The heat was perfect. Tight and welcoming. The boy cried out; a raw, beautiful sound of being filled.
Landen set a deep, driving rhythm, his hips snapping forward. The slap of skin on skin. Ragged breathing. The creak of the bench. He chased the building tension in his own groin, the coiling promise of release.
But with every thrust, his mind pulled him elsewhere.
Shaking hands around a mug.
He drove deeper, grinding against that perfect spot inside the boy, who was sobbing with pleasure now, undone.
Too-bright eyes.
He felt his orgasm gathering, a storm at the base of his spine. He reached around, fisting the boy's cock in time with his thrusts.
The pink. That specific, devastating pink. High in his cheeks. The tips of his ears. Disappearing beneath the soft collar of that sweater.
How far does it go?
The thought arrived without warning. Vivid. Entirely inappropriate.
And with it, before he could stop it; Adriel. Soft and flushed and warm. Bent over this same bench. Landen's hands on the generous curve of his ass, his pale skin lit gold by candlelight, that blush spreading down his back and further still as Landen drove into him.
The image tipped him over.
His release tore through him with a violence that was almost painful. He spilled into the condom with a groan that was more frustration than pleasure, his forehead dropping between the submissive's shoulder blades, his whole body shuddering through it. White noise. His own heartbeat, loud and accusatory in his ears.
As the aftershocks faded, the dissatisfaction rushed in to fill the void. Sharper than anything he'd felt in this room before.
He pulled out. Disposed of the condom. Began aftercare on autopilot; unbuckling the restraints, murmuring praise, fetching the blanket and the water.
The boy smiled up at him, spent and worshipful, nuzzling into his hand. "Thank you, Sir."
“Good boy.” The words were ash in Landen's mouth.
He stayed until the boy was grounded, until his breathing had evened and subspace had released him back into himself. Then he rose quietly and left him to dress.
In the small adjacent washroom, Landen splashed cold water on his face and stared at his reflection. Hair disheveled. Shirt untucked. His eyes held something restless and unfamiliar.
He examined it anyway.
The scene had been good. The sub had been good; responsive, present, giving everything asked of him without hesitation. Landen had done everything right. His hands had known what to do. His voice had known what to say.
And through all of it, from the first strike to the last gasp, his mind had been somewhere else entirely.
He turned the tap off.
The truth was inescapable. Whatever dull hunger had been gnawing at him for weeks, whatever abstract absence he'd been circling without naming, now had a face.
Chapter 6
Adriel
The stairwell was cold.
It hummed with the distant vibration of the building's mechanicals, a low steady thrum you could feel in your teeth if you listened too long.
Adriel sat on the landing between the fifth and sixth floors, back pressed against the concrete wall, a manuscript open in his lap that he hadn't looked at in twenty minutes. The steps were hard and unforgiving beneath him.
It was quiet here. He'd discovered this place by accident his first week. A wrong turn, a door that hadn't been locked, and suddenly; this. A pocket of silence. He'd been coming back ever since.
