Page 73 of Hold the Line

“Vik— wait— fuck—”

He carries me through the house to the bedroom, my protests turning into desperate, needy sounds as the movement rubs my aching cock against his shoulder. He drops me on the bed and climbs over me, caging me in.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he says calmly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Not until I decide you’ve learned your lesson.”

I’m going to die here.

“Did he beg prettier than me?” I gasp out, hips jerking up into his fist. “Did you tell him he was a good boy too? Or was I just easier—”

Viktor growls and suddenly both my wrists are pinned above my head in one of his big hands. The other keeps stroking me slow and mean, thumb teasing the head until I’m whining and shaking.

“Such a jealous little thing,” he murmurs. “Look at you. So desperate to know you’re the only one. So pretty when you’re like this — leaking all over my hand, begging so sweetly. I am yours, soroka. Only yours.”

I sob out another broken plea, thighs trembling, trying to chase his hand. “Please— Vik, please, I’ll be good, I swear, just let me come—”

He edges me harder. He brings me right to the edge again and again, praising me in that low, vicious voice every time I break a little more — telling me how perfect I am, how no one else could ever take him like I do, how he loves how desperate I get for him. But he never lets me tip over.

By the time he stops torturing my cock and starts opening me up, I’m a complete wreck — tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, my entire body shaking.

“Good boy. So tight for me. Taking my fingers so well even after I edged you for so long. That’s it, relax for me.”

When he finally pushes all the way inside — thick and hot and perfect — I yelp, back arching hard off the bed, a loud, broken moan tearing out of me as he bottoms out in one slow, controlled thrust.

“Did you… kill your father?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, raw and desperate and mortified the second it leaves me.

I slap my hand over my mouth immediately, my eyes going wide, face burning with horror. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Viktor freezes completely above me, buried to the hilt, his eyes locking onto mine. The room goes dead silent except for our ragged breathing. We just… stare at each other.

“Oh fuck— Vik, I didn’t— I don’t know why I said that, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—” I start babbling immediately, panicked, face burning with mortification even as my body is still trembling around him, desperate and full. “That was so stupid, I didn’t mean it, I was just— the jealousy and the edging and my stupid mouth, please ignore that, please, I’m losing my mind right now, I swear I don’t actually think— I know you wouldn’t— fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t stop, I need you, I need you so bad—”

Viktor stays completely still above me, buried to the hilt, thick and hot and unmoving inside me. He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t say a single word. My panic spikes higher with every second.

“Vik— baby, please say something, I crossed the line, I know I did, I’m such a fucking idiot, the meds and the game and the jealousy just— it all came out wrong, I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything, I swear, I love you, I trust you, please move, please fuck me, I’ll shut up, I’ll be so good, I promise—”

He still doesn’t move. Just stays there, deep inside me, heavy and overwhelming, eyes never leaving my face. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. Tears of frustration and embarrassment and overwhelming need prick at the corners of my eyes as I keep babbling.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t be mad, I didn’t— I wasn’t thinking, it just slipped out because I’m a jealous mess and you were edging me and my brain short-circuited— Vik, please, say something, I can’t take the silence, I feel like I ruined everything, I’m so fucking sorry—”

“He touched you.” Viktor’s voice cuts through my frantic babbling.

I freeze completely, staring up at him with wide eyes, the words slowly sinking in.

What?

My mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out. All the jealousy, all the stupid questions, everything suddenly feels small and distant compared to what he just admitted — not in words, but in that quiet, loaded statement.

I stare up at Viktor, frowning hard, my brain slowly piecing together every little fragment — the smile at New Year’s, Damian’s curse, the timing of the attack, the Russians, the way Viktor left the hospital that night, the complete lack of grief. My fingers start shaking where they’re still pinned above my head, overwhelmed and trembling against his grip.

No.

No. Viktor didn’t. He wouldn’t. No.

The realization crashes over me like a bad hit into the boards, knocking the air out of my lungs. My chest tightens, panic spiking sharp and ugly in a completely different direction now. Not because I crossed a line by asking — but because the answer might actually be yes.

Did I fall in love with a murderer?

Did Vik actually kill his father?