Page 115 of Slashed Bonds

Truth be told…I don’t stop him.

I never do.

Not since that night on the bathroom floor freshman year, half-remembered and wholly his. He decides. Every time. Me with the size; him with the lock.

He shoves me once, hard enough that my balance gives.

I sit heavily on the desk because my knees have given up pretending they work. Nikolai drops smoothly between my legs, kneeling like it’s prayer.

His pale hair is tousled from the fall, a flush high on his freckled cheeks. His mouth glistens. His fingers find my belt buckle with practiced ease—the rasp of leather loosening is loud in the quiet room.

“Monarch’s down the hall,” I say, voice graveled. “With Cash. Game plans.”

“Mhm.” He pops the button open with his thumb, drags the zipper down slowly with his teeth—theatrical, infuriating, perfect. “Then don’t scream her name when you come. She’ll take it as a compliment and investigate. I’m not sharing this.”

Jealous.

He’s jealous too.

The realization is so stark I nearly laugh—but then his palm cups me through my briefs, and the sound dies in my throat.

I’m already hard, leaking; the cotton is damp at the tip. He stares at the dark spot like it’s something he ordered special.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, almost affectionate. “All that brooding in the hallway. All that standing in my door like a man with a question. And you were just…this.”

He tugs briefs and sweats down together.

My cock springs free, thick and flushed dark against my stomach. A bead of precum wells at the slit; he watches it gather but doesn’t touch.

The cool air is a shock; his breath—mint and heat—hovers just above the skin, a familiar cruelty he perfected on me.

“Nikolai.”

“Killian.”

Mocking, soft. His hand wraps around my base and squeezes once—possessive—and my hips buck before I can stop them.

“You want the mouth that made me nap? Say it. I’m not a mind reader—I’m a goalie. I only stop what you shoot.”

“Suck it.”

“Closer.”

My hand fists in his hair, right at the roots where it’s softest and most vulnerable.

I tilt his face up, forcing his gaze to lock on mine and nothing else—not the door, not the hall, not the ghost of her mouth he keeps throwing between us like a grenade.

“Put your mouth on me,” I say, the words gravel and threat. “Before I remember I don’t share and decide to fuck your throat just to watch you remember how.”

That grin cracks open—sharp, victorious.

“There,” he says, voice low. “That one.”

He leans in and licks the bead of precum from the tip. Not a flick—a slow, flat drag of his tongue, like he’s savoring something rare.

A sound rumbles in his throat, something between a hum and a growl, the kind of noise you make when you finally taste what you’ve been craving. Salt. Me. His eyes stay locked on mine the whole time—pale, dilated, utterly shameless—before he seals his lips over the crown and sinks.

Fucking hell…