Page 8 of Savage Ambition

He shrugged, still unable to meet my gaze. “I don’t know.”

“We can do whatever you want. I could suck you off.”

He nodded after a moment’s consideration. “I guess that’s okay.”

I licked a slow path up his erection. He whimpered when I took him into my mouth, a sound I’d replay later during sessions with clients whose touch made my skin crawl. I forced his legs wider, guiding his knees over my shoulders to allow better access.

His breathing grew labored, but his fight for control was futile. Older, more brutal men had crumbled under techniques Salvatore had forced me to master.

It wasn’t enough. I wanted to obliterate Shaw’s self-restraint. I swallowed him to the root until my nose pressed against his pelvis, triggering a strangled curse. I constricted my throat, and his cry bounced off the walls.

Shaw arched, his fingers sliding into my hair. Unlike the clients who yanked and controlled, treating me like rented property, his grip was gentle. The sudden contrast made something clench in my chest I thought Salvatore had carved out years ago. I hummed around Shaw’s length, and his hips thrust upward. After servicing men twice his size, nothing triggered my gag reflex anymore. It was one of the many skills Salvatore had beaten into me.

I cupped Shaw’s balls, stroking the sensitive skin behind them until he broke into pleas. My tongue worked along the underside of his shaft, tracing the prominent vein before swirling around the crown. I varied between slow pulls and quick suction, never letting him settle into a predictable pattern. His thighs trembled against my head, his stomach muscles contracting with each sharp intake of breath.

I slid one hand up his chest to roll a nipple between my fingers, and his back arched off the mattress. The dual sensations overwhelmed him, his cock throbbing against my tongue as I pressed the flat of it hard against the sensitive spot just below the head.

“I’m close,” Shaw gasped, his fingers tightening in my hair.

I hollowed my cheeks and took him deeper, humming to send vibrations through him. When he came with a sharp cry, I swallowed every drop, milking him while his hips jerked with aftershocks.

Pulling back, I licked the traces of him from my lips as he struggled to catch his breath. My instincts screamed to flip him over and bury myself inside him, but the surveillance cameras in the corners remained Salvatore’s constant reminder that nothing in the room was truly mine, not even my own body.

The last person who had caught my genuine interest had disappeared. The authorities found pieces of him washing up along the East River for weeks. Raphael had paid for my mistake with bruises that took forever to fade, with cigarette burns that left permanent scars. My younger brother’s screams still haunted my nightmares.

Shaw stretched, muscles flexing as he basked in the afterglow. He caught me watching him and quickly looked away. The ease of the moment vanished, replaced by a defensive tension.

Instead of fucking him like I was dying to do, I gestured toward the bathroom. “Come on.” The water would muffle our conversation from the microphones, giving us a reprieve from the surveillance.

He followed me into the black marble bathroom, another of Salvatore’s vulgar displays of wealth built on blood money and human trafficking. I turned on the water, testing the temperature before stepping beneath the spray.

Shaw joined me, his gaze uncertain as he waited for instructions. He fidgeted, entirely unsure of what to do with his hands.

I stepped closer, running my hands down his back to his ass, fingers digging into firm muscle to pull him against me. After enduring him watching me in class, it was the ultimate indulgence to touch him without worrying about his friends ruining everything.

His eyes widened as he brushed against my erection. I expected him to jerk away, but he surprised me by reaching out to touch my chest. His fingers traced a jagged scar along my ribs from a client who had paid extra to use a knife.

His hands slid lower until they reached my hips. Most people who bought my time wanted to be serviced without reciprocation. They wanted the power of taking without giving. It was refreshing to have someone consider my pleasure worth the effort.

His hand wrapped around my base with a hesitant grip that betrayed how little sexual experience he had.

I leaned into his touch. “I’m not fragile.” Not anymore. Salvatore had made sure of that.

Taking the hint, he tightened his grip and quickened his pace. His touch was clumsy but eager, his eyes fixed on my face to gauge my reaction. Water cascaded down between us, making his palm slide smoothly along my length. Each stroke grew more confident.

I kissed his neck, thrusting into his grip. The urge to bend him over against the marble wall and take him overwhelmed me. When my fingers slipped between his cheeks to brush his entrance, he jerked away.

I stopped moving. “No?”

He shook his head, even as he continued stroking me. “I’m not ready for that,” he admitted, his voice quiet but firm.

That was better than a flat refusal. I would cross that boundary eventually, but not in the brothel under Salvatore’s cameras.

“Maybe next time.” I retreated, moving my hands back to his hips.

“Next time?” His voice cracked with shock.

I silenced him with a brutal kiss. His hand moved faster, his wrist twisting on the upstroke in a way that earned a genuine moan. He pressed his thumb below the head on each upstroke, a natural instinct that told me he at least had plenty of experience pleasuring himself, even if he’d never touched another man.