“Try me.”
His grip on my throat tightened, not cutting off air, just making every breath feel earned. My pulse hammered under his palm, but I didn’t pull away—I leaned into it, relishing the pressure, the proof of how close he was to snapping.
“You want to know what is underneath?” His accent sharpened, voice dropping to a growl. “Underneath is man who spent eighteen years turning himself into weapon. Who learned that feeling anything is liability.” His eyes were ice and fury.
I grinned, teeth bared, and rocked harder against him. The grind of our cocks, the rough drag of fabric, every pass getting filthier, more desperate. “Then break me. At least I’ll feel something.”
“You do not mean that.”
“Don’t I?” My hand slid between us, palm cupping him through his pants, squeezing, feeling the heat and the thickness trapped beneath layers of control. He shuddered, jaw clenching, a sound torn from his throat that made my whole body tighten.
I spat into my palm—deliberate, messy—then dragged my hand across his lips, smearing my spit over his mouth. He caught my wrist, locked eyes with me, and spit back, hot and heavy, straight into myopen mouth. I swallowed it down, never breaking eye contact, the taste and the humiliation making my cock throb.
“Fuck, you’re so desperate for it,” I rasped, grinding into him, hips snapping, chasing the friction, the danger. His hand on my throat flexed, his other hand grabbed my ass, pulling me closer, rutting up into me like he couldn’t stop himself.
He didn’t. His breath hitched, control fracturing. The next roll of his hips was brutal, cock jerking against mine, and I felt the sharp, helpless pulse as he came in his pants, body shaking, a low groan tearing out of him.
That was all it took. My own orgasm hit, hot and overwhelming, cock pulsing, soaking the front of my jeans, pleasure flooding every nerve. I gasped, head falling forward onto his shoulder, hips grinding through it, milking every last drop, both of us rutting helplessly, caught in the filth and the power.
Then Apollo barked. Sharp. Insistent. Someone coming.
We broke apart like we'd been burned. Put three feet of distance between us in half a second.
Viktor turned away, adjusting himself with shaking hands. His face was flushed. His breathing harsh. His cock still obviously hard.
I wasn't much better. My heart was hammering. My own cock aching. My throat still tingling where his hand had been.
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Getting closer.
“You have meeting in thirty minutes,” Viktor said. Voice rough. “I suggest you make it.”
“And if I don't?”
He looked at me. Something dark and dangerous in his eyes. “Then I will drag you there myself. And we will both regret what happens if I touch you again.”
He left. Door closing with a quiet click.
I stood there in the workshop, hands shaking, cock aching, knowing I'd just crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
Knowing I'd do it again.
Apollo padded over, whined softly. Worried.
“I'm okay,” I told him.
Lie. I wasn't okay. I was playing with fire and loving the burn.
The dining hallwas already half full when we arrived.
Sunlight poured through tall windows, catching on crystal chandeliers and turning everything gold. The long marble table gleamed under carefully arranged place settings. Nobles and diplomats clustered in small groups, their laughter polished and their smiles sharp.
I hated these events. The performance of it. The way everyone said one thing while meaning another. The fact that I had to smile and charm and pretend I didn't see through every calculated gesture.
But I was good at it. Years of practice had made me very good at it.
I slipped into my public persona like putting on a second skin. Easy smile. Confident posture. The golden prince everyone wanted me to be.
Viktor peeled off toward the wall, taking up position near the exit. I watched him go, saw the way he positioned himself for maximum sight lines, and felt oddly reassured by his presence.
