Page 116 of Slashed Bonds

Wet. Hot. Perfect pressure all at once.

His cheeks hollow as the suction clicks on, relentless. He takes me halfway down before his throat tightens in protest; he pulls back just enough to breathe through his nose, then goes again.

Deeper this time.

The head of my cock nudges the soft part at the back of his mouth and he doesn’t so much as twitch. He swallows around me—deliberate, practiced—and the convulsive grip of his throat coaxes a ragged sound out of me I don’t recognize as my own.

I keep my hand fisted in his hair.

I don’t push. Not yet. I watch, because if I close my eyes I’ll see it—Thursday, her on her knees for him in some room I wasn’t allowed into—and that jealousy is acid enough to burn this pleasure right out of me.

This is mine. This floor. This mouth. This hour. She doesn’t get this one.

He pulls off with a wet, filthy sound that seems too loud for this thin-walled house.

“Stop thinking about her,” he says, voice already wrecked.

A string of spit still connects his lower lip to my cock; he doesn’t wipe it away.

“I can feel it. You leave the room and your hand goes polite. I don’t want polite. I had polite for three days while you sat on the stairs watching her alphabetize the goddamn spices.”

“You knew about that.”

“I know when you don’t come to bed.” His hand wraps around me again, stroking firmly from root to tip, his thumb smearing wetness as he goes. “I know when you’re standing in some hallway trying to decide if wanting her means you lose me. It doesn’t. Say it back so I can ruin you the way you need.”

“It doesn’t.”

The words are out before I can shape them—raw, unguarded.

True anyway.

A keystone doesn’t remove a stone; it holds the arch together. I told myself that in the doorway earlier. Hearing it aloud now feels different.

Heavier. Better.

“Good boy,” Nikolai says softly, and the praise lands like a punch to the chest—harder than any jealousy ever could.

Then he stops talking altogether.

He takes me back into his mouth like he means it this time—like it’s a contest and he intends to win.

Both hands brace on my thighs, nails digging faint crescents even through my sweats. He works me with a focus I usually only see when he’s staring down a shooter in the slot—all precision and intent. His tongue presses flat along the underside of my cock; he twists slightly at the top each time he pulls up.

Then he goes down again until his nose brushes the coarse hair at my base and his throat flutters wildly around me—struggling but taking it, the wet choke of it obscenely perfect. Tears gleam at the corners of his eyes—not from pain, from effort. He likes the effort. He likes being the only one who can shut me up like this.

I last less time than I want to admit.

The sharp edge of the desk bites into my palms where I’m gripping it behind me.I hear myself making sounds—low, fractured, just his name repeated like a curse or a prayer.

He hums around me then,and the vibration travels straight up my spine and lodges hot at the base of my skull.My hips jerk forward helplessly.He pins them down with a forearm across my lap—goalie-strong,unmovable—and takes the next thrust deep into his throat on purpose.

Fuck.Fuck,I’m⁠—

“Niko.I’m close.”

He pulls off.

The cold air hits my wet skin like a slap.