The first stroke was gentle, a test. He sucked the head, tongue swirling, and I felt the shock of it down my spine. I let him work for a minute, enjoying the way he tried to impress me—deep-throating, then pulling back to tease with his mouth. But I could see him glancing up, waiting for me to take control.
So I did.
I gripped his hair tighter and fucked into his mouth, slow at first, then harder. He made a muffled sound, but didn’t pull back. His shoulders went slack, whole body going loose with surrender.
“Good boy,” I said, voice low.
He moaned, the sound vibrating along my cock. I lost myself in the rhythm—each thrust in, the warm suction, the slide out, his jaw working to keep up. When he gagged, I eased off, then went in again, a little deeper each time.
His eyes started to water, but he never lost the thread. He held on, breathing through his nose, letting me use him as long as I wanted.
I went until my legs shook, then pulled him off, strings of spit connecting us. He panted, chest heaving, tongue out. I wiped the drool from his chin with my thumb and made him suck it clean.
“You want to finish me?” I asked.
He nodded, desperate.
“Use your mouth.”
He dove back in, sloppy now, all instinct. I let him work, barely holding on, and when I was ready, I gripped his skull in both hands and fucked hard, coming with a grunt.
He took it all, swallowing every drop, licking me clean after. He looked up, tears in his eyes, but the smile was pure joy.
I zipped up, then crouched and helped him to his feet. He was shaking. “You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, then tried to speak, but his voice cracked. He laughed, wiped his face on his sleeve. “That’s a yes,” he managed.
I pulled him in, kissed him rough, letting him taste himself on my tongue. He melted against me, hands grabbing at my waist, the tension gone from his body.
I let the kiss go soft, then whispered in his ear, “Proud of you.”
He trembled, whole body lighting up at the words.
I led him to the table, sat him down, then took the plate he’d made for me and set it in front of him. “You cooked, you eat first,” I said.
He looked at the food, then at me, like he couldn’t believe the world was real. He took a bite, and his whole face lit up.
I watched him eat, watched the way he looked at me after every forkful, seeking approval. I gave it to him, every time. With a smile, with a hand on his knee, with another quiet “good boy” when he finished his plate and reached for seconds.
After, we sat side by side, plates pushed away, coffee mugs cradled in both hands. The world outside was dark and quiet, the only sound the clink of forks and the low hum of the fridge.
He looked at me, eyes soft. “You gonna let me do this again?”
I nodded. “Anytime you want.”
He grinned, brighter than I’d ever seen.
He was still mine. And now he knew it.
The next day, I sat on the end of the couch, phone in one hand, thumb braced against the lock screen like I was trying towill the last call out of existence. The room was half-lit, shadow thick in the corners, everything quiet except for the low tick of the clock over the kitchen door.
I could see Bo in the reflection of the TV—sprawled on the floor in his old sweatpants, sketchbook balanced on his bent knee, every line of his body loose and safe.
If it weren't for the phone call, I might have thought the universe had finally given me a break. Instead, I stared at the number in my call log and felt my jaw set, teeth grinding down on something that tasted a lot like old blood.
Knox never called just to chat.
He’d called twice in the last hour. The first time, he’d started with pleasantries. The second, he went straight for the throat. “Family dinner. Sunday. You bring him or I come and get him myself.”
