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He tilts my head back, then presses his mouth to mine and pushes the taste of myself into me as he feeds the cum into my mouth in a kiss.
“Take it,” he murmurs against my lips. “All of it.”
His tongue pushes deeper, making me taste every drop he saved. When I try to close my mouth, he nips my lower lip hard enough to make me gasp, then uses the opening to press more of it past my teeth.
“Swallow,” he orders, and doesn’t stop until I finally give in and swallow.
Only then does he pull back just enough to look at me.
His thumb strokes once along my jaw.
“Good boy.”
Kento
I see it
His gaze cuts sideways like he’s counting the exact number of steps it would take to get away from me before I could catch his wrist and drag him right back.
He’s about to bolt. So I reach for him and grab his hair.
“I’m not done with you—”
Pain flashes across his face so quickly most people would miss it. I don’t. It’s there and gone in less than a second, swallowed under that usual cold little glare of his, but I’ve spent enough time studying Ilya to know when something inside him jerks wrong.
My brows draw together. I ease my hand more carefully into his hair this time, gentling the touch. “What’s wrong?”
I let my fingers move slower, trying to soothe whatever just tightened in him. “Did I hurt you?” I don’t want to hurt him. Contrary to what my spectacularly questionable moral record might suggest, causing him actual pain is the last thing I want. That’s why I gave him a safe word in the first place, which he hasn’t used, by the way. Not once. And the hopelessly besotted part of my brain is inclined to take that as a very encouraging sign.
My hand slips through pale strands, and then my fingertips catch on something uneven. He flinches back. “No,” he says too quickly. “You didn’t.”
I catch his wrist before he can pull any farther away and tug him back toward me, firm enough to stop the retreat.
He twists. “Let go.”
“Stay still.”
“Kento—”
“Stay,” I repeat.
I part his hair carefully and find stitches. Hidden near the back of his head, half-concealed under silver-blond strands, I can tell instantly they weren’t done by a doctor. Whoever hurt him has just made themselves my problem, and that tends to end badly for people.
I pull back and look at him. “Who hurt you?”
He steps away from me the moment I give him room, one hand going to smooth his hair back into place. “They’re already dead.”
“Are they?”
His chin lifts. “Yes.”
I click my tongue. I can tell he’s lying, not because he’s terrible at lying. Ilya can lie very well when he wants to. But his body’s betraying him. There is too much tension in the shoulders, and his fingers flex, then curl into his palm like he’s trying to keep his own nerves from speaking out of turn.
He’s struggling to breathe evenly. I reach into my pocket and pull out a raspberry lollipop.
“Why do you always—”
I push it into his mouth and he makes an irritated sound around the candy.
