I imagine his hands on me. Not gentle. I don't want gentle. I want the rough, calloused grip he used in the kitchen. I want himto pin me against this cold steel wall and tear my clothes off. I want him to fuck the fear out of me.
"Killian," I whisper. The name scrapes my throat.
I imagine him grabbing my hair, forcing my head down. I imagine his cock in my mouth, choking me, silencing the noise in my head. I imagine him taking me from behind, driving into me with that brutal, relentless rhythm, possessing me so completely that I forget who I am.
My hips buck off the floor. I am fucking my own hand with a desperation that borders on madness. My other hand claws at the floor, scraping against the wood of a pallet.
I want to be ruined. I want to be broken open. I want to be claimed.
The image of him standing between me and the guns at Murphy's flashes in my mind. The look on his face. The absolute certainty.He's with me.
He owns me. I tried to fight it, tried to manage it, but the truth is here, in the dark, with blood on my hands. I belong to him.
I stroke faster, harder, chasing the edge.
"Please," I whimper to the empty room. "Please."
The climax hits me like a car crash.
It tears through my body, locking my muscles, arching my spine. I cry out, the sound raw and broken, echoing off the steel walls. I come in hot, thick spurts, coating my hand, my wrist, dripping onto the tactical vest.
I shudder, gasping, my head falling back against the wall. The pleasure is intense, blinding, washing away the horror of the alley for a few precious seconds.
I stay there, panting, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock.
The silence returns.
The shame follows it.
I look down. I can't see anything in the pitch black, but I can feel the mess. My own seed, sticky and cooling on my skin. The blood on my sleeve. The gun by my side.
I am a mess. The Prince of the City, the man who wears bespoke suits and drinks espresso from bone china, reduced to this. Jerking off in a shipping container next to a dead body's weapon.
I use the inside of my jacket to wipe my hand. It’s crude. It’s filthy.
I pull my trousers up. Zip the fly. Buckle the belt. My hands are still shaking, but the violent tremors have passed. The biological debt has been paid.
I check the Beretta. I check the Škorpion.
I am alive. I am lethal. And I am waiting.
Time passes. Minutes? Hours? I don't know. I sit in the dark, listening to my own heartbeat slow down.
Then, a sound outside.
Crunching gravel. Heavy footsteps. Not a search pattern—a direct line. Someone walking with purpose.
I raise the Beretta. I aim at the door.
The handle turns. The door groans, rusted hinges protesting.
A slice of grey light cuts into the container.
A silhouette fills the opening. Broad shoulders. Leather jacket.
Killian.
He looks like he walked through hell. His face is smeared with soot and blood. There is a gash above his eyebrow that is bleeding freely, dripping down his cheek. His knuckles are raw meat. His chest is heaving.
