Page 72 of Hold the Line

The lock clicks and the door swings open behind me.

Viktor spins us smoothly so my back hits the inside of the door instead, kicking it shut with his foot. The sound echoes through the quiet house like a starting gun. His hand slides to my jaw, thumb pressing firmly against my bottom lip. “Open,” he commands.

I open my mouth immediately, sticking my tongue out like the needy idiot I am. Viktor reaches into his pocket, pulls out the small case, and takes out my tongue piercing. His fingers are steady and careful as he slides the barbell back into place, the familiar cool metal settling against my tongue. The whole ritual feels intimate as hell, especially with the way he’s looking at me like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks.

The second the piercing is in I’m already working on his pants, greedy hands undoing his belt and zipper with shaky fingers. I want him. Want to feel him, taste him, remind myself that he’s mine and I’m his and Mason was just noise.

Viktor makes a low sound in his throat, half-warning, half-groan, and kisses me again, deep and filthy, as I push his pants down just enough to get my hand on him.

Even knowing Viktor didn’t fuck Mason — even with his calm denial still ringing in my ears — I can’t help it. The jealousy is still there, ugly and hot under my skin, making me want to push. Want to hear him say it again. Want to make him lose that perfect control for a second.

I wrap my fingers around his thick length, stroking once, slow and teasing, as I drop to my knees right there in the entryway. The floor is hard under my knees but I don’t care. Viktor’s breath catches above me.

“Tell me…” I murmur, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes even as my hand keeps moving. “Did Mason feel this good?”

I lean in and lick a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock, my piercing dragging deliberately along the vein. Viktor curses low in Russian, one hand coming down to fist in my curls. “Cole—”

“Did he look good on his knees looking up at you like this?” I push, swirling my tongue around the head before taking him deeper, hollowing my cheeks. I know I’m being a brat. I know I’m playing with fire. But the jealousy is still simmering and the only way I know how to burn it out is like this — pushing him until he snaps and reminds me exactly who I belong to.

Viktor’s grip tightens in my hair, not quite pulling but definitely holding me there as I work him with my mouth, eyes locked on his the whole time. His jaw is clenched, his eyes burning down at me, control fraying at the edges.

“Only you,” he growls, voice rough. “Only ever you on your knees for me like this. Keep pushing, little bird, and I will fuck that jealousy out of you until you cannot even remember his name.”

I moan around him, the sound vibrating down his length, and keep going, desperate to hear him break.

“Did he suck you better than this?” I ask, voice breathy as I stroke him slow and teasing. “Did he take you all the way down like I do? Or did you have to teach him how to open his throat for you?”

Viktor’s hand tightens in my curls, a low growl rumbling in his chest. I don’t wait for an answer. I dive back down, taking him deep, tongue working the underside, piercing dragging just the way I know drives him crazy. But I pull off again too soon.

“Tell me, Vik… did he beg like I do? Did he whine for your cock or was he too proud?”

Another lick. Another swirl. Another filthy question between desperate sucks.

“Did you fuck his mouth until he cried? Did you hold his head down and use him like a toy the way you do with me? Or was he better at taking it?”

Viktor hauls me up by the hair firm enough to make my scalp tingle, and spins me around, pressing my chest against the door. His big body cages me in from behind, one hand sliding down to palm me through my pants while the other keeps my head tilted back against his shoulder.

“You want to keep pushing, soroka?” he growls against my ear. “Fine. I will show you exactly who this cock belongs to.”

He doesn’t give me what I want. Not really.

He edges me mercilessly.

His hand works me with cruel precision — slow, perfect strokes that drag me right to the edge, thumb circling the head, squeezing just right, only to stop the second my thighs start shaking and my moans turn broken and desperate. Every time I get close — so fucking close — he pulls his hand away or loosens his grip, leaving me throbbing and leaking and whining against the door like a slut.

“Vik— please— I’m sorry, I’m so close, please let me come—”

“Not yet,” he murmurs against my ear, dark and mean, teeth grazing my neck. “You wanted to ask questions. Keep asking. Tell me again how jealous you are while I own this body.”

I’m a wreck. Panting, hips jerking uselessly into his fist, tears of pure frustration stinging at the corners of my eyes.

“Beg nicer, soroka.”

“Please— Vik, please, I need it, I’ll be so good, I swear, just let me come—”

He stops again. Just… stops. Lets me throb painfully in his hand while I sob out another broken plea. The ache is unbearable. My cock is leaking all over his fingers, balls tight, body trembling. I’ve never needed to come this badly in my life.

Viktor makes a low, satisfied sound and pulls his hand away completely. I whine at the loss, pathetically loud, but before I can protest he spins me around, hauls me up, and throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.