Page 29

He shudders, the effort to break free making his arms quiver. I can feel the pulse in his wrists, wild and frantic. I let go just long enough to shift my grip, spin him, and shove him against the desk. His hands splay on the wood, fingers searching for grip, but I press down on his spine and force him to bend.

His ass is right there, outlined in black dress pants, and I feel my cock stiffen at the sight. I yank the waistband down, popping the button and forcing the zip to break at the seams… rough enough to leave friction burns, and expose him. The skin is pale, almost blue in the harsh lights, but I don’t stop to admire. I spread him open, spit on my fingers, and work them in with no warning. He’s tight, tighter than anyone I’ve ever fucked, but he takes it, and the sound he makes now is pure animal.

He tries to stand, but I pin him with my chest. I work him open with two fingers, then three, ignoring the pain in my wrist, ignoring the bruise on my ribs. He bites his arm to keep from screaming.

“Fuck you,” he hisses.

I laugh, a sound even I don’t recognize, and shove in a fourth finger. His whole-body arches, every muscle cording up. He’s sweating now, lines running down his back.

I pull out, spit a glob on his asshole and one more on my hand, rubbing it on my tip, line up my cock, and drive it in with one hard thrust. He jerks, almost launches off the desk, but I hold him down. The heat of his body is intoxicating, the clench of his muscles bordering on pain, but I want that, need that, need to be the one to break him.

I fuck him with hard, fast strokes, not giving him time to breathe. He starts to fight, then stops, then fights again. I bury my teeth in his shoulder, mark him, claim him, fuck him so hard I feel my balls slap against his thighs.

I reach around, grab his cock, and squeeze, just enough to elicit a groan. He’s hard, so hard it almost hurts to grip him. I twist my fist, milk him, jerk him off until he’s panting, sweat pouring off his face.

He cums first, a loud groan, shuddering, a hot splash on the desk. The moment he does, his body goes limp, and I pound into him, using his slack weight as leverage. I finish a few strokes later, filling him, biting his shoulder, grinding my hips against him until I’m empty.

We stay like that, bent over the desk, both gasping. I feel my heart hammering in my chest, feel the blood in my mouth, taste his sweat and spit and the raw edge of victory.

He’s the first to move. He straightens, tugs his pants up, and turns to face me.

His lip is split. Blood runs down his chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand and stares, unblinking.

“Well,” he says, voice shredded. “I suppose that’s one way to accept an offer.”

I grin, wide and feral, blood smeared on my teeth.

The game is different now. I see it in his eyes—respect, or maybe just the thrill of being chosen. I wonder how long this will last, how many more times I’ll have to fight him, fuck him, to keep the upper hand.

I hope it’s forever.

He steps closer, closes the gap between us, and this time when he kisses me, it’s slow. Erotic. A negotiation, not a war. His tongue tastes of blood and whiskey and something softer, something like surrender.

When we finally part, he presses his forehead to mine.

“You’re going to fit in just fine,” he whispers.

I should let it end here, but I can't.

There’s a taste in my mouth that’s more than blood—something addictive, metallic, alive. It overrides the pain in my thighs, the burning in my chest, the bruises that circle my arms like bracelets. I want more. I want everything.

So I kneel. “Not done yet.” I rasp.

The motion is deliberate, slow enough for him to see what’s coming, but fast enough that he can’t retreat. My knees hit the floor, hard, and he lets me grab his pants. I let them fall to the ground in a puddle.

His cock is half-hard, flushed, the tip still wet from before. I grab it at the base, squeezing until he gasps, then stroke it with the meanest rhythm I can muster. My palm is rough, callused, and I work him with short, fast jerks. He hisses, hands finding my hair, clutching tight, not in control but desperate.

I look up, catch his eyes, and smirk.

His face is a mess. His lip oozes blood, and there’s a smear of it on his teeth. His chest heaves, a red bruise blooming around his neck. His shirt is half open, exposing a cut-down line of abs and ribs, the fabric sticking to his skin with sweat.

I open my mouth and take him in.

He groans, the sound low and almost pained. His hips jerk, trying to push deeper, but I pin him to the wall with my free arm and set the pace. I work my tongue in tight circles, then suck him down to the base, gagging a little on purpose just to feel his body clench. I feel every pulse, every vein, every twitch. He’s big, not just in length but in weight, and my jaw aches, but I don’t stop.

He tries to warn me, a tremor in his hands, a gasp that sounds almost like my name, but I ignore it. I let him ride the edge, then pull off, spit dripping down my chin.

He looks down, dazed.