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“Teaching me what?”
“That provoking me has consequences.”
My whole body goes tense. This is a ledge I’m not prepared to look over, much less step from.
“Kento—”
His hand slides up and cups the side of my throat. “Look at me,” he says.
“Wait.”
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my pants and my underwear together, then yanks them down. My cock is already half-hard from everything he’s been doing to my head, and the sudden exposure makes me flinch.
“Be good.” His free arm bands across my chest, locking me against him while his fist keeps working me in filthy pulls. His mouth opens against the side of my neck, teeth grazing, then kissing the same spot. “You provoked me. Now you’re going to stay right here and take what that earns you.”
His hand twists on the upstroke. My hips jerk forward into his fist, and another moan slips out, higher this time.
“I’m not—”
His fist speeds up for three strokes, then slows again. My head tips further back.
“You’re not what?” he asks. “Not mine? Not hard for me?”
His free hand slides up my chest, under my shirt, palm spreading warm over my heart. At the same time, his fist keeps working me, twisting at the head on every upstroke until my thighs start to tremble.
“Kento—”
He kisses the side of my throat. “Say my name again.”
I try to close my legs. I don’t know why, because I don’t want this to stop. The good thing is that he doesn’t let me. He steps one boot between my feet and kicks them wider, keeping me open for him.
“Be still,” he orders softly. “I’m not finished.”
His hand never stops. “You wanted to make me jealous,” he murmurs. “Congratulations. You succeeded.”
I moan again when his thumb presses just under the head, and the sound is so wrecked I barely recognize it as mine. I’m leaking freely now, precum spilling over his knuckles in clear threads. He doesn’t wipe it away. He gathers it instead, coating his fingers until they shine.
I don’t notice what he’s doing with the rest of it.
I’m too busy trying not to moan, then something slick presses against my entrance.
I jerk hard.
“Do— Don’t—”
“You’re cute when you’re stuttering.”
“You—”
He pushes in.
One finger slides past the tight ring of muscle in a slow press. I gasp and flinch forward into the wall, but the arm banded across my waist keeps me exactly where he wants me. The stretch burns, but I don’t necessarily hate it. It just feels weird.
“Let me in,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the side of my head. “It’s just a finger. You can take this.”
The finger sinks deeper until it’s fully seated inside me. It feels a little painful, tight, foreign, wrong, but it’s manageable. The real problem is the thought. The unhinged knowledge that I’m standing here with my pants around my thighs, while the man I’m supposed to hate has a finger buried in my ass.
My dick hasn’t gone down once.
