“Sebastian—”
“Relax. I'll shower.” He finally moved, reaching for tissues on the nightstand. “But Viktor?”
“What?”
“Next time you want to touch me? Don't wait for me to make the first move.” He cleaned his hand with lazy efficiency. Left the mess on his shirt. “Because we both know there'll be a next time. And next time, I want your hands on me. Not mine.”
He was right. And I hated him for it.
I left without another word. Walked back to my quarters. Locked the door. Stood under cold water until my cock softened and I could breathe again.
The door clicked shutbehind me. My hands shook. I stalked through the palace corridors, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on some invisiblepoint ahead. The scent of him clung to my skin—sex and sweat, that rich, dangerous confidence that made me want to tear him apart or worship him until he shattered.
My rooms were blessedly empty. Cold. Sterile. I locked the door and pressed my back to it, chest heaving. My cock throbbed in my pants, iron-hard and leaking, a humiliating, furious need that wouldn’t be ignored.
The memory of him sprawled on those sheets, cock in hand, mouth twisted in that victorious, knowing smile—it was a vision I could not exorcise. Bronze skin, abs tensing with every gasp, the lazy show of power and pleasure. The way his eyes had challenged me, begged me, broken me down one inch at a time.
My hand yanked at my belt, almost frantic, breath sharp in my chest. Pants shoved down, briefs following—my cock slapped against my stomach, slick with pre-come, red and angry with want.
I fisted the base, squeezing until the ache threatened to steal my balance, then started pumping slow, deliberate strokes, as if control could be rebuilt one motion at a time.
I wanted him beneath me. No—beggingbeneath me. Stripped of all that cocky bravado, mouth open, eyes glassy, skin marked by my hands, my teeth, my hunger. Wanted to ruin that poise, make him shudder and sob, make him realize what it meant to challenge a man trained to never break.
My thumb circled the head, smearing slick, the heat of my fist nothing compared to the image in my head. Sebastian pinned to the mattress, wrists locked in one of my hands, legs thrown over my shoulder, hole stretched wide, swallowing every inch of me.
He’d try to keep control, I thought, even as I pressed inside him. Would glare, bite out orders, dig his nails into my arms and demand that I go harder, deeper, rougher. Would tell me what he wanted, how to fuck him. But he’d break. Oh, he’d break. Voice would crack, eyes would go wide and wild. Would beg me—finallybeg me—to ruin him, to make him come, to use him like he needed.
My hips jerked at the fantasy, thrusting into my fist like I coulddrive myself into the imagined heat of him. My other hand slid down, palming my balls, squeezing until my knees nearly buckled.
“Take it,” I growled under my breath, slipping into Russian as the fantasy spiraled. “Take all of it. You wanted control, prince? You wanted to make me beg? No. Not tonight. Tonight you are mine.”
I pictured it perfectly: his thighs trembling, mouth bitten red, the flush blooming across his chest as I thrust in deep, grinding my pelvis into his ass, hand fisted in his hair, forcing him to look at me. His cock, hard and leaking between us, untouched, desperate for relief. My palm pressing down on his throat, just enough to remind him who owned every breath, every shiver.
“Say my name,” I muttered, voice rough, fucking my fist harder. “Beg for it. Beg me to fill you, to fuck you so full you forget how to speak.”
He’d spit defiance at first—because that’s who he was—but he’d melt, eventually. His body would give him away, his need drowning out every other instinct. He’d arch up into me, back bowed, heels digging into my ass, every inch of him pleading, desperate for the promise I’d whispered in his ear.
“Is this what you wanted?” I’d ask, slow and cruel, rolling my hips until he gasped. “You wanted to be fucked like you’re nothing but a hole for me to use? You wanted to be ruined, wrecked, owned?”
My thumb stroked over the head, gathering pre-come, using it to slick every stroke, my fist flying now, hips jerking, thighs tense as a bowstring.
He’d come untouched, I thought. From nothing but my cock and my words and the power I refused to give back. Would spatter his own belly, maybe sob my name, maybe whimper as I kept fucking him through it, milking every last aftershock, filling him up until he was dripping, shaking, undone.
My balls drew tight, the pressure overwhelming, vision going white at the edges.
I shoved my fist up to the root, strangled a gasp, and came—hard, messy, thick pulses painting my hand, my stomach, the floor. Mybreath stuttered, body wracked with shivers, brain still trapped in the image of him, destroyed and sated, mine in every possible way.
I sagged back against the wall, spent and shaking, the echo of his name on my lips.
Someday soon, I promised myself, hewouldbeg. And I’d make sure he loved every brutal second of it.
We reachedhis next appointment in silence. Economic advisors. Trade agreements. The kind of meeting that would drag for two hours and change nothing except how many ways bureaucrats could say “we'll consider it” without committing to action.
I took up position outside the conference room, back to the wall, scanning the corridor with mechanical efficiency. But my mind was still replaying the way Sebastian had crouched down for that child. The gentleness in his hands. The promise in his voice.
Through the door, I could hear him. Not just hear. Listen. Against every professional instinct I had.
His voice was different in there. Warm but sharp. Engaged. He was asking questions about import tariffs that I didn't understand but could tell were intelligent by the way the advisors stumbled over their answers.
