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“Did you miss me?”

He makes a sound around the candy that isn’t an answer.

I pull my fingers out. He whines at the loss, hips chasing empty air. I flip the knife in my palm, wrap my hand around the blade so the handle is what he gets, and drag the smooth end through the mess I left on him.

He stiffens.

“What is—”

The lolly drops from his mouth as I push it inside. It sinks past that tight rim, and his whole back arches.

“Did you miss me?” I ask again. “Answer me.”

“Yes—fuck—slow down—”

I work the handle in until it seats, then draw it back, then in again, using it the way I used my fingers, except now it’s his own weapon opening him. The thought drives me crazy. Ilya taking the hilt of the knife he loves to put in me.

“You bring this everywhere. Might as well put it to use.”

He slams a hand back, trying to grab my wrist. I catch it and pin it to the desk while I fuck him with it. He doesn’t last long, though, because on the next thrust he breaks.

His hole clenches so tight I have to hold the knife still or it would slip. I keep him there through it, letting him shake himself empty.

When the last tremor leaves him, I ease the handle out slowly.

He flinches at the drag of it. I set the knife aside on the desk, wipe it once on a discarded cloth, then pull his underwear and pants back up.

When I turn him around, he looks disjointed. For a second he doesn’t seem to know where he is, only that his legs are unreliable and his face is too close to mine.

I kiss the top of his head. “Back with me?”

He blinks once, twice, like the room is assembling itself in pieces. His hands fist in my shirt without seeming to decide to.

“Come on, my prince,” I say quietly. “I’ll take you home.”

My home.

Ilya

By the time I get to Kento’s apartment, it’s obvious my dignity died somewhere along the drive over. I should probably hold a funeral. Nobody needs to see what became of it after I let a dangerously attractive yakuza heir use my own knife to make me come. I’m so unbelievably fucked.

As we reach the door, I momentarily get out of my thoughts and stare.

Everything is black.

Not in a tasteful, minimalist way either. The walls? Black. The couch? Black. The shelves? Black. The kitchen counters? Black. Even the stupid little decorative bowls on the table are black.

The only time I’d ever stepped foot in here was when I crawled through his window to carry out my spectacularly unsuccessful revenge plan. It had been the middle of the night, and I was a little preoccupied shoving his gun down his throat, so I hadn’t paid much attention to anything else.

I slowly turn my head and say, “Did the sun do something to you personally?”

Kento closes the door behind me. “You don’t like it?”

“I feel like I just walked into a villain’s mausoleum.”

His mouth curves. “That’s not a no.”

“I’ve seen funeral homes with more light.”