Page 27 of Until You Break
“That’s mine,” he said, satisfaction curling every syllable.
The pace built, deliberate and controlled. My scalp burned where he held me, my throat stretching in ways it never had. The taste was everywhere, thick and inescapable.
My eyes watered until tears slid hot over my cheeks.
When he groaned, it was sharp and low, the sound of release breaking through his composure. He pulsed hot against my tongue, heat spilling thick and bitter until it coated my mouth.
I swallowed because his grip gave me no choice, the rest slicking my chin, my chest.
“Drink it all,piccolino.” The command left no space for refusal, and I swallowed until my throat ached. He held me there a moment longer, thumb brushing my jaw. “That’s it, beautiful.”
Only then did he release me.
My head hung, breath ragged, spit and come cooling on my skin.
A square of linen dropped in my lap.
“Clean yourself. Slow. Let it stay on your tongue while you wipe it from your skin.”
My hands shook as I wiped my mouth. His gaze slid lower, catching what I couldn’t hide, the hard line of my cock jutting up, no cloth to shield me, damp evidence of betrayal spreading dark across my skin.
His thumb brushed the corner of my swollen mouth, almost tender. “You’re hard from choking on me. You hate it, but your body doesn’t.”
Heat scorched my face. My cock throbbed, unsatisfied, every nerve screaming for friction, straining for release he refused to grant.
He leaned close enough that his breath slid over my ear. “You’ll sleep aching tonight. I want you remembering it every time the sheets catch your skin. That’s mine too,piccolino.Even your need.”
He didn’t mock. He didn’t touch. He simply looked like he’d claimed something sacred and unsharable. For a breath I thought he might ease me, finish me, grant relief.
Instead, he gave me something worse: gentle certainty.
“You’ll come only when I decide. Not before. Not without me. Understand?” His smirk cut deeper than any cruelty, and then he turned, leaving me with nothing but the ache.
My throat worked around the taste he’d left, my voice gone.
He smiled faintly, like I’d already answered. He paused in the doorway long enough to burn me with one last line.
“Sleep with my taste still in your throat. Tomorrow, I’ll use more of you.”
Then he was gone, leaving me trembling in the dark, cock straining, unspent, every breath branded with him.
At the window, night air cut in.
Below, wrecked against the stone wall, headlights shattered, hood crumpled, Salvatore’s golden BMW, still hissing in the dark. Steam bled like a throat trying to finish a scream. The smell hit me next: burnt oil, hot rubber, coolant gone sour, so sharp it shoved down my throat until I had to grip the sill to keep from folding. Voices carried up from below, Sicilian curses, a radio crackle, tires grinding through glass.
My stomach turned. Salvatore. My brother had tried—tried to reach me, to rip me out of this prison—and failed. Desperation cracked through my chest sharper than any bruise. Was he bleeding down there? Was he breathing? The thought knifed through me until I had to shut my eyes against it.
I slid under the linen, trembling. The sheet scratched my cheek, the pillow smelled of cedar, of him. My throat still ached, the ghost of him burned across my tongue.
The towel was gone, but my cock stayed hard, damp against cotton, every throb echoing what he’d said.
That’s mine too, piccolino. Even your need.
I pressed my lips together, tasting him still, hating how my body begged for friction he’d forbidden.
Then the noise started. Not the crash from before, this was different. Too steady, too rehearsed. Boots striking in rhythm. Steel clashing against steel. Shouts carrying through the walls, sharp, drilled, impossible to mistake for chaos.
For a moment I thought it was inside my head, some fever dream, until the cheer came: loud, raw, the sound of a crowd.
