His phone buzzes again, headline flashing across the screen. His eyes flood as he whispers it out loud, voice wrecked, breaking—
“‘Owned by His Captain.’”
Perfect.
I lean closer, breath hot against his ear, eyes locked on the way his chest moves. “You think this is bad, pup? Headlines calling you mine?”
He whimpers, choked, nodding weakly. The phone slips, screen tilting.
“It’ll get worse,” I growl. My hand strokes faster, crueler, dragging another sob out of him. “Every game. Every goal. Every time you look at me like that. Every time I touch you. They’ll write it. They’ll scream it.”
“C-Cap—”
“Worse,” I snarl. “They’ll catch us in the tunnel. Locker room. Hotel. They’ll catch you on your knees for me, Elias, and they’ll print it in ink big enough to burn the whole league.”
His head thrashes against the pillow, lips trembling open as another moan tears out of him.
“And it won’t matter.” My voice sharpens, deadly final, each word a blade. “Because you’ll be the best goddamn center in the league when you finally say I do.”
His whole body seizes. The phone drops from his hand, forgotten, clattering useless to the floor. His fingers claw at me instead—at my shoulders, my arm, my back—clinging like I’m the only anchor he has left.
“Sir—fuck—please—” His cry shreds, high and broken.
I don’t tease. Not tonight. Not after everything. My hand fists hard, stroking him relentless, dragging every sound out of his throat like worship. His body bows clean off the mattress, mouth open on a scream.
“Come for me, pup.”
He breaks.
Hot, messy release streaks his stomach, his chest, his own throat. He’s sobbing with it, voice raw as he gasps my name between every choked moan. His nails dig into me, holding on like he’ll drown if he lets go.
“Good boy,” I rasp, still stroking him through it, my mouth hot against his temple. “Scream it. Let them hear. You’re mine.”
He does. He screams. Hoarse, wrecked, begging me even as he spills again, clinging tighter, whole body convulsing in my grip.
“You scared, pup?”
He blinks up at me, glassy, worshipful. His chest jerks as another gasp stutters out. He shakes his head—small, desperate—breath breaking around it. “N-no, sir.”
Good.
My hand leaves his cock and finds his thigh instead, rough palm dragging over skin that’s already trembling. I grip firm, haul him closer under me until his knees spread wider, until he’s exactly where I want him—pinned and open, mine.
“That’s right.” My eyes burn down into his, scar tugging as my mouth curls. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
He gasps, fingers clutching at my arms, his body arching instinctively closer even as his breath stutters.
“If anyone tries anything,” I murmur against his mouth, my grip tightening on his thigh, my chest pressing down to crush him deliciously into the sheets, “I’ll make them swallow their teeth.”
The whimper he makes breaks straight into my mouth when I kiss him. His lips part, his whole body shudders, and he clings tighter like I’ve just carved a vow into his chest.
I don’t stop kissing him. Not when his lips tremble against mine, not when his breath comes wrecked and shallow, not when his hands clutch at my shoulders like I’m the only thing holding him to earth. I keep him right here, pinned under me, devouring every gasp until he has nothing left but me.
It turns slower. Darker. My mouth drags from his lips to the corner of his jaw, to the pulse hammering frantic in his throat. My teeth scrape. My tongue soothes. He whimpers, his head tipping back without me even asking for it.
“You hear me, pup?” My voice is low, dangerous, words pressed against his skin like a blade. “If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, I’ll put them in the ground.”
His fingers twitch against my shoulders. He shudders. “Sir—”
