Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1 - Dek
Tuesday night.
I never asked how he affords the best suite in one of the most expensive hotels in the city. I don’t really care. The only thing that matters is that when I push through that heavy door, he’ll already be waiting.
My cock is already half-hard just from the thought of him.
The keycard gives a soft green flash and a quiet click. I step into the small marble foyer, the cool stone under my boots giving way to thick carpet as the space opens into the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one entire wall, framing an ocean of city lights that glitter like scattered diamonds against the black.
The room is kept low and warm—only a few amber sconces and the glow from the skyline. The air smells clean, expensive: lemon polish on wood, high-thread-count linen, and underneath it all, him. Vanilla and sandalwood, a warm, masculine scent. It hits me low in the gut every single time.
He’s standing at the window with his back to me, a dark silhouette haloed by the city.
Blonde hair catches the light like pale gold. Broad shoulders fill out the same dark gray suit he always wears—tailored to perfection, dark gray oxford beneath, black boots instead of dress shoes. Something about that small choice always makes my pulse kick harder: he dresses like he’s ready to walk out of here and disappear into the night, not like a man who’s about to drop to his knees for me.
He turns, just enough to glance over his shoulder. The amber light catches in his hazel eyes and turns them molten.
Fuck. He’s so goddamn beautiful it almost hurts to look at him. Sharp jaw, high cheekbones, that quiet intensity he carries like a second skin.
But tonight the exhaustion is carved even deeper—shadows under his eyes, a faint tightness at the corners of his mouth. Whatever he does out there in the daylight has sunk its teeth into him, not just his face but straight through to the marrow. I can feel it radiating off him in waves.
And it’s my filthy, selfish pleasure to take that pain and turn it inside out.
I’ve read the studies, the clinical papers: how emotional hurt can sometimes be rerouted through the body—sharp physical pain to drown the deeper kind, then pleasure to wash the whole thing clean.
For some people it actually works. For him—for us—it does.
“Yes, I’m late,” I snarl, voice already rough from the day and from wanting him. “Kneel.”
From the corner of my vision, I see him obey instantly. Knees hit the plush blush carpet with a soft, heavy thud. He’s still fully dressed—suit jacket buttoned, tie perfect—and the contrast of that controlled elegance dropping so fast sends heat licking up my spine.
“Traffic was shit.” I yank off my leather gloves, slap them down on the glass console table. Wool overcoat follows, shrugged off and tossed over the back of a chair. “Work was shit.”
I toe off my boots, peel off my socks, feel the carpet warm against my bare feet. My fingers find the hem of my oxford where it’s tucked into my trousers; I tug it free, pop buttons one by one, let the shirt fall open. The cool air kisses my skin.
I cross to the bar cart, pour three fingers of the Armagnac he always has waiting. Delord 25-Year Bas-Armagnac this time. The bottle alone costs about half my monthly rent. I swirl it, breathe in the deep, spicy richness—plum, vanilla, a bright thread of dried apricot. It rolls over my tongue like liquid heat.
I walk back to him slowly until my bare toes nearly brush his spread knees.
He’s breathing shallow and quick. I sink my fingers into that thick blonde hair, grip hard, and yank his head back until the long column of his throat is bared to me. His Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow. Those bright eyes lift to mine—stormy, desperate, trusting—and the sight of him like this, so powerful and so completely surrendered, nearly undoes me.
“And you,” I murmur, voice dropping low, “my sweet little slut… are going to feel every fucking second of it.”
A visible shudder rolls through his big frame. I slide one foot between his thighs, press the arch against the thick ridge of his cock straining behind fine wool trousers. He’s rock-hard already, leaking enough that I can feel the damp heat through the fabric.
“Already hard,” I growl, grinding my foot just enough to make him hiss. “Fucking whore.”
His lashes flutter. A broken sound escapes his throat—half moan, half plea—and the raw need in it coils tight around my ribs. I want to tear him open. I want to put him back together. I want to keep him like this forever, on the edge of breaking, safe only because I’m the one holding the leash.
I release his hair with one last sharp tug that makes his breath hitch, then step back. The Armagnac burns warm in my throat as I finish it and set the glass down with a deliberate clink.
“Bedroom. Now.”
He doesn’t speak; he knows better. Just rises in that smooth, powerful way that always makes heat scorch up my spine.
The bedroom doors swing open soundlessly. The space is darker here, intimate. Heavy blackout curtains are drawn halfway across the windows, letting in only a thin blade of city glow that slices across the king bed. The sheets are already turned down, crisp white against the deep charcoal duvet.
On the low nightstand beside the wide leather armchair I always claim, everything is laid out exactly the way I like it: the coil of black silk rope, the sleek steel Wartenberg wheel, lube, nothing else. No toys that require noise. No blindfolds. I like to watch his face.
I drop into the armchair, thighs spread wide, bare chest still gaping from the oxford I never bothered to remove. The leather’s cool against my skin. I plant my forearms on the rests and tip my chin up.
“Strip. Slowly. Fold every fucking piece. Then kneel right here—between my legs.”
He starts with the tie—fingers precise, unhurried, like he’s prepping for a closing argument instead of offering himself up to be ruined. Jacket slides off those broad shoulders. Oxford unbuttons one by one, revealing the thick slabs of his pecs, the sparse trail of hair slicing down a carved stomach. Boots and socks next. Then, trousers. He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pushes them down with his briefs in one motion, freeing his thick cock—already flushed dark, wet at the tip, curving up against his abs.
When he’s completely naked, he folds each piece with military neatness and sets the pile aside.
Then he kneels.
Right between my spread thighs. Knees splayed wide on the plush carpet, spine ramrod straight, hands turned palms-up on his thighs exactly the way I drilled into him.
His cock juts forward between us, thick and glistening, a fresh bead of precome sliding slow down the shaft. Those molten hazel eyes stay locked on me—like I’m the only one he trusts to take the poison out of him before it rots him from the inside out.
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, and rake my gaze over every exposed inch.
“Such a needy little boy,” I murmur, voice low and edged. “Naked. Dripping. A fucking mess already, and you haven’t even tasted me.”
My hand snaps out, fingers clamping hard around his jaw, thumb digging deep into the hinge until I feel the muscle jump under the pressure. I tilt his face up so those gorgeous eyes have nowhere to hide.
“My sweet little slut,” I growl, letting the words sink in like teeth. “Look at you—kneeling pretty, cock leaking all over yourself just because I told you to strip. You were born for this, weren’t you? Born to be my desperate whore.”
A shudder rolls through him. I feel it under my palm. Pain gets him going, but not the same way the words do. He needs both—the words and the actions—but he craves the words.
I release his jaw and lean back, chest heaving.
“Take out my cock and suck it.”
Deft fingers reach without hesitation—callused, trembling with anticipation—rip the button open, yank the zipper down so fast the teeth rasp. Then his fist closes around me, hot and sure, and he swallows me down in one brutal slide.
“Fuck—!” My skull cracks back against the leather. Pleasure slams through me like a fist to the gut. His mouth is a furnace—wet, greedy—sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks.
One hand grips the armrest until the leather creaks; my other hand knots in his hair, yanking him deeper as his tongue drags rough up the underside and lashes the head.
I buck hard, shoving past his gag reflex until I hit the back of his throat. He chokes—wet, guttural, eyes watering—and the vibration rips a snarl out of me.
“Open wider, slut. Fucking take it.” I let him haul in one desperate, breath, then ram him back down, hips snapping. “Make me come. Now.”
He works me like he’s trying to kill us both—long, filthy pulls, throat convulsing. Pressure coils low and vicious, then detonates. I come with a broken grunt, flooding his mouth in heavy, pulsing ropes—hot, thick, spilling past his lips when he can’t swallow fast enough. My thighs lock; my vision whites out for a second.
“Fuck… fuck. Such a good boy for me,” Breath saws out of me, ragged. For a moment, I just hold him still, letting him swallow around my cock, the slick heat of his mouth easing the pleasure into a warmth that tingles over my skin.
Then, I shove him off, forcing him to reel back onto his heels. He watches me, still gasping, chin glistening, lips swollen and red. His own dick is obscene—dark purple, veins bulging, leaking against his abs with every breath.
“On the bed. Now.”
I snatch the silk coil as I rise, muscles still twitching from the aftershocks. He scrambles onto the mattress; I’m on him in seconds. Wrists slammed above his head, rope biting in deep as I cinch the knots tight—hard enough the fibers scrape skin raw, hard enough I can already see the angry red welts rising under the pressure. He groans a little, cock jerking against his stomach.
I slide my hands down his bound arms, squeezing hard enough that my fingers sink deep into biceps and triceps. I know I’m leaving marks—purple fingerprints he’ll feel every time he moves tomorrow. He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t pull away. If anything, his cock twitches harder, a fresh bead of precome sliding down the shaft.
As he lies there, panting, I stripe off the rest of my clothes.
I pick up the Wartenberg wheel and climb onto the bed, forcing his legs open before I sit on my heels between them.
The steel spikes catch the low light as I roll it slowly across my own palm first, letting him watch, letting his pupils blow wide in those hazel eyes.
Then I start on him—light at first, just the faintest drag over one collarbone. His breath stutters. I roll it lower, circling a nipple. The spikes bite in tiny perfect points and he arches, a broken sound tearing out of his throat. I keep going—down the center of his chest, over the ridges of his abs, along the V of his hips. When I reach his inner thigh he jerks hard against the ropes, the muscles jumping under his skin.
“Fucking stay still,” I growl, and press my free hand flat against his sternum, pinning him in place while I roll the wheel up the length of his cock.
The metal teeth kiss the underside, then the head. His hips buck involuntarily. I do it again, slower, watching his face contort—pleasure and sharp little sparks of pain twisting together until his mouth falls open on a silent moan.
I set the wheel aside and wrap my hand around his cock instead. One slow, tight stroke from root to tip. He’s slick, burning, pulsing in my fist.
“Fuck—please—”
“Such a sweet little whore.” I squeeze harder at the base, cutting off the building orgasm before it can crest. His thighs tremble.
I hold him there, right on the razor edge, while I lean in and bite down on the thick muscle where his oblique meets the bone. Hard. Enough to leave teeth marks. He groans, deep and wrecked, the sound vibrating against my lips.
I stroke him again—three firm pulls—then stop. Grip his balls instead, rolling them, tugging just enough to make his eyes water. Another tight hold on his hip, fingers digging in so deep I feel the bone underneath. Bruises on bruises.
He’s panting now, chest heaving, jerking against the ropes, sweat starting to sheen across his skin.
I edge him twice more. Once with just my thumb circling the head while I bite the inside of his thigh hard enough to make him shout. Once with my fists flying fast and brutal against the meat of his thighs until his whole body locks up—then I freeze, thumb pressed cruelly under the head until the orgasm dies back again.
By the fourth time he’s shaking. Tears cling to his lashes. Red lines carved by the ropes into his wrists. My fingerprints are already blooming dark on his arms, his hips, his chest. He looks ruined. Perfect.
I sit back on my heels, cock hard again, and drag the Wartenberg wheel up his inner thigh one last time, pressing hard enough to draw blood.
“Beg me, Anarchist,” I murmur, voice rough as gravel. “Beg me to come like the slutty bitch you are, and maybe—maybe—I’ll think about it.”
His lips part. The word is already forming, raw and desperate, when I roll the wheel over his balls and listen as the words tumble out, beautiful and perfect and everything I could ever want.
