7: I want more

Aleks POV

So fucking thick.

An appropriate cock for my rival.

Christ. Jesus fucking Christ.

I can't remember the last time someone fucked my mouth like this. When I suck cock, I'm the one in control. I set the pace. I decide how it ends. I don't let other men get this domineering, this filthy, this rough with me.

I'm a top. A fucking great one.

This is so damn wrong.

But God, I've never been harder in my life.

I yank my zipper open and pull my aching erection out. I moan around Derek's cock and start stroking myself desperately, tears stinging my eyes from the intensity of it. The weight of him on my tongue, the hardness filling my mouth, the sheer humiliation of kneeling here and taking it. It's wrong and forbidden, and it feels so fucking good I could scream.

Derek fucks my mouth faster. The wet sounds are utterly obscene as he grinds the head against the back of my throat, pulls out, and slams in again. And again. And again.

Tears run down my cheeks. I'm fisting myself furiously, drowning in it, completely overwhelmed.

Then Derek groans, pulls out, and comes all over my face.

The heat of it, the sheer degradation, shoves me straight over the edge. I come hard into my own fist, my whole body shaking.

God.

God.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is our breathing, ragged and uneven at first, then slowly syncing.

My head clears.

I stare down at the mess on my hand, then up at Derek's face.

He's staring right back at me.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

I forgot I was supposed to be proving something.

And oh God, I want to do it again.

Derek looks as stunned as I feel. His chest is heaving, his lips parted, his hand still hovering where my hair was.

Then his eyes sharpen, and I watch him pull himself together.

A smug smirk spreads across his face.

"You came," he says.

My stomach drops. "What?"

"You came, McCray."

He tucks himself away, taking his time about it, enjoying every second. "On your knees. With my cock down your throat. Not a single hand on you but your own."

Heat floods my face, and it has nothing to do with what we just did.

"Don't flatter yourself," I say, my voice wrecked and raspy. I try to sound cold and it comes out sounding like gravel. "It's a physical reaction. It happens with anyone. Maybe next time I'll close my eyes and think of someone who actually knows what he's doing."

His smirk dies.

Good.

His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. He crouches in front of me, close enough that I can smell sweat on him, and grips my chin with his clean hand, tilting my face toward the light.

"Say that again," he murmurs.

His gaze drags over my face, over the mess he made of me, and something dark flickers across his expression.

My pulse spikes.

Slowly, he drags his thumb across my cheekbone and collects his cum there. He wipes it along my jaw, then the corner of my mouth.

Then he lifts his finger to my lips.

"Open."

I should refuse. I should spit in his face.

I open my mouth.

His finger slides over my tongue, and I close my lips around it, slow and deliberate, holding his stare the entire time. I swirl my tongue once, tasting salt and heat and him, and when he finally pulls his hand away, I lick my lips clean.

Then I smile.

"You know," I say softly, "I'm starting to think you don't actually care about the blackmail."

Derek's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I almost feel like you're using it as an excuse." I tilt my head, watching his face. "To do something you don't have the guts to do on your own."

The silence that follows is razor-sharp.

I watch the words hit. Watch his pupils blow wide, then the color rise in his face, anger and something far more dangerous warring in his eyes.

"Fuck you," he says.

His voice shakes.

I just keep smiling.

He shoves to his feet so fast his knee clips the coffee table, the sharp crack echoing in the room

.

He snatches his hoodie off the sofa, storms across the room, and the door to the guest room slams hard enough to rattle the window.

The chalet goes quiet, save for the low whistle of the wind howling against the glass from the storm outside.

I stay where I am on the rug, my face sticky, my mouth tasting like him, my heart pounding like it's trying to break free from my ribs. I reach up slowly, touching the spot on my jaw where his thumb lingered, feeling the phantom pressure of his grip.

The cold air of the room starts to creep back in, sharp and biting, stripping away the artificial heat of the past ten minutes.

For a second, I wonder if he's pacing the floor of the guest room right now, gripping his hair, realizing just how fast control slipped through his fingers. I wonder if he's shaking like I am.

I should feel like I won. I should be happy one of my fantasies came true, that I pushed the great Derek Hawk right to the edge of his patience until he bolted.

Instead, I feel a cold knot of dread settle deep in my stomach—the terrifying realization that now that I've finally had a taste of what Derek feels like, the blackmail isn't his weapon anymore.

It's mine. And I want more.