He toys with me in a way I’ve only ever read about in the language of humiliation in locker rooms and old, whispered stories. He takes his time—slower than logic should allow—bringing me near and then easing away, knitting a raw tension into me like rope. I grit my teeth until my jaw hurts.
When he speaks, it is to mock and to dominate at once. “You hate this, don’t you?” he murmurs. “You hate that you want it. You hate that my hand is about to make you come.” His words are threaded with a heat that bites.
“Shut up,” I manage. But I can’t keep him from hearing it as acquiescence.
My hands pull at his sleeves, needing more friction. My hips buck restlessly into his hand.
He catches my mouth again, harder, and his hands are everywhere: steady, demanding, not cruel but intentionally overwhelming. He keeps me on the edge, building a pressure so fine I feel like I’ll split apart. The denial is the point. He is the architect and I am his unfortunate building, buckling under the load.
Magnus sucks and bites at my neck, signing his name with the marks he leaves. He slides my joggers down to my knees.
“Wait—shit!” My voice cracks.
He slides his mouth over my cock, sucking it deep into his throat. He hums against me, making stars burst behind my eyes.
“Flint. God, Flint.” I pant, knotting my fingers in his hair.
He chuckles, letting the head of my cock pop from his mouth. “My name’s not a safe word, Hale.”
Jesus, this guy is demented, and it’s working on me.
He pops open his jeans, dick straining against his briefs. “Knees up, Ice Prince. I need to warm you up a little.”
The nickname makes the blood rush from my head. “Why?—?”
Magnus pushes my knees to my chest, making me yelp. I hear him spit in his hand and then he’s shoving his large cock between my muscled thighs. The head of his dick is almost purple as it grazes against my balls.
“Fuck...” His voice is gravely, making heat spike in my core.
The slickness, the stickiness, the euphoric look on his face. It’s too much. “Please.”
“Not yet.” His hips slap against the back of my thighs, chest heavy on my knees. “God, Alaric...You’re so warm.” He pants my name before coming all over my dick and stomach with a groan.
He pulls away from me, smirking down at the mess he’s made. “Couldn’t help myself.”
I lay there, breathing hard, humiliation and relief braided tight. I want to run and hide from his steady gaze.
Magnus slips himself situated and buttons his jeans. He stands, smoothing back his curly dark hair.
He watches me with a lazy smile, like I’m a trophy and also the puzzle he’s solved. “Go,” he says finally, not unkind, but utterly in control. “Get yourself cleaned up.”
The word is a courtesy and a dismissal. I readjust my clothes, fingers clumsy, as I yank my pants up, trying to hide the achingly large hard-on I’m still carrying. My hands shake. My mouth is dry, my pride shredded into something I cannot yet sift into order. I want to look at him, to savor the echo of his laugh or to curse him, to rip his grin off his face—something. But I do as he says. I push away, planting my feet with purpose as if determination can make me solid.
The door slams behind me like a gunshot.
Outside the room, the fluorescent light is too bright, the hall too quiet. I move like a ghost, feet carrying me toward the showers and the small mercy of scalding water. My mind replays things in tiny, jagged loops—the way he said my name, the way his hands held me down, the way he refused me the easy release I needed so badly at that moment. Anger coils with desire until I am dizzy.
I don’t slow down until I’m halfway down the hall, sneakers squeaking against polished concrete, breath burning in mylungs. My shirt is half off my shoulder, lips still swollen from his kiss, and every inch of my body feels alive in a way I can’t stand.
I should feel clean, clear, controlled. But all I feel is fire. Magnus. His grin. His voice. His body pressed tight against mine. It lingers on me like smoke that won’t wash out.
I rake a hand through my hair, dragging air into my lungs, trying to steady the storm inside me. It doesn’t work. My skin is buzzing, hypersensitive, remembering every point of contact. His mouth rough on mine, his laugh curling dark against my lips, the heat of him when I had him pinned by the throat.
God, the way he moaned when I squeezed my thighs.
At the corner by the vending machines, someone steps into my path. Kyle.
He’s changed into a compression shirt and some sweatpants, blond hair damp from a quick rinse, face pink from the cold. His expression softens under his wired glasses when he sees me. “There you are,” he says, relief edging his voice. “I was getting lonely.”
