Page 154 of Slashed Bonds

The first spurt is so hot it almost surprises me, and I swallow around it, milking the rest out of him as he comes in thick pulses that fill my mouth and threaten to spill over if I don’t keep up.

He pulls out at the last second, still twitching, and paints my tongue with the rest, a messy, unrestrained offering that he watches with a pride that borders on reverence. I keep my mouth open, let the cum pool on my tongue and at the corner of my lip, and wait for his next command.

He gives it.

“Swallow for me.”

I do, slow and obvious, sticking my tongue out after to prove it’s gone, the kind of theatrics he usually delivers to an audience but now gets all to himself.

He laughs, spent and a little hysterical, and then he yanks me up and kisses me like he’s trying to take it back, take it all, take me.

It’s messy and deep and tastes entirely of us.

I clutch at his shoulders because my knees are jelly and I’m not sure I won’t slide straight into a puddle on the mat if he lets go. We’re both trembling, shaking, coming down from something that feels more like violence than sex, and I love it, I fucking love it, I want to do it again but louder, harder, in every room in this goddamn building.

He’s the one who pulls away first. He always does.

Not because he wants to, but because he knows I need the moment to catch up, to process, to decide whether I still want what just happened or need to flip it on its head and make a joke out of it.

His hands are gentle now, smoothing down my hair, trailing along my jaw, checking that I’m still here and intact.

The aftercare is in the touch, not the words.

He’s good at it.

Better than anyone has a right to be. I want to ask how he learned it, but I already know. You don’t get good at this without having been broken a few times yourself.

We share one more kiss, slowed and passionate, before he grunts against my mouth. Breaks it suddenly. Goes still.

“Someone’s coming.”

More excited, not less. I’d like that in the file too.

He hauls me to my feet with one hand while the other tucks himself away, fast, practiced, and he’s barely decent by the time the sound resolves into what it is.

Claws on polished concrete.

And then Knox, flat out, ears back, coming down the corridor past the ring at a speed no eighty-pound animal should be capable of indoors, with two Alphas in Volkov Athletic shirts running behind him and losing.

I pout.

Lick my lips, carefully, to be sure there’s nothing on them that’s going to tell a story.

“Um.” I look up at Nikolai. “Should I handle that?”

“Nah.”

He’s craning his neck, watching the dog take the far corner at a lean.

Then he looks back at me, and there’s something different in it, quieter than a second ago, and he asks, “Did you come here to box?”

It’s the quiet that gets me. He was, a minute ago, a man with his hands in my hair and no words left in him. Now he’s standing in a ring looking at me like he’s checking whether I’m all right, and the checking is the thing I’ve never had, and I don’t have anywhere to put it.

“Figured I’d try it.” I shrug. “Good cardio before the game tonight. Don’t you think?”

“No,” he admits. “I’ve got a better idea for cardio.”

And then he does a thing I’m not braced for.