Page 39 of Hallow’s Crown

He slides in, the blunt head pressing past my lips, and I take it deep, not choking, not hesitating. His hand on my head guides the rhythm, but I set the pace, swallowing around him, never breaking eye contact. His fingers tighten, using my mouth the way he’d use a weapon—directed, relentless, controlled.

He fucks my mouth like he means it, like he wants to leave evidence in my throat. I gag once, on purpose, and he grins.

“Good boy,” he says, voice almost tender.

I bite down, just enough for him to feel it, and he jerks, hips thrusting forward, the length bruising the back of my throat. My nose fills with his scent, a mix of sweat and soap and something darker, and my cock goes hard in my pants, leaking into the black fabric.

He fucks me, rough and fast, then pulls out, stroking himself with the hand slicked by my spit. He comes across my tongue, hot and bitter, and I swallow it, never blinking, never looking away.

When he’s finished, he wipes the head on my cheek, then tucks himself away. He rakes his hand through my hair, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

Instead, he leans down, breath hot at my ear, and says, “That’s what it means to belong.”

I lick the taste from my lips and smile up at him. “Then I hope you plan on proving it every day.”

He grins, teeth sharp, and I see the hunger in his eyes.

We both know this is just round one.

He pulls me up by the collar, stands me against the wall, and pins me there, his body flush to mine. His hand goes to my crotch, palming the bulge, and he squeezes hard enough to make me gasp.

“I will,” he says, “but only if you keep earning it.”

I arch into his hand, biting back a groan, and whisper, “Make me.”

He does.

He rips open my pants, freeing my cock, and drops to his knees without a word. His mouth is brutal—no gentle teasing, just pure intent, taking me to the root and back, sucking like he means to empty my soul. I fist his hair, grinding into his face, and the heat of it breaks me open. I come, hard, in his mouth, and he takes it all, then spits the last drop on the floor.

He stands, wipes his lips, and looks at me. We’re both breathing hard, both half-ruined, both smiling like we’ve just survived a war.

He straightens my collar, buttons my shirt, and says, “You’ll report to me at 9 a.m. and then we will go home. Don’t be late.”

I nod, still shaky, but alive in a way I haven’t felt in years.

He turns, walks away, and leaves me there, a mess on the wall.

I gather myself, tuck myself in, and stare at the perfect lines of the glass table, the reflection of my face split by the surface.

The bruises on my neck throb in time with my pulse.

I wonder if the rest of me will ever catch up.

I hope not.

Chapter Ten: Bentley

The glass fogs, edge to edge, so that the world on the other side is nothing but light and shadow. Steam condenses on my chest and shoulders, rolling in lines that cut through the heat. The water is scalding, and I turn the dial a fraction further until it burns.

For a moment, I just stand, allowing the heat to drown the buzzing thoughts in my head.

The thoughts that keep circling back to him.

I dig my fingers into my scalp, work some shampoo through my short dark hair. It feels nice. Getting clean.

But I can’t wait to get dirty again, so I rush through the rest of my shower.

I finish rinsing, step out, and towel myself dry with the kind of efficiency that would make a drill sergeant proud. The towel is black, monogrammed, not because I care for it but because I want everything in this place to be an extension of my intention.