“No, sir.”
“Are you gonna behave like my good boy now?”
“Yes—fuck, I will, I—please—” He stumbles over the words like his brain can’t keep up with the burn, and I pull back just far enough to land one more slap—sharp, loud, and perfectly placed right on the curve of his ass—drawing a ragged gasp from him as his knees nearly give out beneath the weight of it.
Then I drop to my knees behind him and I spread him open. One hand on each cheek, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. His thighs are trembling already, and his breath fogs the mirror in front of him like he’s trying to stay quiet—like anyone outside this bathroomisn’tabout to hear the way he whimpers when I lick a stripe over his hole.
He shakes hard, voice already splintering. “F-fuck—Damian—”
“Uh-uh,” I murmur, as I tighten my grip. “Stay still.”
His knees threaten to give out beneath him, but I wrap one arm around his thigh to hold him upright, anchoring him in place as I lean back in—mouth open, tongue slow, dragging over him with lazy precision that makes him shudder down to the bone. I tease him deliberately, licking and flicking and lapping at him like I’ve got all the time in the world to make a mess.
He gasps when I suck, sharp and startled, like it’s just hitting him that I’m actually doing this—on my knees in a resort bathroom, mouth full of him, and zero intention of stopping.
I press my face deeper, tongue working him open while he scrabbles at the sink, breath stuttering, voice cracking like he’s seconds from collapse. “Damian, please, fuck, I’m—oh my god—”
I hum against him—deep, drawn-out and intentional—letting the vibration tear through him, and when he sobs, raw and helpless, I grin against his skin. “You’re so easy, pup,” I whisper, lips brushing him as I speak. “One slap and a tongue, and you’re already falling apart.”
“I’m not—!” he tries, but the lie dies halfway out of his mouth.
“You are. Look at yourself.”
He lifts his head and obeys, just barely, and the sound he makes when he sees his reflection is a soft, broken whimper that goes straight to my cock.
He’s flushed and trembling, face bright red, lips swollen from biting back sounds he can’t control. His curls are a wreck. His shirt’s bunched up over his back, and his thighs are quaking while I ruin him with nothing but my mouth and a firm grip to keep him steady.
I start again—slower this time, deeper—letting my tongue work, letting the tension build until his voice fracturescompletely, dissolving into desperate sounds I couldn’t translate if I tried. He begs. Pleads. Cries out.
And when I feel him start to shake, when the muscles in his thighs tense and his whole body starts to pull taut—I stop.
Then start again. And again.
“Cap—please—fuck—I’m gonna—don’t stop—”
But I do. Every time. Right at the edge, just as he’s tipping over, just when his breath goes sharp and his hips jerk forward like they don’t need permission.
And just when he’s gone completely—when his knees are starting to give and his fists are pounding the counter, when his voice is wrecked and his words have turned to static—then I press two fingers inside, slow and deep, curling them just right as I hum against his hole one last time.
He comes so hard his body jerks with it, a full-body convulsion that tears through him like lightning, his voice a raw wail into the mirror as he collapses forward, twitching and soaked in sweat, hips still rolling weakly against my face as he paints the counter. And I thank all the fucking gods I don't believe in, that Elias can come like this.
I catch him before he hits the sink. Let him breathe. Then I lick him clean—slow, careful, reverent—while he whines in my arms, low and broken and grateful.
I kiss the backs of his thighs, right where they’re still trembling, and murmur, “Mine.”
I keep Elias there another beat, just long enough for his breath to even out, for the last aftershocks to shiver out of his thighs. I zip him up slowly, like I’m putting a bow on my favorite gift, and press a final kiss to the hollow of his spine before I stand. He leans against me for a second—lazy, pliant, fucked-out—and I straighten his clothes without a word. Then I grab him by the wrist and lead him out.
The door clicks open, spilling light and noise over us as the bar snaps back into focus—neon haze, heat rising off the floor, bass thumping under some bad remix, and that same damn bartender still behind the counter, polishing a glass like he’s trying to mind his business.
He doesn’t succeed.
His eyes flick straight to Elias—taking in the ruined mouth, the flushed skin, the limp swagger in his walk, and the shirt collar that sits slightly askew like someone had been gripping it tight. Then his gaze shifts to me, and I watch it register—the way my hand is still wrapped around Elias’s wrist, the silver on my fingers, the hair tied back in a loose knot, the slow, unbothered way I move like I’ve already claimed the entire fucking building.
I don’t say a word because Elias—brat, menace, walking catastrophe of my heart—flashes a grin wide enough to break the world and sing-songs, loud and sweet, “Thanks for the inspiration!”
The bartender’s face goes red instantly. His jaw drops open, the glass in his hand slipping just enough to clink against the bar with a trembling edge, and for a second he looks completely undone—caught between scandal and something far less innocent. Wrecked by implication alone.
Elias flops back into his seat like he owns the damn place, wraps both hands around his mango daiquiri, and takes a long, smug sip through his straw like the last ten minutes weren’t a goddamn crime of passion.
