He relaxed his hold and I dragged in a breath, the air reaching my lungs in a rush.
“What did you hear from my office?” he asked, his fingers resuming their lazy work on my nipple as though the question were an afterthought.
“Just murmurs. No one spoke loud enough.” I kept my voice as steady as I could manage given the circumstances.“Then the snitch found me and moved me along.”
He grunted and released my neck. My cheek sank back into the pillow.
When he sat up the warmth of him vanished all at once and the cold air hit my back and I shivered before I could stop myself.
“Turn around and keep your hips on the pillow,” he said, already moving.“I don’t want to see a single drop of my come drip out of you.”
“How am I supposed to—”
He was already pulling out.
“That’s your problem.”
I turned quickly and pressed a hand between my legs, wincing at the slick warmth of him already beginning to escape regardless of my efforts.
He flung the covers over me without looking back and disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with the finality of a man who considered the interaction complete.
I stared at the ceiling.
The man needed serious help.
??????
The bathroom door opened and he stood in the doorway.
My eyes travelled over him before I could stop them. The breadth of his shoulders. The muscles that had no business belonging to a man who spent his days behind a desk—the kind built through years of physical discipline, dense and functional rather than decorative.
His chest and arms were mapped in ink. The stars on each shoulder marked him immediately for what he was—Bratva, rank and standing worn on his skin for anyone who knew how to read it. The Orthodox cross sat beneath the collarbone. Lower, a sword with a snake coiled around the blade, the detail precise enough that whoever had put it there had taken their time.
His hand moved and my eyes followed without permission.
He gripped the base of his cock and ran his fingers slowly to the tip, pausing there to choke it in his fist before driving his hand back down the length of him. Unhurried. Deliberate. Watching me watch him. The smooth head faced me, flushed and blunt, entirely at ease with my attention.
All while I lay there trying to keep his come inside me as instructed, one hand pressed between my thighs, acutely aware of how undignified the entire situation was.
Didn’t men need time to recover?
Apparently not this one.
He moved closer.
Fisting himself.
Pumping more rapidly now, his grip tightening with each stroke, the thick length of him growing heavier and darker in his hand. I watched despite myself. The room was quiet except for the sound of his breathing and the faint movement of the bedsprings as I shifted.
He grew larger.
He released himself and I breathed again—one full breath—before he reached down and pulled the cover back in a single motion.
“Show me,” he rasped.
I removed my hand from between my legs and looked away, fixing my eyes on somewhere neutral, anywhere that wasn’t his face or the rest of him.
“You didn’t do a very good job, did you?” he mused.
