"Oh God," he breathes. "Oh fuck, Ethan..."
"I got you, baby." I bottom out and hold there. Every nerve ending screams at me to move. But I wait. For him to adjust, for his breathing to even out, for his muscles to stop clenching around me. His legs tighten around my waist, heels digging into my back, pulling me deeper.
"Fuck me," he whispers. "Please, Daddy."
I pull back and thrust forward. Not gentle. The desk scrapes against the floor, obscenely loud in the locked office. Liam gasps, hands scrabbling against the wood, and I set a rhythm, deep, angling my hips to hit that spot on every stroke, because I know his body like I know my own. Maybe better.
He's loud. Always loud. Normally I'd cover his mouth, remind him where we are. Tonight I don't care. Let the whole dormitory hear. Let Griff hear. Let every person in this institution know that Liam Marsal belongs to me and I will burn this entire place to the ground before I let anyone touch him again.
"Harder," he begs. I comply, bracing one hand on the desk, the other gripping his hip, careful to avoid the worst bruises but firm enough to leave marks of my own. Marks that mean something different. Marks that mean mine. The desk slams against the wall in a rhythm that leaves nothing to the imagination, and his moans dissolve into broken cries that sync with every thrust.
"You're so good," I tell him. I watch the words hit, watch his face crumble with need. "So good for me. You know that?"
"Daddy... I'm... I can't..."
"Yes, you can. Hold on for me." I slow down, just enough to make him desperate, rolling my hips in deep grinding circles that make him writhe and claw at my shoulders. "Not yet."
"Please!"
"Who takes care of you?"
His eyes snap to mine. Wet and wild. "You do."
"Who keeps you safe?"
"You... fuck... you do, Daddy, please..."
"Then trust me." I lean down, press my forehead against his, our breath mingling. I whisper against his lips. "Trust me when I make decisions for you. Trust me when I say I'd rather have you alive and hating me than loving me and dead."
Something breaks open behind his eyes. He pulls me into a kiss.
I start moving again. Harder, faster, because I can feel how close he is, in the way his body tightens, in the way his breath hitches on every thrust, in the trembling of his thighs. I reach between us, wrap my hand around his cock, stroking in time with my thrusts. His whole body locks up.
"Come for me," I say. Not a request. "Now, baby."
He shatters. His back arches off the desk so hard I have to press him down with my weight. The sound he makes is raw, guttural. He spills over my fist and across his stomach, clenching around me in waves.
I last maybe three more strokes before I bury myself deep and let go. My orgasm crashes through me with a violence that whites out my vision. I groan against his neck, teeth grazing his collarbone. For a few blinding seconds, there's nothing. Just him.
We stay like that for a long time. I press my face into the curve of his neck and breathe him in. His breathing evens out, slow and deep. When I finally lift my head, his eyes are half-closed, that post-orgasm haze softening every sharp edge ofhis face. Peaceful.
"I don't hate you," he whispers. "I fucking love you."
"I love you too, baby."
"And I'm glad he got what he deserved."
"I know you are, sweetheart. I told you. Daddy's here. I'll always take care of you. You're mine. My responsibility."
EPILOGUE. Ethan
Here's something nobody tells you about being inside a correctional facility: Christmas still comes. The fluorescent lights don't change color, the razor wire doesn't sprout tinsel, and the guards don't suddenly start smiling like they've found Jesus. But it comes. It’s so cold out, it’s snowing. But inside, it's perfect.
I'm not the kind of person who gets sentimental about holidays. My parents ruined that a long time ago. Turns out it's hard to feel the magic of the season when the people who were supposed to love you unconditionally are the same ones who locked you away and never looked back. For three years at Aspire, Christmas was just another Thursday with slightly better food and a movie nobody voted for. I endured it the way I endured everything: jaw tight, posture straight, eyes forward.
But this year. God, this year.
Everything is different, and I can pinpoint the exact reason with embarrassing precision. He's five-foot-eight with black hair and blue eyes and a mouth that doesn't know when to quit, and he sleeps a bunk away from me, and I'm so in love with him it physically aches.
