Tears leak from my eyes.
Lucian smiles. “Play with your nipples, Elias. You’ll feel better.”
My hands push up my shirt without hesitation, pinching and prodding myself until I’m dry humping Lucian’s leg.
He whispers dark things to me while kissing my cheeks, removing my clothes, smoothing my hair. Until I’m naked, kneeling at his feet.
“Touch yourself, sweetheart.” I can see the outline of his thick dick in his pants, but he doesn’t go to touch it.
My hand starts working my cock, making goosebumps scatter across my skin.
Lucian inhales deeply, spreading his legs farther apart. “Pretty boy, finger yourself for me.”
Without hesitation, I slip a finger into my mouth, drenching it with saliva, never breaking eye contact with the devil as I start to pleasure myself greedily.
Lucian’s eyes have softened, his voice saying dirty praises like black silk.
“Do you want to come?”
“You’re putting on such a good show for me.”
“What a pretty slut you make, Elias.”
His words undo me until I’m moaning just from his eyes watching me.
“Can I—?” I gasp.
“Yes.” He answers.
I come all over my chest and hands. A streak staining Lucian’s dark pants.
I’m shaking from the thrill, and now I feel regret swallowing me whole.
Lucian stands, a smiling tugging at the corner of his lips. He grabs a tea towel from the bar cart and cleans me off. Once he’s done, he tosses the towel to the floor and goes to the door.
“Sleep well, Elias.”
He leaves me alone, naked and damp, still kneeling before his chair.
5
Lucian
Iwake to the echo of the night before—the kind of echo that clings to walls and lingers like a scent. The memory of Elias before my chair, his boldness, the messy heat of his kiss hangs there too, stubborn as mildew. It should have been a thing I could file away: an aberration, an annoyance, a line I could cross off the ledger with a neat pen. Instead, it loops under my skin in the small hours, a rhythm I can’t make stop.
It particularly takes hold when I’m in the heat of my shower. The steam reminded me of his hot, naked, sculpted skin. I think about all of the things I wish I could do to him. My hand grabs hold of myself as I imagine him below me, whimpering my name.
I can’t have him. He’s too young. He’s under my protection. He’s a symbol.
Elias, fingering himself because of my words, flashes in my memory, making my semen spray against the black tile walls.
I find him at breakfast because I mean to. I have no patience for surprises from him, no appetite for games I don’t control.The staff have learned the pattern by now: set the table, place the napkins at the same angle, bring the coffee always two minutes before I want it. But this morning, the tray waits in the library and I know why. He sits with the paper in his hand in a way that looks like boredom and also looks like someone who has been rehearsing fury.
He looks up when I come in, eyes bright with a thing I have no name for. Furious is accurate but small. It’s more like a scowl cultivated into an art form, a bratty, theatrical frustration. He is chastened and incandescent at once.
“Good morning,” I say, taking my seat.
He does not return the courtesy. “You make a man unravel and then look smug about it?” His tone is furious. “You’re impossible.”
