He pushes me through first.
The room swallows me in gold light and quiet. Plush bed, curtains drawn, neat little table by the wall. Safe. Normal. Except nothing feels safe when his hand is still at my neck, still reminding me who I belong to.
The door shuts with a click that sounds more like a lock on a cell than a latch on a hotel room.
My chest heaves. My throat works. My knees nearly buckle with the weight of everything pressing down on me—his hand, his eyes, his silence.
And then he smirks. Sharp. Cruel. Beautiful.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, thumb stroking once across my throat. “Now we can celebrate properly.”
The smirk is still cutting across his scar when his hand clamps tighter in my curls. He tugs me backward, hard enough to make my spine arch, hard enough that my mouth falls open on a gasp.
Then he moves.
One stride, two, dragging me with him until my back hits the wall with a thud. The wallpaper’s rough against my shoulder blades, the art above the bed rattling from the impact, and his body is there—solid, immovable—pressing me into place like he’s been waiting all night to do it.
“Cap—” The word cracks, helpless, pathetic.
“Quiet.” His mouth drops hot over mine.
Christ.
It’s not a kiss. Not really. Not gentle. His teeth scrape my bottom lip, his tongue pushes in without asking, and I melt like I was built to. My hands twitch at my sides before I manage to clutch his jersey, twisting hard in the fabric like I’ll die if I let go.
The wall shakes with how hard he cages me in, every inch of him pressing down until I can’t tell where he ends and I start. My ribs burn, my cock aches, but I don’t care—I only care about the way he growls against my mouth.
“Three goals,” he mutters, teeth dragging my lip raw. “Every draw clean. You humiliated them for me, pup.”
“Y-yes, sir,” I choke, voice muffled by his mouth, wrecked already.
His palm drops between us, cupping me through my jeans, squeezing until my hips jerk up desperate. His eyes pin me when he pulls back just enough to look down at me, sharp and steady, his thumb pressing cruel at my throat.
“Good boy,” he rasps. “You earned this.”
I whimper. My knees buckle, but he doesn’t let me slide down. He keeps me crushed against the wall, his weight pinning me upright, his mouth wrecking mine while his hand works me merciless.
Every grind, every tug of his fist, every filthy promise whispered against my lips—it’s all too much. Too good.
“Sir, please—” My words break sharp, desperate, my head thudding back against the wallpaper. “I need—”
“You’ll take what I give you.” His hand slides harder against me, thumb brushing just under the head until I cry out, high and wrecked. “And you’ll thank me for every second.”
“Yes, Captain,” I gasp, chest heaving, eyes blurring with tears. “Thank you—thank you—”
My nails dig into the fabric of his jersey, clutching like I’ll die if I let go, and my thighs tremble under the weight of him.
“Sir—fuck, sir, I can’t—” The words tumble out.
“Yes, you can.” His voice is stone, steady, low against my ear. “Good boys take everything.”
I whimper, choking on air. My hips buck helplessly, my cock leaking through denim, slicking his palm as he grinds it harder, faster. The world blurs. The crowd, the Wrath, the barn, the noise—it’s all gone. There’s only him. His scar curling sharp against my mouth, his hand wringing me dry against hotel wallpaper.
“Say it,” he growls, grip in my hair yanking my head back so I can’t look anywhere but at him. “Say who you belong to.”
“You, sir!” My voice cracks, sharp and hoarse. “Always—always yours—”
“Good boy.”
