Page 117 of Slashed Bonds

I’m gleaming, flushed deep purple at the head, and a slick thread of spit connects his chin to me. He looks thoroughly used—lips swollen, eyes glazed, hair a mess—and utterly pleased with himself. Not an ounce of remorse in that sharp, knowing gaze.

“Not yet,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t get to finish in my mouth and call it a conversation. Switch.”

“What.”

“Switch.”

He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, wiping his mouth carelessly with the back of his wrist. He misses most of the wetness, then leans in and kisses me deep and filthy—I can taste myself on his tongue, coppery from my split lip, salty and bright with mint.

“I sucked you. Now you suck me. Then I’m going to bend you over this desk and fuck you until the jealousy shuts up. That was the deal you made when you turned the lock. You just didn’t hear yourself make it.”

My cock jumps against his hip, traitorous, already eager again.

“I hate you,” I say into the heat of his mouth.

“You love this.” He bites my bottom lip right where it’s already broken—a fresh, bright sting. “On your knees, Graves. You’ve been standing in doorways for three days. Kneel for something that isn’t a question.”

I kneel.

Famished. He wasn’t wrong.

His sweats are the soft gray ones, worn thin at the knees.

They slide down his hips easily. He’s already hard—thick and flushed, beading at the tip. The scent of him blooms stronger here: warm musk edged with something clean like juniper, sweetened now by pure want.

I wrap my hand around him and he hisses softly, head tipping back, baring the long line of his throat like an offering I already know how to take.

I don’t tease.

Teasing is his language, not mine.

I take him into my mouth all at once—one smooth, wet slide—and the sound he makes is exactly what I came in here for, even if I hadn’t known the shape of it until now: low, ragged, broken at the edges.

His hand finds my hair, then drifts to the band at my neck; his fingers hook under it, not pulling it up over my eyes—just holding on, an anchor, the way he braces against a goalpost.

“Fuck. There. God, your mouth.”

I suck him like I’m owed it.

My tongue traces the thick vein underneath; my hand works what I can’t take yet until I adjust, swallowing deeper until the head nudges the back of my throat.

My eyes water; the taste of him is clean salt and skin, familiar as this bathroom floor. I hollow my cheeks and look up.

He’s watching. Nikolai doesn’t come without a witness if he can help it.

His mouth is slack now; the cynical twist is gone.

What’s left is just him—flushed, wrecked, mine in a way no hallway argument could touch.

“You look—” He cuts off when I swallow around him; his thighs tremble. “You look like you want to live there. Greedy. That’s new. I like you greedy.”

I pull off just enough to speak, my lips still brushing his skin.

“I’m not new,” I say. “You just weren’t looking while you were busy getting your lollipop licked.”

He laughs—a real one—that breaks into a groan when I take him deep again.

I set a mean pace on purpose.