My hips snap, brutal, shallow thrusts down his throat. Every choke tightens me harder, every gag rattles through me until my jaw clenches, sweat prickling down my spine. His throat is a hot, strangled vise, his tears spilling over my knuckles where I’ve got his head pinned back.
I hold him there—deep, stuffed full of me, no breath left to fight with. And then I let go.
The orgasm rips through me, violent. I snarl low through my teeth, burying myself deeper, pumping hot down his throat in ragged pulses. He chokes on it, body jerking, tears spilling harder, but he doesn’t pull away. He swallows. Every drop.
I grind the last of it against his tongue, force him to lick me clean even as he trembles, broken sobs catching in his chest.When I finally drag him off, spit and come coat his lips, his chin.
I grip his jaw, force his face up to me. His pupils are blown, mouth ruined, throat raw.
“Swallow.”
He does. Shaky. Obedient. His throat works around it, and then he lets out a hoarse sound that makes my cock twitch again.
I smirk, thumb dragging across his swollen mouth. “My good boy.”
He melts at the words—completely melts, sagging against my legs, lashes fluttering shut like he could pass out right there at my feet.
And I let him.
I don’t move him yet. I keep my hand in his hair, grounding him, watching him shake through the aftershocks, ruined and beautiful.
His head’s heavy against my thigh, his throat raw from choking on me.
My thumb drags slow circles against his temple, grounding him, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He’s trembling, lips swollen, spit glistening across his chin. Broken down. Exactly how I wanted him.
“You still wanna be mouthy to your captain?” I ask.
His breath stutters, half a moan, half a laugh, sharp and broken. His lips part, and his answer is hoarse, wrecked, but still cocky.
“Yes, sir.”
Brat.
My jaw ticks. My hand fists tighter in his curls, tugging his head back until his gaze meets mine, red-rimmed and glassy but still sparking. He’s too far gone to hide, too strung out to pretend—yet he still dares me.
My smile cuts slow across my scarred mouth. “Careful, pup. You won’t be able to talk at all if I put your mouth back where it belongs.”
He grins—crooked, delirious, reckless. His voice cracks but the words still tumble out. “Maybe that’s what I want.”
Christ. He’s beautiful like this.
I lean down, forehead pressing hard against his. “You think you can brat your way out of obedience?” My lips brush the corner of his swollen mouth, my breath hot against him. “You’re mine, Elias. Mouthy or not—you’ll still kneel. You’ll still say yes, sir. And you’ll still beg for more.”
He shivers, a broken sound slipping out.
My hands hook under his thighs and I haul him up like he weighs nothing. He yelps startled, before I slam him down onto my lap. Flush. Chest to chest. Cock to bruised hipbones. His legs fall open across me, curling instinctively around my waist like they were built for it.
Both my hands twist into his curls, rough, greedy, holding his head steady as my mouth crashes onto his. His lips are split from the wreck I made of him, spit still wet on his chin, but I kiss him filthy anyway. Tongue claiming every desperate sound he makes until he melts against me.
I don’t let him think. I don’t let him breathe. I lick the spit from the corner of his mouth, bite his bottom lip until he gasps, kiss him like I’m branding him from the inside out. His hips twitch in my lap, grinding against the rigid line of me, and I drag his hair back until his throat arches, mouth open and gasping for me.
“If you think this means I’ll go soft on you on the ice,” I growl into his mouth, teeth scraping against the swell of his lip, “you’re very, very wrong, pup.”
“I’ll ride you harder than anyone else. Every drill, every shift, every goddamn game. You’ll bleed twice as much as they do. You’ll suffer twice as hard. Because I’m not letting you burn out like some rookie with a mouth. I’m carving a legend out of you, Elias Mercer.”
His fingers claw into my shoulders, nails sharp, desperate to anchor himself as my words cut him open. His head tips forward, curls brushing my cheek, and he whimpers—wrecked, feral, lost in my lap, but still clinging.
Morning is hell.
