“That’s not begging,” he said, voice flat as a blade. He stroked himself slowly, thumb dragging over the blunt, glistening tip as he stared down at me. The sight of it, so close to my mouth, made my pulse jump.
I swallowed. “I want it,” I tried again. “I need it. I want you to use my mouth. Please.”
He smiled. “Please what, Alex? You can do better.”
My face burned. “Please…” My knees slid wider on the floor. “Please choke me with your cock.” The words were filthier than anything I’d ever heard myself say.
“Open.” He tapped the head against my lips, smearing heat and wetness across the seam.
I opened wider than I thought possible, tongue straining for the first taste. He fed his length in, past my teeth, past the edge of comfort, until the head nudged the back of my throat in a hot, invasive slide.
The first thrust was controlled, almost testing. The next was not.
He fisted my hair, locking my skull in place as he drove deep. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as I tried to breathe through my nose, choking on the pressure. Spit and pre-cum slicked my lips and chin.
“Good,” Luka growled. “That’s how I want it. Messy.”
He rocked his hips, setting a brutal rhythm, never letting me pull away. Each time I gagged, he groaned.
He yanked my head back by the roots, forcing my eyes up to his. He watched without blinking, rolling his hips—slowly, deliberately—working my mouth open around him.
“Take it deeper,” he said, the accent thickening as his control thinned. “Choke on it. Show me how sorry you are, little whore.”
He pulled out just long enough for a ragged breath, then shoved back in again. The next thrust hit deeper, the head battering my throat until I retched, shoulders convulsing. The pain blurred into heat, a molten coil that spread through my chest and into my limbs.
He pulled out, ragged, and let my hair slip from his grasp. My jaw ached. Saliva clung to my lower lip as I blinked up at him through tears.
Luka cupped my chin, thumb pressing into my mouth. He let out a rough, satisfied laugh. “You look so fucking perfect like this,” he said, voice low and thick. “On your knees. Mouth ruined. Crying for me. My perfect little slut.”
A sick, hot pride flared beneath my skin. I should have felt wrecked. Instead, I wanted more. All of it. Every last scrap.
chapter
eight
Luka steered me down the hall—past a dark kitchen and into a bedroom stripped to industrial precision. Blackout curtains. A single slab of mattress on a steel frame. Gunmetal-gray sheets. No photos, no books, nothing personal. It felt like a safe house. Or the kill room of a TV serial murderer.
He nudged me to the edge of the bed and stepped back, hands on his hips, eyes scanning me.
“Is this the part where you tie me up?” I tried for levity, but the words came out thin.
He didn’t smile.
“You want rope?” Luka’s voice went flat. “You think you’re ready for that?”
“I can handle it.” The answer came fast, reflexive. “What, you don’t think I’ve ever been tied up before?”
He let the silence simmer. Then he answered, “Not properly.” Luka’s eyes pinned me. “And not by anyone who knew how to handle you. How to build you, break you, and put you back together.” The words landed and stayed. “I’ve told you before—my words are the rope. When you can obey without testing me,when you can follow without pushing the leash, then you’ll earn the knots.”
He cupped my jaw and tilted my chin until eye contact wasn’t a request.
“I can obey,” I managed, throat tight. “Just…don’t do what you did last night. Don’t leave me hanging. Please.”
He considered me, shifting his gaze from eye to eye, then let go. “Because you asked nicely,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head, “I won’t.”
The shirt hit the floor. The architecture of his body was all clean lines, hard angles, and corded muscle. His skin was pale, almost translucent, marked here and there with thin white scars.
No tattoos. Not a single mark to suggest rebellion or allegiance. Not even the generic tribal shit I always half-expected on men like him. Somehow, the inklessness made him feel even more dangerous.