He catches the look and glares. “Don’t you dare.”
My smirk spreads slow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” he mutters, already glancing back at Cole, who’s now somehow got his shirt halfway off and is yanking Elias into a spin.
Elias nearly falls.
I start to rise from my seat, but Viktor’s hand clamps around my arm. “Wait until he at least finishes the song.”
I snort under my breath. “He’s going to finish something.”
Right on cue, Elias throws both arms around Cole’s shoulders, spins, and screams, “I’M TWENTY-ONE, BITCHES!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, already planning the damage control.
Yeah. I’m ending this night with him in cuffs.
The city lights cut through the blinds in sharp silver slashes. Elias is glowing in them. Spread across my sheets, wrists bound to the headboard with one of my old Reapers jerseys—black fabric biting into flushed skin, curls stuck to his forehead, mouth red and ruined from moaning sir like it’s the only word he remembers.
He's wrecked. And still not nearly wrecked enough.
He writhes under me, back arching, thighs trembling as I grind in deeper, slower, just to hear him whimper again.
"Fucking—shit, sir—" His voice is shattered. Drunk, thick with syrup and need. His head slams back against the pillow. “You’re—fuck—you’re so deep I can’t—I can’t even—”
“You can,” I growl, fisting his thigh and slamming in again, hard enough to make the bed creak and the walls shake. "You always take me, pup. Don't start lying now."
He chokes on a gasp, his face flushed. And God, his cock’s leaking against his abs, untouched, twitching every time I grind against that spot that makes him see stars and saints and nothing at all.
I slow it down just to torture him. Just to watch the madness bloom behind those green eyes.
He bucks. Useless, bound and whiny. "Faster," he gasps, the words slurring like he’s melting. "Please—please, I’m—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come without—"
I still and he screams. The kind that would get noise complaints if I gave a fuck. "You’re loud when you’re drunk," I murmur, dragging my fingers up his throat, slow and firm, pressing enough to make his breath stutter. "You realize that? The neighbors are going to hear every time I ruin you tonight."
He moans like that’s the hottest thing he's ever heard. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the fact he’s twenty-one and wild and finally mine like this, gutted open on my bed, begging without shame.
“I don’t care,” he says. “Let them hear. Let the whole city hear.”
I chuckle, low and mean. “Oh, they will, baby.” And then I thrust deep, brutal and perfect.
He shrieks, fists clenched in the sleeves tied around his wrists, legs spread so wide I’ve got bruises blooming on his hips from how hard I’m holding him down.
"You said one drink," I murmur against his jaw, biting beneath his ear. "That was six. And a half."
“Seven,” he pants. “Cole made me do the last one. Said it was a—fuck—a team-building exercise.”
I snap my hips again, and he screams, raw and wrecked. “You think this is what he meant?” I ask.
“Not—not exactly—” he gasps, writhing under me, drunk and delirious, so hard he’s flushed pink at the tip, cock twitching uselessly against his belly. “Sir—I can’t—I need—please—touch me—”
“Do you deserve it?”
His whole body trembles. “I—I don’t know—”
“You forgot your shirt, pup.”
“I wore yours,” he pants.
