He shouldn’t.
He wouldn’t.
But the ache only worsened. The memory of Thane’s voice in his ear, of fingers in his hair, the weight of cock on his tongue—
Riven swore again, louder this time, and yanked his pants down with shaking hands. His cock sprang free, flushed dark and already leaking. He wrapped his fingers around it and squeezed, once, hard.
A sharp gasp tore from him. He leaned back against the headboard, eyes falling shut.
Thane. The scent of him. The sound of his breath hitching when Riven took him deep. The sharp command of his voice.Look at me. You were made for this.
Riven groaned, pumping his fist hard and fast. The shame only made it worse. Made it hotter.
He imagined dropping to his knees again. This time, with no hesitation. Thane pushing his head down, forcing him to take it all. Not stopping. Using his mouth like it belonged to him. Riven gagging around him, spit dripping from his chin, helpless and hungry.
He bit down on his bottom lip, breath coming faster now.
He imagined Thane fucking his throat.
Holding him there.
Using him.
And the worst part—the sick, humiliating part—was how badly he wanted it. How desperately he needed to be taken like that. Owned. Erased.
His back arched. His fist sped up.
He came with a low, shuddering groan, spilling across his stomach, the aftershocks wracking his whole body. For a long moment, he lay there, breathless and dazed, staring at the ceiling as the heat cooled and the shame settled in.
Disgust curled low in his gut.
He hated this.
Hated himself.
And he hated Thane most of all, for knowing exactly how to get under his skin, for pulling this out of him like it was nothing.
Riven sat up slowly, wiped himself clean with a crumpled shirt from the floor, and dragged his pants back on. He didn’t bother with the lights. He lay back in the dark, heart still thudding with the rhythm of something dangerous and undeniable.
He knew he’d do it again.
And Thane knew it too.
Chapter 18
Riven woke to sunlight already blazing through the window.
No knock. No summons. No Thane.
The bed was too big. Too cold. His body ached—not from bruises, not from sparring or missions—but from tension coiled tight in his spine and shame simmering under his skin. He sat up slowly, raking a hand through his hair, jaw tight.
He should have felt victorious, untouched and free.
Instead, his first conscious thought was,Where the fuck is he?
He didn’t like that he was listening for footsteps in the hall, listening for his voice. That deep, polished command like cold steel. He hated that his mouth still felt raw and oversensitive. That the ghost of Thane’s hand at the back of his neck still lingered.
That he wanted more.
