible but it’s there, wrapped tight around my throat, tethering me to him.
“You’re glowing,” he smirks, scar tugging sharp. “The Wrath thought they could break you. But you’re my rookie. My pup. My good boy. And you’ll prove it again the second those doors open.”
The elevator dings.
My whole chest seizes. Not from panic. From need.
Because his hand doesn’t leave my cock. His fist doesn’t let go of my hair.
The doors slide open.
He doesn’t let go.
His hand stays clamped tight around the back of my neck, his other palm still pressed firm over the ache in my jeans, keeping me trembling, keeping me his. My lungs seize when I see the hallway stretch out in front of us—bright carpet, hotel art nailed crooked to the walls, some poor tourist dragging their suitcase in the distance.
And me? I’m wrecked. Red-faced. Hard. Chest heaving like I’ve just sprinted a full three periods.
“Cap—” I choke, as his hand finally eases off my cock.
“Walk,” he orders, low, final.
My knees barely hold, but I stumble forward, his grip steady at my nape, steering me like he owns me. (He does.) The air outside the elevator feels colder, sharper, and every nerve in me is lit up, screaming with the ache of being dragged down this hallway like a dog on a leash.
Each step is fire. My cock twitches with every tug of his hand, my ribs flare from the bruise still healing, but I don’t stop. I couldn’t if I wanted to. Not with his shadow swallowing mine, not with his stare burning into the back of my skull.
“Sir…” I whisper.
“Quiet, pup.” His thumb presses at the base of my neck, calm, steady, a reminder and a promise.
The carpet blurs under my sneakers. Room numbers flicker past. My body trembles, face burning so hot I swear the tourist dragging her suitcase is going to see steam rising off me. But Captain doesn’t slow. He just steers me sharp to the right, key card sliding clean, the door clicking open.
