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His head tips back against the wall.

The moan that leaves him is helpless, the kind of sound he would never make if he thought anyone else could hear it. “Here,” I say. “You do it.”

I take his wrist and put his hand where mine was. I wrap his fingers around both of us, then I lay my hand over his, bigger, covering, forcing his grip tighter than he’d dare on his own. I set the pace while every upstroke smears precome over both heads until we’re shining and his knuckles are slippery.

“You’re— Ah— So—”

I kiss him and bite his lower lip until he gasps, and then I lick into him like I’m owed the air in his lungs. He makes a muffled sound and tries to talk through it anyway, so I tilt his head with the hand still on his throat and kiss him deeper. When I pull back, he’s panting, lips wet.

His hand flexes under mine, squeezing us together, and a full-body shudder goes through him.

I kiss the corner of his mouth. Softer this time. A reward for shutting up. “Keep stroking. Just like that. Don’t you dare stop.”

He doesn’t. He can’t. His rhythm stutters when I thumb over both slits at once, gathering the mess and using it, but he keeps going, green eyes half-lidded, blush high on his cheekbones, that mouth finally occupied with breathing instead of picking a fight.

I press my forehead to his and watch him fall apart in our hands.

“Good,” I whisper. “That’s it, prince. Fix it.”

I tighten our hands and speed it up until the sound turns filthy.

“I— Fuck— I’m—”

“I know.” I kiss him through the first stutter of it, swallow the rest of the warning. “Come. Now. I want to feel it.”

His whole body locks, a moan torn out of him into my mouth, and then he’s spilling over both of us. His hips jerk helplessly into the mess. I work him through it until he’s twitching.

I follow and paint his cock until there’s no telling where I end and he starts. It slides down between our fingers, white and filthy.

Then I lift my hand, and his eyes go wide when he understands.

I take his jaw in my other hand and press my thumb to the hinge until his mouth opens. He makes an outraged sound that dies the second I slide two wet fingers past his lips.

“Lick.”

He tries to turn his face, but I don’t let him. I hold him there and push in deeper, smearing our mixed come over his tongue.

“I said lick, Ilya.”

He does. Reluctant at first, then not. His tongue drags over my fingers, cleaning the mess we made. A stripe of it sits at the corner of his mouth. I smear it in with my thumb and make him take that too. He moans around my fingers, and then he swallows.

His throat works under my palm. When I pull my fingers out, they’re cleaner, and his mouth is shiny, so pretty I have to kiss it again.

“Good boy,” I say against his mouth. “See? You fixed it.”

I wipe what’s left on his lower lip with my thumb and let him sit with the taste.

A few moments later, he catches his breath like he’s been underwater.

I give him that much. I stay close enough that he has to feel me, but I don’t touch his throat again. I tuck myself away first, and then I take him in hand and do the same for him. He twitches when my knuckles brush him and shoots me a look that is half glare, half don’t comment or I’ll stab you.

I don’t. I just put him back in his trousers and button him up. Then he takes over and fixes his pants with jerky little motions, but no longer looks at me.

“This doesn’t mean anything.” He keeps going, faster.

“This is just sex. You’re good at it, I’ll admit. But don’t get any ideas.”

“Is that so?”