Page 153 of Slashed Bonds

His cock is already hard and leaking, the metal of his piercing catching against my tongue in a way that makes my whole mouth throb.

I drag him slow, the way I know he likes, taking the head between my lips and sucking just enough to taste him—tension, salt, and whatever he showered with—but I don’t give him the rhythm he wants, not at first.

It’s a tease, and I make sure our eyes are locked so he sees it coming, so he recognizes the game on both sides of the glass.

He gives me his tell.

Always has, even when he thinks he’s bulletproof.

The left hand, usually the second line of defense, is flexing open and closed along my shoulder. The right is still on my hair, not quite controlling it yet but hovering, like he’s waiting for the play to develop in front of the net. He’s letting me have the puck.

For now.

I hum once, deep in my chest, and take just a little more, letting the head glide over my tongue and down until I can feel the ridge against the roof of my mouth.

I hold there, breathing through my nose, eyes still on him, and I feel rather than hear the sound he makes. It thrums through the air, through my teeth, into my own body, a feedback loop of want that’s going to destroy both of us if we let it.

Years ago, I used to script these things.

Anticipate every line, every move, so that nothing caught me off guard. Trauma is a hell of a playbook, and it trains you to keep a hand on every lever—so if you ever lose one, you’ve got another in reserve.

But this is different. He’s different.

Every inch I take is another inch of power wrestled away from the last man who tried to own me, and I dare myself to keep going, to see how much I can handle before the old instinct kicks in and tells me to run.

I don’t run. I lean in.

I go deeper, let myself feel the stretch in my jaw and the prick of metal against my tongue, just enough discomfort to keep me present and here, rather than six years ago, rather than anywhere else but in the world I’m making for myself now. He pushes a little, a warning, a question, and I answer with my own: my hands bracing on his hips, fingertips digging into the muscle, daring him to test how far I’m willing to let him take it.

He takes it.

“Fuck,” he says, and it’s not the cocky, crowd-pleasing fuck I’ve heard him give a thousand times to a thousand people.

This one is broken, scraped raw from the back of his throat, and I would laugh if my own mouth weren’t already full of him. He’s losing it.

He’s completely at my mercy, and he knows it, and he’s letting it show in the way his hands finally, finally claim my hair—hard this time, not cruel but not gentle, either, threading through the black in a grip that’s equal parts anchor and apology.

He’s shaking.

I feel it in the tremor building under my hands, in the way his thighs flex and his knees nearly buckle with every pass of my lips down his shaft.

Every time I pull back, I swirl my tongue around the head, making sure to catch the ring, because I know he feels it most there—and because it’s the clearest marker of who he is and how he wants to be seen. He wants to be a freak, and adored for it. He wants to be desired not in spite of the pieces he’s hammered into himself, but precisely because of them.

I oblige. I memorize the way he tastes, the way he shudders when I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he tries to keep the groan from escaping.

I could do this all morning.

I want to do this all morning.

The edge of every risk—every second we’re exposed, every footstep I think I hear on the mat, every flicker of movement outside the glass—makes my cunt clench, makes me hungrier, makes me want to swallow him whole and never let him out.

He knows it.

The hot fucker has always been able to read me, even when I think I’m hiding it.

His eyes flash, blue glinting like something arctic, and he gives me a warning growl that would scare any other Omega senseless, but I just dig my nails in and suck him harder, and he breaks.

The second before it hits, he grabs my head in both hands, holds me steady, and fucks my mouth the way he wants—deep, controlled, but desperate, not even pretending to pace himself anymore. I breathe in through my nose, let my throat relax, and take him down as far as I can, just to prove I’m not afraid of him.