Page 29 of Dressed to Kill
I opened my mouth.
He came with a guttural roar, painting my face in heavy, hot stripes. Cum landed across my cheek, my lips, my tongue, even streaking into my red hair. He milked every drop, smearing the head of his cock over my face.
When he finally finished, Aleksi stared down at me.
He ran two fingers through the mess on my cheek and pushed them into my mouth. I sucked them clean while he watched.
Aleksi stayed braced above me, chest heaving, his spent cock still twitching against my stomach. His eyes were half-lidded as he looked down at the mess he'd made.
The haze drained from his expression, replaced by something colder. Sharper. His jaw tightened.
He recoiled.
"Get out."
Aleksi rolled off me and stood in one abrupt motion, yanking his trousers back up. His hands were shaking as he fastened them. He didn't look at me.
"I said get the fuck out of my room, Fin. Now."
My stomach dropped. I'd known better than this. I'd known from the first day exactly what he was, and I'd done it anyway, and now I was sitting in the proof of it, naked, with his cum on my face, while he looked at the wall.
I scoffed. "That's it? Ye fuck my throat, watch me ride a cock for ye, rub yer dick all over me until we both come, paint my face, and now ye're kicking me out?"
Aleksi's shoulders stiffened. He turned his back to me, grabbing the half-empty whiskey glass from the nightstand and draining what was left.
"I don't need a fucking analysis. Leave."
I stood on unsteady legs, naked, covered in his cum, and stared at the rigid line of his back. The rage felt cleaner than the want ever had.
"You're a coward, Aleksi."
He went very still.
"A fucking coward," I repeated, louder. "Forty years old and ye finally touch a man—finally let yerself have what ye've clearly been starving for—and the second ye come down ye cannae even look at me. Pathetic."
I snatched my clothes off the floor, not bothering to clean myself up. Let him see his mess as I walked out. I dressed fast and sloppily.
Aleksi didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, knuckles white around the empty glass.
I paused at the door, one hand on the frame.
"Next time ye want to play with yer little redheaded toy, find the balls to keep me in the bed after ye come. Or dinnae fucking touch me at all."
I slammed the door behind me so hard the frame rattled.
For the first tenseconds after Fin left, I wasn't Aleksi-the-vor. I was a forty-year-old man with another man's spit drying on my dick and the taste of him still in my mouth. Coward hung in the air where he'd left it. My body hadn't caught up to my brain telling it to be in charge again. My hand was still on the dresser where I'd caught myself. My pants were open and my dick was still out.
And I was hard again.
That was the part that didn't make any fucking sense. I'd just come. Twice. I hadn't done that with a woman since I was nineteen. Rallying for a third round was uncharted territory. The whole thing had been a script. That was the truth of it. I'd bought the toy two days ago with my collar up like a man buying a gun off the books, and I'd run the scene the way I'd run an interrogation — orders, distance, me holding all the exits. Command was the one language I trusted myself in. As long as I was giving orders, I didn't have to know what the hell I wasdoing. Then he'd put his mouth on me and the script had burned down with the rest of it.
So I stood there, hand on the dresser, looking at the door he'd slammed.
Then my training kicked in, and I tucked my dick away and zipped up my pants. I poured myself another glass, drank it, and poured again. The whiskey didn't taste like anything.
I threw the glass at the wall, and that helped for about two seconds.
Then I was standing in my bedroom with broken glass on the floor and cum on my stomach and a hard-on I had no use for.
