Page 65 of Hush, Little Baby

He moves his thumb, circles right at the head, and my back arches off his lap for a second before I collapse against him. My brain is blank and my body is hot and I’m shaking, really shaking, and I know I’m going to come because there is no way not to.

He then pulls my waistband out just enough to slip his hand inside, wrapping that fancy silk fabric over the leaking head of my dick.

I try to breathe, but my chest feels clogged with cement. My head spins. I sink my teeth into the knuckle of his forefinger, not hard enough to hurt him but enough to ground me.

Nikolaus leans in, and the pressure of his lips at the crown of my head is so gentle it barely registers. “It’s all right, baby. Just let go. Come for Daddy.”

The words hit like a match to kerosene—sudden heat, a flare of shame, and need so strong it makes me tremble. My legs kick once, reflexively, then clamp together as the silk square glides over the head of my cock. The softness is so much—it’s too much. I can’t even process it, I can’t believe this is happening, I can’t believe I want it, I can’t believe I’m letting him—

But then my body makes the decision for me. I shudder, jaw unhinging, and the sound I make is so tiny and pitiful it humiliates me even as I ride the shock of it. Nikolaus does not stop. He works the square around the head, never hurried, never rough, just smooth and controlled, like he could keep milking me forever if he wanted to.

My brain goes entirely white as my hips twitch and breath stutters out of me in a gasp. All the tension I’d been clutching rushes out at once, and I feel it—wet and hot—spill into the fabric.

Nikolaus holds me steady, stroking me through it, his palm over my stomach, the silk keeping any mess off his hand. The first aftershocks crest, then ebb, leaving me limp and dazed, breath hiccupping in and out of my lungs. I can’t move. My eyes go glassy.

Nikolaus’s hand moves up from my waistband, and he holds the balled silk between two fingers, tucks it back into his pocket like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I’m still latched on his fingers, and he lets me keep them, stroking the side of my face with his other hand.

The praise in his voice is crushed velvet as he croons, “That’s my good boy. That’s my perfect little baby.”

The world condenses to the dark wool of his suit beneath my cheek, the slow thump of his heart, the way his thumb strokes my jaw in an endless, soothing loop. I’m so shocked by what just happened that it’s hard to think anything at all—my whole body floods with relief and shame intermixed, so perfectly balanced that neither gets the upper hand.

I’m empty.

I’m full.

My hips finally go loose. I try to breathe, but it comes in slow, shaky pulls. Nikolaus’s hand slides up to my hairline. He wipes away the tears I didn’t realize had fallen with a strong, sure touch.

He murmurs, “Do you want some water, sweetheart?” like nothing out of the ordinary just happened.

I nod, or maybe just let my head flop. I can’t imagine ever moving again by choice.

He gently extracts his fingers from my mouth, a thin trail of spit clinging for a second before he wipes it up with his thumb.

He then leans across the seat to a built-in side table and opens a bottle. The water is cold and mineral-rich, with a twist of lemon that almost shocks me. Nikolaus brings it to my lips instead of handing me the bottle and tips just enough for a mouthful.

I swallow, spill a little down my chin, and feel the exhausted tremor in my arms as I wipe at it with my sleeve.

After a few more sips, Nikolaus seems satisfied and sets the water down, saying, “Perfect. Now, why don’t you try to nap? There are a few more hours before we land.”

And my eyes slip closed.

12

Nikolaus

Charlie slept for almost the entire flight, one hand loosely fisted in my shirt, and the other resting where it fell right beside his face.

Once the pressure in his ears had been handled and cum had been milked from his cute little balls, he was out like a light.

By the time we landed in New York, he had slipped so deep into that floaty, submissive headspace of his that waking him fully felt unnecessary and, more importantly, unwise. His eyes opened when the wheels touched down, hazy and unfocused, his lashes lifting just enough for him to look at my face, as if checking that I was still the one holding him, before tucking himself closer against my chest with a drowsy little exhale and closing them again.

Constantine, who had spent the majority of the flight pretending not to monitor him, only shook his head once the plane began taxiing.

“Well,” he murmured, quiet enough not to startle the boy, “that went better than it had any right to. Can hardly even call it a kidnapping.”

I brushed my thumb over Charlie’s temple, smoothing back a lock of clean, sleep-warm hair. “Mm, I think the incident with those guards scared him closer to me.”

“Should send them a bonus,” Constantine chuckled.