“Silas,” he warned. “I gave you an order.”
I didn’t remember how my legs worked. All I knew was to hold my arms up, keep my head steady so I didn’t pull too hard on my nipples, but another quick slap against my thigh reminded me and I started to move. Beneath me, Marshall was all tension and restraint, and I did exactly as he’d asked. My hips were jerky, circles aborted because the pleasure inside of me was still too clouded from the pain outside me.
“Help,” I pleaded, the word barely more than a garbled whisper. The chain caught on a tooth, and I sobbed.
“What’s that?”
“Help me, please. Sir.”
Marshall dragged his hands across my battered skin, sliding one up to my throat and the other to my hip. He was still dressed, the only bare part of him his cock which was fully inserted into my body. The denim of his jeans rubbed against the bruised backs of my thighs, and his hand collared my throat like a hug. My dick throbbed, hard and angry between my legs.
Ignored.
“I’m going to fill you up with so much cum it leaks down your thighs,” he said into my ear, biting down on the lobe and taking over the movements required to get us there. “My fucking prize.”
Marshall bracketed my hip with his other hand, pushing me down as he slammed up into me. The way he fucked mewas measured yet barely controlled. The force of him enough to jostle one of the clamps free of my nipple. I shouted in agony as the blood rushed to the right side of my chest, and Marshall grunted, going still as I convulsed around him. He was close to coming. I could tell by the way he moved. I’d learned his body, become familiar with his sounds.
Eventually, his pace faltered, his breath caught, and Marshall raised his hands back behind him, tangling our fingers together. He used my neck to muffle the sounds of his pleasure, thrusting twice more beneath me before going utterly still. Cum pulsed from his cock, filling me just like he’d promised.
“Mine,” he rasped.
Low.
Final.
I closed my eyes and went limp against his chest.
Sated and overflowing in more ways than one.
CHAPTER 40
MARSHALL
Ispent the entire weekend making love with Silas.
Before dinner on Saturday, I hogtied him in the middle of my living room and fucked him until he couldn’t breathe. After, I paid close attention to the rug burn on his knees and elbows in the shower, making sure to kiss every inch of skin I’d marked, bruised, or otherwise abraded. Sunday morning, I’d brought him coffee in bed, then I sucked his cock until my jaw couldn’t take the girth of him anymore. He hadn’t finished, so I let him jerk off on my feet while I hadmycoffee, then I kissed him long and hard after he licked my toes clean.
Silas was perfection in all ways. I told him often how much I loved him, how grateful I was to call him mine, but I didn’t ask him to move in again.
Occasionally, I found myself aware of the power imbalance between us: the wealth gap, the age gap, the experience gap. It took conscious work to ensure I wasn’t exploiting it. Hell, it was the deciding factor in why I shoved Silas at Cory instead of hiring him myself. The living situation needed to be treated with the same care. Silas knew where I stood. If he wanted to meet me there, I’d be happy for it.
Until then, I was content to keep him in my bed—oftentied and trussed—until he told me he needed to go home to check on Lincoln and get clean clothes. Apparently there was something wrong with my washer and dryer, even though it cleaned his cum off my sheets just fine.
Nevertheless, the week crawled toward Friday, and if Silas had any nerves over the impending meeting of the brothers, he wasn’t showing them. He was focused on two things, work and me, and I had no complaints about either of them.
On Wednesday afternoon, he called me to get my opinion on something he was thinking about for a bid Cory had him drafting up for a job in New York, but our call was interrupted by an unexpected visitor stepping out of the elevators.
“Let me call you later, sweetheart,” I said, waiting for him to answer back before hanging up the phone. I kept it in my hand, watching an older and far more miserable version of Silas make his way through my office.
“Do you have five minutes?” Stanley Ayres asked me, looking worse for wear from the last time I’d seen him.
“Depends.”
“I want to talk about Silas,” he said.
I stood up, frowning and shaking my head. “Then no. I don’t.”
“Covington,” he protested.
