Page 43 of Hold the Line

Cole pulls off my cock with a wet, obscene sound, strings of spit connecting his swollen lips to the head for a second before they break. He looks up at me from his knees, his eyes glassy with lust and mischief, lips shiny and wrecked, and flashes me that wicked, spit-slick grin that has always been my undoing.

“Hope Zara doesn’t mind watching you fuck my throat on the security feed,” he rasps. “Or maybe she’ll just enjoy the show. Broken camera or not.”

The last fragile thread of control I had been clinging to disappears. I growl, and fist my hand tighter in his curls, dragging him back onto my cock in one rough motion. Cole’s laugh vibrates around me as he takes me deep again, the sound turning into a wet, eager moan that sends shocks of pleasure straight up my spine.

“Fuck— Cole—” I jerk forward as I start fucking his mouth in earnest, no longer gentle, no longer holding back. The broken camera, the stopped elevator, the very real risk of someone figuring out what we are doing — none of it matters. All that exists is the tight heat of his throat, the wicked press of that silver piercing dragging along my length, and the way he looks up at me like he loves every second of it.

God, he is so good at this. I could die like this, buried in his mouth with his hands gripping my thighs and his eyes watering but never looking away. I groan his name again, thrusting harder, chasing the edge he is so eagerly pulling me toward.

My hips are stuttering, hand tight in his hair, the edge rushing up fast when the elevator suddenly lurches back into motion with a soft mechanical hum. The emergency lights flicker off and the regular ones come back on as it starts ascending again.

A crackle comes through the intercom. “Is everything alright?” a concerned male voice asks. “We received an emergency stop signal. Do you need assistance?”

I grit my teeth, barely holding back a groan as Cole’s tongue flicks wickedly against me one last time. With monumental effort, I pull him off me, the wet pop loud in the small space. Cole laughs — bright, breathless, and entirely too pleased with himself — as I yank him up to his feet and quickly tuck myself back into my jeans, zipping up with shaking hands.

“Everything is fine,” I lie through my teeth, slightly strained as I press the button to respond. “False alarm. Thank you.”

Cole is still smirking like the devil as he smooths down my shirt with both hands, pretending to be helpful while his eyes sparkle with pure mischief. His lips are red and swollen, a little shiny, and I cannot stop staring at them.

Just before the elevator dings on our floor, I cup his jaw with one hand, thumb dragging slowly across his bottom lip, wiping away the last traces of spit and precum. I lean in close, and whisper. “We’re not done.”

Cole’s breath hitches, his eyes darkening instantly. The doors slide open and I step out first, grabbing his wrist and pulling him after me down the hallway toward our room. Cole follows without protest, but I can feel the way he is practically vibrating beside me, that wicked little smirk still playing on his lips.

"Gonna punish me, big guy? Gonna throw me around like one of your defensive partners? I might like that—”

I open the door to our room, grab him by the waist, and pull him inside. The door slams shut behind us with a heavy thud. Before he can say another word, I lift him clean off the floor and throw him over my shoulder like he weighs nothing. Cole yelps, half-laugh, half-surprise, his hands grabbing at my back as I carry him straight to the bedroom.

I toss him onto the bed. He bounces once, already scrambling to get his clothes off with frantic speed — hoodie, shirt, sweats, everything flying across the room. I am almost impressed he does not sprain something in his hurry. In seconds he is naked, hard, flushed, and looking up at me with those bright, challenging eyes.

I decide to be mean. Instead of climbing on top of him like he clearly expects, I turn away, walk to my bag, and pull out the bottle of lube. I toss it onto the bed beside him.

“Make yourself come for me, soroka,” I say, voice calm and low as I lean against the dresser, arms crossed, watching him.

Cole’s face twists in pure indignation. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” he snaps, sitting up on his knees, leaking against his stomach. “You drag me up here like a caveman, throw me on the bed, and now you want me to do all the work? Fuck you, Petrov. Get over here and fuck me yourself.”

I raise an eyebrow, refusing to move. “You wanted to play games in the elevator. Now you play by my rules. Touch yourself. Let me watch.”

“You absolute asshole,” he growls, but his hand is already sliding down his body anyway, wrapping around his cock with a shaky breath. “You’re really gonna stand there and make me do this while you just watch? After I sucked you off in a fucking elevator?”

“Yes,” I answer simply, eyes locked on every movement of his hand. “And you are going to be good and come for me like this, or I will not touch you at all tonight.”

Cole whines frustrated, stroking himself faster, hips rocking into his fist. “I hate you. I hate you so fucking much right now. You’re mean. You’re a mean Russian bastard who— fuck— who gets off on torturing me—”

I smirk, refusing to move closer even as my own cock strains against my jeans. “Keep talking. You are so pretty when you are desperate.”

He leans back against the headboard, legs spread, hand wrapped around himself, stroking slow and teasing while he stares at me with that defiant little smirk. He edges himself deliberately — speeding up just enough to make his breath hitch, then slowing down again right before he can tip over the edge. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, but he keeps running his mouth.

“You really gonna just stand there?” he taunts, voice breathy as his thumb circles the head of his cock. “Big strong defenseman and you won’t even touch me? Pathetic.”

I stay where I am, refusing to move closer. “You wanted to play games. So play. Show me how desperate you can get for me.”

He keeps going, stroking himself torturously slow, hips rolling into his fist. We stay locked in this battle of wills for long minutes — him trying to break my patience, me refusing to give in. Every time he gets close, he forces himself to slow down again, cursing under his breath.

“Good boy,” I murmur in Russian. “Look at you… so beautiful. Stroking that pretty cock for me. You are doing so well. My perfect, needy little magpie.”

Cole’s rhythm falters. His eyes flutter, mouth falling open on a broken moan as the praise hits him. He forgets to brat. His hand starts moving faster, chasing it now instead of fighting it, hips jerking up into his fist as he stares at me with pure, helpless need.

“That’s it,” I continue softly, switching between languages. “Takoy horoshiy… Such a good boy for me. Come on, let me see you fall apart. I want to watch you come just from my voice.”