His body jerks, thighs trembling against my hips, eyes rolling back as he sobs against my mouth. “F-five—five, sir—please, I’ll give it to you, I swear—”
“Good pup,” I rasp, my chest rumbling as I stroke him harder, faster. “You’re perfect like this. Crying in my lap, begging me to break you.”
His scream rips into the dark as he gives me the fifth one, convulsing hard enough that his hair whips damp across his temples.
“FIVE!” His voice shatters hoarse, raw, every syllable a plea and a prayer. “F-five, sir—fuck—”
I don’t stop until he’s twitching limp in my lap, sobbing wrecked into my chest, clinging like he’ll die if I let him go.
My mouth brushes his ear. “My sweet little pup. You gave me all five.”
He nods into my scarred jaw, his arms wrapped tight around me.
I lean forward, one arm locking him steady, and snap open the glove compartment. Plastic rustles. I pull out the pack of wipes, tear it open, and drag one free.
Elias whimpers, head tipped against my scar, but he doesn’t resist when I start wiping him down—slow, steady strokesacross his chest, his stomach, careful over the oversensitive twitch of his cock.
“Sir—” He gasps. “You don’t have to—”
“Quiet.” My tone stays flat. My hand keeps moving.
By the time the wipe’s streaked with slick, I crumple it, drag another, and finish what I started. Then I tuck him back in, pull his pants up gentle, buckle him smooth, like he hasn’t just cried himself hoarse in my lap.
He’s still shaking when I brush my hand slow down his thigh, grounding him. His lips tremble. “You’re cruel…” he whispers, eyes blazing up at me through damp lashes.
My lips twist. “You picked five.”
A wrecked whine tears out of him, head shaking against my jaw.
“And you knew I was cruel since you were twelve, pup,” I murmur, low, calm, final, brushing a strand of curls back from his forehead. “Don’t act surprised I’m cruel on ice and off it.”
His throat works. His breath stutters. Then—despite the tears still shining in his lashes—he grins. Small. Shaky.
Because he loves it.
Because he loves me.
His body’s still trembling against me, small little jerks that tell me he’s wrung dry, but his mouth—Christ, his mouth—never stops.
I run both hands through his hair, fisting slow until my knuckles scrape his scalp. Damp, heavy strands coil around my fingers, catching every time I tighten, and the sound he makes is wrecked—half-groan, half-moan, full devotion.
“You still gonna give me attitude in front of the whole team, baby?” I rasp, dangerous, burning into the silence of the garage.
He groans louder, hips twitching weak in my lap, his eyes glassy when he tips his face up to grin at me. Reckless.
“Yeah…” he pants. His grin splits wider. “Yeah, Cap.”
Brat.
My scar pulls with a smirk as I yank his head back farther, curls wrapped tight around my fists until he gasps. “Next time,” I murmur, my voice cutting steady through his wreckage, “I’ll pick the number.”
His whimper still hangs in the air when I release his curls, letting them tumble free around his flushed face. He slumps against me instantly, boneless, spent, his cheek pressed hot to my chest.
I don’t bother with words. I just shift, one arm wrapping firm around his back, the other bracing his thighs. Then I stand, hauling him up like he weighs nothing.
He gasps, curling tighter against me, small hands fisting in my shirt like he’s scared I’ll set him down. “Cap—”
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, low, steady.
