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The need to take him again overwhelms me… but this time I want to do it right. Grabbing him, I gently turn him and bend him over, admiring how pretty his hole looks all puffy, my cum glistening on his skin.

I push in, slow at first, letting the head stretch him open, then drive the rest home with one brutal shove. He chokes out a sound, half protest, half pleasure, and his body fights it for a second before giving in.

I hold his hips in both hands, fingers digging into flesh, and fuck him with short, slow strokes. He takes it, every inch, groaning and gasping as I hit that spot over and over, breathing hard through his nose. The sound of skin on skin, the wet slap, fills the room, and I lose myself in the rhythm.

He tries to push back, match my pace, but I overpower him, holding him in place, setting the tempo. The harder I fuck him, the more he gives, until the fight in his shoulders melts into trembling.

“Harder,” he grinds out, voice rough.

I give it to him. I pound his ass, slamming in with enough force to make the desk rock.

He goes quiet, head hanging, sweat dripping onto the desk. I can see the muscles in his back flex with every thrust. His fingers curl into claws, scratching at the wood.

I reach around, grab his cock again, and stroke it in time. He’s leaking now, the head red and swollen. I twist my grip, tighter, and jerk him off as I fuck him.

“The Crown doesn’t own this,” I growl. “No… this is all you.”

He groans, and I feel the shudder go all the way through him.

I keep pounding, faster, rougher, wanting to leave something permanent behind. When I come again, I pull him tight, slam deep, and feel my balls empty inside him, somehow just as much as the first time.

Once I’m done, I spin him, dropping to my knees and taking his cock in my mouth, sucking hard as he grabs my hair and comes down my throat.

I swallow every drop.

Fucking heaven.

My body gives out. I fall to the floor, dragging him with me, both of us a heap of limbs and ruined nerves.

Bentley is sprawled face-down on the floor, breathing in shallow, ragged gasps.

For a long time, we don’t move. Our skin cools, our hearts slow, and the sweat dries on our bodies.

He stirs first, pushing up on trembling arms. He turns, looks at me with eyes wide and raw. I expect anger, but there’s none. He’s wrecked, totally and beautifully wrecked, and in the bruised mess of his face I see something close to peace.

And in his eyes, I can see that I look the exact same.

Destroyed. Rebuilt. Utterly owned by the other.

I help him up.

We stand, leaning on each other, and for a second we’re just two fucked-up men in a fucked-up place, holding each other up because we have no other choice.

He picks up his ruined pants, tugs them over his ass, then turns and finds the blood on my lip. He touches it, gentle, thumb grazing the cut.

He smiles, slow and dangerous, then licks the blood away.

We leave the room, not bothering to clean up. The cameras click back on, but I don’t care. Let them watch. Let them see exactly what I’ve become.

Bentley limps ahead of me, but when we reach the next door, he waits. He looks at me, then nods.

“Next time,” he says, voice barely there, “I’ll make you beg.”

I grin, split lip and all.

“I dare you,” I say.

We walk down the hall. To where, I don’t know.