Another finger joined the first, scissoring, stretching me open. The burn mixed with pleasure as he brushed against my prostate, and my hips bucked against the mattress, seeking friction for my aching cock.
His fingers crooked inside me, rubbing that spot until my vision blurred and I was grinding back against his hand, desperate and shameless. My cock leaked steadily onto the white sheets beneath me.
"Please," I gasped. "Please, I need—"
His fingers withdrew, and before I could mourn the emptiness, the blunt head of his cock pressed against me. He pushed inside in one long, relentless thrust that drove the air from my lungs. The stretch burned even with the preparation, his cock thicker than his fingers, filling me completely.
"This is what you wanted for thirty-two years."
Yes and no. I'd wanted tenderness, gentleness, words of love whispered in the dark. What I was getting was claiming, punishment, and use. His cock buried inside me not as a gift but as a taking.
I wanted it anyway.
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving me forward on the bed. One hand gripped my hip while the other pressed between my shoulder blades, keeping me pinned. The angle meant he hit my prostate with every stroke, pleasure building at the base of my spine until I was sobbing into the pillow, my cock throbbing untouched, my whole body wound tight around his.
"You're mine," he said, the words punctuated by the slap of skin against skin. "Say it."
"Yours." The word came out broken. "I've always been yours."
"Even when you were lying to me. Even when you were deciding you knew better than me what I needed. Mine."
"Yes, always, please—"
His hand left my hip to wrap around my cock, and the relief of finally being touched nearly undid me. He stroked in counterpoint to his thrusts, grip tight and slick with my own pre-cum. My balls drew up, my muscles clenching.
"Don't mistake this for forgiveness," he said against my ear, his rhythm growing erratic. "This doesn't absolve you of anything. You're just convenient."
The word landed like a knife between my ribs, even as my body tightened around him, even as I shattered with a hoarse cry,spilling over his fist and onto the sheets. He followed moments later, slamming deep and holding there, his cock pulsing inside me as he came with a groan that sounded almost pained.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. His weight pressed me into the mattress, his breath hot against the back of my neck, his softening cock still inside me. I closed my eyes and let myself pretend that this meant something more than convenience, that his body against mine was tenderness rather than territory.
Then he pulled out and moved away.
Water ran in the small bathroom, followed by the rustle of him straightening his clothes. By the time I gathered the strength to turn over, he was already dressed, armor back in place, not a thread out of order.
"Clean yourself up," he said, not meeting my eyes. "We'll be landing in a few hours."
"Algerone—"
"This changes nothing." He paused at the door. "We'll return to Lucky Losers. You'll continue as COO. Whatever this was, it stays in this room. Understood?"
"Understood," I managed.
The door clicked shut behind him.
I lay there in the tangled sheets, his marks throbbing on my skin, his words echoing in my skull. Convenient. Changes nothing. I'd given him everything, every shred of dignity, every carefully maintained boundary. And in return, he'd taken what he wanted and walked away, just as I'd taught him to do through all those years of arranged companions and managed relationships.
The worst part was that I'd do it again tomorrow if he asked, and every day for the rest of my life if he allowed me close enough. Because even his contempt was preferable to his absence, and even being convenient was better than being nothing at all.
Granite bit into mypalms as I leaned over the G700's lavatory sink, examining my reflection. Algerone's marks bloomed across my throat in violent purples and reds against my pale skin. I traced the darkest one just below my left ear where he'd bitten down hard enough to make me cry out, and the sharp ache confirmed that the past few hours had actually happened, that he'd actually been inside me, that I'd actually begged.
You're just convenient.
The words had been playing on loop since he'd walked out of that bedroom. I pressed my fingers against each mark in turn, measuring the tenderness, confirming they still existed even after he'd made clear they meant nothing.
The makeup compact lay open beside the sink, the same Armani concealer I'd been using for years to hide evidence of sleepless nights. I dabbed it over each bruise, watching the purple disappear beneath expensive pigment. The act was necessary rather than blasphemous now. He didn't want these marks visible.
He wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, so I would help him pretend.
