Page 35 of Until You Break
Triumph drank sweeter when it was poured down a father’s throat through his son.
The air shifted when the doors shut, as if the whole room had been holding its breath for Riccardo. Without him, the weight of every gaze dropped to his son. Emilio didn’t look at his brothers. He didn’t dare. His eyes stayed on the space they’d left, pulse hammering hard enough to jump at his throat. Pretty in blackand fury, pretending stillness meant safety. It didn’t. It only made him mine to move.
He turned to me too fast, shoulders squared like a boy trying on armor that didn’t fit. His cheeks still carried the flush from the dance, curls damp at the temples, mouth swollen from the kiss I had fed him in front of everyone. Fury dressed him well, and the sight sharpened something in me. He wore defiance like he was built for it, every line of him daring me to claim harder. I watched him the way a hunter watches the thing he already caught, marveling at how pretty resistance looks when it’s doomed.
“This isn’t over,” he said, his voice pitched like a blade he didn’t know how to wield.
I smiled, slow. “It’s over when I say it is.”
Glasses clinked, voices rose again with laughter, wagers and whispers. The wedding carried on as if humiliation were part of the ceremony. Gossip buzzed too quickly, speculation curling around the edges of the room like smoke. They didn’t need names to know what had just happened. They only needed to see Emilio’s face, the flush, the tremor under my hand.
I didn’t loosen my hand on his neck when the noise swelled. I squeezed just enough to remind him where his pulse belonged. “Come with me,” I said, low.
The hallway was colder, quieter, but the waltz from the reception carried under the doorframes, warped by distance. A waiter turned at the sight of us and immediately looked away. I opened a door without breaking stride, and realized too late it was a small bathroom, marble, mirror, the faint scent of soap over something darker.
“What is this?”
I shut the door behind us, the latch loud in the hush. “You kept your mouth shut out there,” I said, stepping in until his back met the counter. “You didn’t pull away. You didn’t cry.”
“That was for me, not for you.”
“Wrong.” His jaw fit perfectly in my hand. “Everything you do out there is for me.”
He breathed like he had another argument. I didn’t give him time to find it. My fingers went to his belt, my mouth to his throat, teeth scraping just enough to make him stumble.
The waltz bled under the door, warped by distance, too elegant for the filth I was wringing out of him. Soap lingered sharp under the heat of his sweat. A faucet dripped steady, clicking under the rhythm of my fist. Cold marble bit his thighs when I caged him harder against it. I leaned close, lips brushing his ear, letting my voice cut low and sharp. “Do you feel how hard you are in my hand? That’s not hate, mariposa. That’s your body begging me.” He shuddered, breath hitching, and I laughed soft. “That’s right. Fight with your mouth, but your cock already chose a side.”
I caged him against the counter, chest to his back, and unzipped him like I was unwrapping something that already belonged to me. His cock flushed up in my hand, thick, hot, desperate. Perfect. His trousers showed the dark wet patch from his leaking arousal, shame already written there before I even stroked him.
“Fuck,” he hissed, teeth bared like a cornered animal.
I grinned in the mirror, stroking him slow, thumb dragging across the head until it wept slick. “Look at that pretty cock, mariposa. Hard for me in a public bathroom. You’ll come like a slut against porcelain, and I’ll make you smile for the crowd after.”
His jaw set hard. His chest heaved. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“Yes,” I murmured, lips on his throat, tongue tasting salt before I bit down, copper blooming under my mouth. “The kind who owns your body. The kind who makes you break.”
I pumped him harder, wrist twisting, knuckles thudding into the counter with each stroke. His reflection betrayed him, cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering, throat working like he was choking on the sound he swore he wouldn’t give me.
“Eyes open,” I ordered, brushing my knuckles over his cheek in mock tenderness. “Watch yourself fall apart for me.”
He snarled, desperate, hips jerking into my fist, cock slicking my palm. His eyes darted to the door and back, panic and heat twisting together.
“Cute.” I let my hand drift higher on his thigh, just shy of where he wanted me least. My thumb pressed slow circles, testing how long he’d hold still. “You keep pretending distance will save you. It won’t. Every time this car turns, I’ll be closer. By the time we reach the gates, you’ll be pressed against me and too aware of it.” His breath stuttered, and I laughed under it. “That’s right. Think about how it feels knowing you can’t move without rubbing against me.” I taunted. “Afraid they’ll walk in and see you spraying the sink.”
“Shut up,” he rasped, trembling.
“Make me.” I bit his throat again, sucked hard enough to bruise, then jacked him mercilessly, rough, fast, thumb circling the slit until his knees buckled. “Come on. Paint it for me. Paint the marble.”
He broke on a muffled shout, head snapping back, body jerking. His cock erupted, spraying hot across the pristine sink in thick streaks, white on black marble, dripping down the polished edge, obscene as sin. He shuddered through it, biting his lip until blood stained his mouth, his reflection nothing but wreckage, red cheeks, wet hair, eyes wild.
The music swelled, polite applause outside. Here, his mess gleamed under gallery light. He stared at it, panicked, eyes darting to the door.
“What if someone sees this?” he choked.
I caught his wrist, forced his hand down, and pressed his palm to the thick line of my erection straining my trousers. His pupils blew wide.
“Look what you make me feel, piccolino,” I said, grinning sharp. “This is yours. Every inch. Don’t pretend you don’t love knowing it.”
