"Four."
He froze. Every muscle in his body locked up, cords standing out in his neck. A silent scream trapped in his throat as he denied himself the release, his body a war zone between instinct and obedience.
"Seven."
He broke. He came with shaking violence, as he followed the protocol exactly, giving me the silence I asked for while his body screamed.
Lab Note: Subject E requires intellectual engagement for max release. Obedience is a lubricant. System integrity: Verified.
Friday: The Voice
Kit didn't need me to touch him. He didn't need my hands or my body or my dominance. He needed to be the structure. He needed to know the house he built was standing.
We lay in the dark of the bunk, the blackout curtains drawing a definitive line between us and the world. I was curled into his side, his arm heavy over my waist, a human weighted blanket.
"Voice protocol active," I whispered.
"Copy," Kit rumbled. The vibration traveled through my ribs, deeper than a bass guitar, settling in my marrow. "Where are we going, love? Furniture or wall, your call."
"Self-pleasure," I said, moving my hand between my legs. "Talk me through it. Do not move, Kit. You are the wall."
Kit went perfectly still. His scent, espresso, molasses, and deep earth, flooded the space, creating a sensory deprivation tank where only he existed.
"Right," he said, his voice dropping to that tectonic frequency that short-circuited my brain's logic centers. "Sorted. Hand on the mark, Z. Find the heat."
I touched myself. His voice was a physical weight, pinning me down more effectively than ropes.
"Slow circles," he instructed, the Manchester lilt curling around the syllables. "Clockwise. Drag it out. You don't get to sprint. Not yet."
"Kit," I whimpered, the friction building, bright neon orange behind my eyelids.
"I've got you. I'm holding the ceiling up. You just focus on the friction."
He narrated every twitch of my body. He told me when to breathe. He told me when to arch. He built the nest around me with words.
"That's it," he growled, tight and possessive, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. "Good girl. Taking orders so well."
The trigger phrase hit like a kick drum to the chest. My vision whited out. I came hard, shaking against his thigh, sobbing his name into the dark.
Kit didn't move. He held the tension in his own body, absorbing my release without taking his own. He just held me while the aftershocks rattled my teeth, his presence the foundation that kept me from collapsing. His voice was still vibrating through my ribs when I rolled over and pressed my mouth to his.
He froze. His entire body went rigid, like a drumhead pulled taut. I could feel the tension in his jaw, the way his breath hitched in his throat.
"Z," he warned, his voice rough. "You don’t have to?—"
I cut him off with my teeth on his bottom lip. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make himfeelit. His hands shot to my hips, fingers digging in, but he didn’t move me. Didn’t push. Justheld, like I was something precious and volatile.
"Shut up and fuck me," I said against his mouth.
A growl tore out of him, low and possessive, and then he flipped me. One second I was on top, the next my back was against the mattress, his weight pinning me down. His cock wasalready hard, pressing against my thigh, but he didn’t rush. He braced himself on one forearm, the other hand sliding up to grip my throat, not tight, justthere,his thumb brushing my pulse point.
"Tell me what you need," he demanded, his voice a dark velvet command.
I arched into him, my body already humming from the aftershocks of the last orgasm. "I need you tomove, Kit. I need you to stop being careful and just?—"
His mouth crashed into mine before I could finish. No finesse, no build-up. Just teeth and tongue and the raw, desperate sound he made when I wrapped my legs around his waist. He ground against me, his cock sliding through the wetness between my thighs, and I gasped into his kiss.
"Fuck, you’redripping," he groaned, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate circle. "All for me?"
