Page 49 of The Beast's Broken Angel
Viktor took me deeper, moaning as his nose pressed against my pelvis, my cock buried to the hilt. His spit made it loud, slick, a vulgar soundtrack to Noah’s unraveling. My fingers tightened in Viktor’s hair as I rocked into him with measured control.
Noah gritted his teeth. His knuckles were bone-white where he gripped the edge of the stainless-steel counter. The overhead lights were unkind—highlighting the line of his jaw, the glint of desperation in his eyes, and the undeniable bulge between his legs.
His cock twitched.
His shame was so palpable I could almost taste it.
I groaned low, not for Viktor—but for Noah. For the ache I knew was eating him alive. “You don’t decide what you get,” I said, each word deliberate. “You don’t even get totouchyour cock unless I say so.”
Viktor was relentless, his rhythm perfect, each swallow a quiet act of devotion. I forced Noah to watch all of it—each thrust of my hips, each flick of Viktor’s tongue, each sound I made. Noah’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, pupils blown wide.
“Don’t look away,” I growled, reaching out to grab his jaw, forcing his face back toward the mirror.
He trembled. Not just from rage. Not anymore.
I dragged my thumb down the seam of his mouth. He shivered. He didn’t flinch away.
Viktor sucked harder, faster—working me like it was penance and prayer and pleasure all at once. I saw stars behind my eyes, and when I came, it was with a ragged groan through clenched teeth, my gaze still locked on Noah’s ruined face.
Viktor swallowed it all.
Every drop.
He licked me clean with reverence, then rose silently, tucking me back into my trousers with the kind of care a soldier shows his weapon. He buckled my belt, smoothing the fabric like he was closing a ritual. His face was still, calm—but the ghost of my cock clung to his lips.
I reached for a handkerchief from the supply drawer—crisp, folded. Tossed it onto the counter beside Noah’s clenched hands.
He stared at it like it might detonate.
His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. His jeans bulged painfully, the fabric damp where precum had soaked through. He looked like he wanted to scream or beg—maybe both.
I turned to Viktor.
“Go to him,” I said quietly, but the command carried steel. “I want you in front of him. On your knees.”
Viktor blinked once in acknowledgment. No hesitation.
He stepped around Noah—slow, deliberate—and droppedto his knees. His shoulders squared with discipline, not deference. A soldier awaiting orders.
“Strip him,” I said.
Viktor reached out and undid Noah’s jeans with precise fingers. The zipper came down like a sentence. Noah’s cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking.
Viktor exhaled softly. “He’s soaked,” he muttered, voice laced with his accent. “You hold him back too long.”
Noah flinched at the words, the humiliation deepening.
I stepped closer, grabbed Noah’s jaw, tilted his face toward the mirror. “Look,” I ordered. “Look at yourself. This is what you are.”
Viktor leaned in, letting his warm breath ghost over the flushed head of Noah’s cock. Noah hissed through his teeth.
“I could make him come in minute,” Viktor said, his tone almost conversational. “He is twitching already. One stroke, maybe two. All over the floor.”
“Don’t,” I said coldly.
Viktor nodded once. “Da.”
Then he took Noah into his mouth.
