"Open."
The boy obeyed. His mouth fell slack. Landen pushed his thumb inside, feeling the warm wet heat, the press of a tongue. A low sound of pleasure vibrated against his skin.
He withdrew his thumb, slick with saliva, and traced it down the line of the boy's throat, over his collarbone.
Landen pressed him back over the bench, the arch of his spine a perfect curve, and took the leather restraints from the wall, buckling them with a series of familiar clicks.
He leaned down, mouth close to the boy's ear.
"Count for me."
He started with his hand. Sharp, stinging spanks that lit up the pale skin.
One. Two. Three.
The counts came breathy, punctuated by gasps. Landen watched the skin bloom pink, then red. He focused on the angle of his wrist, the transfer of force, the reactive jump of muscle; adjusting pressure, seeking the pitch of sting without true hurt.
On the fourth strike, his mind left the room.
Slipped its moorings the way it had been doing all afternoon, sliding away from the warm willing body beneath his hands to a break room on the tenth floor. The smell of microwaved soup and burnt coffee.
That face. The brightness at the edges of his eyes. The pink high in his cheeks; it lived in his face the way warmth lived in certain rooms, but today it had been different.
His next strike landed harder than he intended.
"Ten!" the boy called out, voice tighter.
Landen blinked. Ran a soothing palm over the heated skin. "Good. Breathe through it."
He reached for the flogger. Swung it in a measured, rhythmic arc. It landed with a dull whisper. The boy moaned, pushing up into the impact, seeking more.
Instead of pulling him into the present, the sound carried him back..
Sorry. I'll get out of your way.
You're not in my way.
He'd meant it. That was the thing. He'd said it with a directness that had nothing to do with professional courtesy and everything to do with the fact that the image of Adriel making himself smaller to accommodate men who had no business having opinions about him was making Landen quietly, specifically furious. It hadn't dissipated through the entire afternoon and showed no signs of dissipating now.
He set the flogger aside. Ran both hands down the boy's sweat-slicked back. The muscles quivered under his palms.
He reached for the crop.
And there he was again.Adriel. The honey-blond hair curling soft at the nape of his neck. The pink ears. The way he'd looked at Landen just before dropping his gaze; uncertain, briefly and painfully unguarded, so needlessly apologetic.
The boy beneath him shifted. "Sir?"
Landen closed his eyes. Breathed. Opened his eyes. Raised the crop. Brought it down.
The boy gasped.
And Landen watched himself go through the motions, felt his body perform the familiar choreography, and wondered, for the first time in years, if this was still what he wanted.
He dropped the crop.
His hands went to the buckle of his own trousers. He freed his cock, put on a condom, stroked himself once, grip firm, as he positioned himself behind the boy. He poured lubricant into his palm. The cool gel was a shock against his skin. He smoothed it over himself, then pressed a slick finger against the boy's entrance. He was loose. Open. Ready. He'd prepared himself beforehand, as instructed.
Landen pushed inside in one slow, relentless glide.
