Chapter 18

Chris's POV

I don’t even know when it escapes my lips. The words slip out before I can catch them, and the second they’re in the air, I’d sell what’s left of my dignity to stuff them back down. Ten different ways to die and I just picked the loudest, stupidest one.

He stands.

Rodrigo unfolds himself from that chair like a predator who’s been patient long enough, and fuck—I forgot how big he is. His frame swallows the room, his shadow literally enveloping mine on the bed, cutting off the lamplight, leaving me in the dark of him. He leans in. His hot breath hits me before his hands do, cigar and whiskey with a whiff of that cologne that probably costs more than my rent. His silver eyes pin me down, predatory, clinical, like I’m something he’s deciding whether to dissect or devour.

His hand finds my chin. Grips. Hard. My jaw shifts under the pressure, and he tilts my face up, making me feel exactly like what I am right now. His. A slut he paid for. A toy. And somehow, somewhere deep in my fucked-up wiring, that word stirs something hot and shameful in my belly that I really don’t have time to unpack.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this.” His voice is low, unhurried, the kind of calm that’s worse than shouting. “I’m not one to repeat myself, okay? So be a good fucking slut that you are and touch yourself.”

The words land like a slap I didn’t know I was waiting for.

“I pay for this. I own you.” His thumb presses harder against my chin, a punctuation mark. “You’re my pet. And I don’t like when my pet barks back.”

He holds my gaze long enough to make sure I understand. Long enough that my throat goes dry and my cock—already hard, already betraying me completely—twitches against my thigh.

“So do as I say.”

He releases me. Steps back. Settles into his seat like a king taking his throne, his robe falling open over his chest, one leg crossed over the other. His eyes watch me with some sort of sophisticated anticipation, like I’m a play he’s already seen and he’s just waiting for his favorite scene.

My hand moves before I give it permission. Down my stomach, past my navel, wrapping around my already hard cock. I begin to stroke.

Heat flares up in my belly, spreads through my chest, curls behind my teeth. Each stroke sends a jolt through me, my palm gliding over my shaft, the sensation building in layers—the friction, the pressure, the slick bead of precum already gathering at my tip. I twist my hand over the head on the next stroke, and a sound escapes me, barely concealing a moan.

Fuck. It feels so good.

What’s even worse is that it feels even better with him watching. His gaze on my hand is like a second touch, hot and clinical, tracking every twist of my wrist, every flutter of my breath. This was supposed to be a pleasure experience for him, but it’s looking more and more like I’m the one getting off on this. Some dirty little wire crossed somewhere between the shame and the surrender, and now the degradation turns into heat.

I barely have time to register how embarrassed I should feel when I find myself approaching my peak. My hips start bucking into my own grip, my body jerking up and shaking. I can feel it building, coiling low and tight.

“I’m going to cum.” The words escape my lips as I pant breathlessly. “Fuck—I’m going to—”

His eyes narrow down on me like a mad scientist watching a chemical reaction, a compound about to reach critical mass. I catch a smirk on his lips, brief and satisfied, and almost instantly it fades.

“Stop.”

The word cuts through me like a blade. My hand stalls. Slows. Stops.

But it’s too late. I’m already leaking. A thin string of precum stretches from my tip to my thumb, and the pressure still throbs in my balls, desperate for release that’s been snatched away.

Fuck. I need to cum. I need it like I need air, like I need water, like I need—

He stands. Lets the robe fall from his shoulders. It pools behind him on the floor, and now I’m looking at his body for the first time tonight, really looking. Glistening muscular olive skin under the dim light, every muscle cut and defined. His body hair sleek on his skin, a dark trail running from his chest down his stomach, past his navel, leading my gaze to his hot, hard erection straining against the fabric of his briefs. The tip peeks over the thigh-line, glistening with a pearl of precum.

Fuck. How is he this hot.

There’s no fairness in a face like that attached to a body like that. No justice. Rodrigo has the kind of presence that makes you forget your own name, and right now, with my cock still slick and aching in my hand and him walking toward me like he owns every inch of this room, I can’t deny that he has an effect on me that no one else ever has.

He leans over me. One hand on the headboard, caging me in. The other reaches down. Wraps around my cock.

His grip is hot. Tight. Perfect.

His thumb finds my tip and strums across it, slow and merciless, spreading the precum in a slick circle. My hips jerk. My breath catches. My eyes slam shut.

“Fuck—I’m gonna cum.” I beg, and I don’t care how pathetic it sounds. “Please—I can’t—”

“I don’t remember instructing you to cum.” His breath hits my ear, hot and low, and I feel it all the way down my spine. His thumb keeps strumming my tip, relentless, torturous. “I want to see how far you can go. I want to see how much you would beg me to allow you to cum.”

His thumb strums again. Slower this time. Crueler.

I’m dripping. I can feel it running down my shaft, pooling at the base, and his grip is slick with it, sliding, torturous, perfect. Every nerve in my body is screaming for release.

“Please let me cum.” I beg again, my voice cracking.

He leans over to my ear, and his lips brush the shell of it. “Beg like you really want it.”

His thumb keeps moving, mercilessly teasing my cock, strumming my tip in slow, deliberate circles that drive me fucking insane.

“Please, sir.” The word tastes foreign on my tongue, wrong and exactly right. “Please let me cum. I’m begging you. Please. I’ll do anything—I’ll be good—just please let me cum.”

Inside me, some mortified part of myself is screaming. But it’s drowned out by the need, the heat, the desperate thrumming ache of being so close I can taste it.

“Fine.” His whisper is a reward, a victory. “You can cum.”

And I do.

It hits me like a wave, like a release I’ve been holding for years. My body jerks, my hips thrust up into his grip, and I’m spilling over his fingers, hot and thick, in pulse after pulse after pulse. My vision blurs. My breath leaves me in a broken groan. Every muscle in my body tenses and releases, and his hand stays on my cock, working me through it, giving it one final stroke that makes me twitch.

When I’m spent, when I can barely hold myself upright, he doesn’t let go.

He brings his hand up to his face. Slow. Deliberate. My cum glistens on his fingers, runs down his palm, and he opens his mouth and takes them in. He licks his hands, taking my cum into his mouth. His tongue curls around his fingers, and he’s licking it like there’s some sweetness to it, like it’s something to savor. His eyes stay on me the whole time, silver and dark, watching my reaction.

My face burns. My spent cock still throbs.

“What do you say to me,” he says in that same low baritone voice, “for allowing you to cum?”

My throat works. I swallow.

“Th-thank you, sir.”

The words come out rasped, wrecked, drenched in the embarrassment that’s finally kicking in. My senses are returning. My brain is coming back online. And I’m sitting here naked, covered in my own release, having just begged a stranger to let me climax like my life depended on it.

He straightens. Looms over me on the bed. His erection is still there, hard and proud. The tip glistening with precum. The heat of his longing does something to me.

His eyes hold mine. Expectant.

“You know what to do.”

And I do. I know exactly what he means. The same instruction from our last encounter echoes in my skull, and my stomach flips, and my pulse picks up again despite the fact that I just came.

“Suck.”