Page 48

“It’s in the reception desk,” he says. “Left side. Under the lip where the key cards sit. Nobody watched me do it. Nice bit of kit too.”

I wait.

He is not finished.

“They offered me a trial shift,” Elias continues. “Two days. Hostess cover. And I saw three of them come in through what looked like the kitchen entrance. Older. Suits. One of them even mentioned Tito by name, said something about a meeting later. These were senior men. Comfortable. Confident. The way people move when they own the back of a building.”

Senior Lucci.

But not Tito.

Still, close enough to matter.

I look at the boy. Impressed is a small word. Useful is better. Either way, the boy has more than met my expectations. And I am a man of my word.

“Strip.”

His eyes flick to the cameras I control and the empty bays. Then he obeys…

Jacket. Boots. Jeans that drag over his perfect thighs and quads. Elias removes everything until he is bare under the fluorescent strip and the bike’s cooling tick.

“On it,” I say, nodding to the Kawasaki.

He climbs onto the Kawasaki naked. The leather accepts his thighs. I turn the key and smile as the engine wakes.

I blip the throttle. The vibration climbs through the tank and into the seat and into him.

“Mmmmmph,” Elias moans, immediately tuned into the motorcycle’s immense power. Only this time he has no clothes to act as a barrier.

He jolts. A sound rips out of Elias that he tries to turn into a breath.

I give him more. Then less. The dip is deliberate.

I watch him chase the lost tremor with his hips, grinding, losing the line between balance and need.

“Stay on it,” I command, my cock throbbing inside my trousers, my eyes delighting in the sight that is being presented to me.

Elias nods, wrecked already. I bring the revs up. His head tips back. Nipples tight. Stomach jumping. His hands locked on the bars like the machine might throw him.

I cut it again.

The boy whimpers.

“Beg,” I growl.

“Please.”

“Better. But not good enough,” I say dismissively.

“Please let me cum. Please, Dmitri. I can’t—please Daddy, please let me cum Daddy…”

Daddy. It’s not Master, but in some ways it’s even better.

I give him the engine. Full enough. Cruel enough.

And like that, Elias breaks on the seat with a groan that fills the lot, thighs shaking, wet shining on black leather, body folding forward over the tank as the orgasm takes him in trembling, helpless waves.

I let the boy finish. Then I shut the bike down. The silence is sudden.