Page 35 of Retrograde

“I will gu—” The rest of his threat dissolves in a moan when I knead his balls carefully, rolling them between my fingers.

“Fucking hell,” he forces through his clenched teeth. “Riley, that feels so good.”

I hesitate. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to squeeze his balls hard enough to cause agony. I wanted to rip them off.

But the way he reacts to me? The way he says my name? His sudden vulnerability more than just tickles me. It teases a very dangerous, irrational wish out of me. The wish to give him pleasure, to gratify him, to do well for him.

Forgetting all about self-control, I continue playing with him, drunk on his moans, the sharp hisses of his breath, the way his tempo grows erratic ... he lets go of my hair in favour of cupping my face, tracing my mouth with his thumb. And when I don’t protest, he pushes it between my lips, the pad rough on my tongue.

The next time he says my name, it sounds like he’s praying, “Riley ... oh fuck, Riley!”

He shudders, his chest heaving madly. His knees dip, like he’s about to collapse. His cock jerks violently in his hand. And then he’s coming all over me, rope after rope of hot cum landing everywhere—my face, my shoulders, my breasts.

I know I should feel disgusted. Violated. Dirty. But instead, my heart is racing. I’ve as good as melted on the inside, and there’s an embarrassing amount of wetness between my legs.

Why the fuck did I enjoy him using me like that? Probably because ... I didn’t feel used. It felt more like he desperately needed something only I could provide. I liked seeing the cracks in his rough facade. But even more, I enjoyed ... serving him. And serving him well at that.

It’s better not to dwell on this. I’m clearly losing my mind.

I jump to my feet. Aron stands frozen, his breathing ragged, his eyes just two sleepy slits in his mask. I barely make it two steps before his fingers close around my arm.

“Where do you think you’re going, Hotshot?” he demands.

“To wash your mess off me.”

“Did you get my permission?”

I roll my eyes, sighing heavily. “Pretty please, can I go wash your mess off me?”

“Na-ah,” he croons, keeping his gaze on me. “I like my mess on you. My mess stays.”

He pushes me backwards, and then, zipping himself up as he goes, he walks out of the cell door and clicks it shut. When he turns around to glare at me victoriously, I act on pure instinct. An instinct telling me that he doesn’t get to turn what just happened into his victory. No way in hell was this not a zero-sum game.

I stick out my tongue and run it around my mouth and chin in a wide circle, licking his cum off. His eyes widen. I scoop more of it off my chest with my finger and bring it to my mouth.

The centre of his mask ripples, his gaze darkening with growing hunger as he watches me clean myself off until there’s nothing but some residual stickiness left on my skin. The taste of him on my tongue is overwhelming and strangely empowering.

I shrug with a jubilant smile, thinking I have won. His eyes narrow and he tilts his head, his gaze scanning me all over.

“You’ve got a bit of something left on your lips,” he says, and when I swipe my fingers across my mouth, he adds, the devilish smirk clear in his tone, “No, no. The other lips, Hotshot.”

I blush violently, heat creeping into my face, sizzling right under the surface of my skin. He laughs, walking away. It’s only when he’s out of sight that I reach down, touching myself. I’m so sensitive that a shiver runs through me upon the contact, and I wish for nothing more than for the ground to open and swallow me whole. Because when I take them away, my fingers are completely covered with my arousal—a glistening, visible amount of it.

Damn it.

13

SIX YEARS AGO, CONSUL GREGOR

“Idon’t know if we should be talking about this online,” Anton stammers right when the screen crackles, distorting his words, a grainy strip running across before the picture stabilises.

I hit the monitor with an open palm.

“Piece of shit,” I mutter and only then remember to check if I’m on mute—I am.

“Don’t be a pussy,” Volker Senior grumbles, in as foul a mood as he always is these days. “This is a secure line.”

I say nothing. It’s not like anyone could drag Volker’s old ass out of his capital for an in-person meeting, and I don’t fancy making the trip all the way to Everrise. Online’s fine with me. This is far from the first conversation we’ve had that we wouldn’t wish leaked to the uncomprehending public.