Page 70 of Until You Break
He did. Tongue warm, grateful. My breath edged harder.
“Good boy. So fucking perfect.”
I reached to the nightstand, tore the foil, and rolled the condom on. Lube followed, cold at first on my palm, then warmer as I worked it over my cock. His eyes tracked every movement like the words he wanted had no shape without watching my hand.
“Open for me.”
His knees fell apart. I knelt between them and slicked my fingers, pressing one in slowly. His breath hitched. I circled, stretching him, then added a second, holding his eyes while I did it.
“Breathe.”
He did, chest lifting, lips parting as the tension eased into something else entirely. I found that place inside him that made his back lift off the bed, and pressed again until his moan turned shameless. His toes curled against the sheet.
I worked him open slowly, fingers scissoring deep until he stretched around me, every twitch of his body telling me how much he could take. His breath hitched, sweat sliding at his temple, hair sticking to his skin as I spread him wider, pressing until his back arched off the sheets. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the fabric, mouth open like the word was stuck.
“Now I’m going to fuck you.”
The first thrust was slow enough to burn. I pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, deeper. His handsscrambled at my shoulders, I caught his wrists and pinned them above his head.
“You don’t come until I say.”
“Damiano—”
“I said.” My grip shifted, thumb pressed under his jaw, head tipped just so. “Say it.”
“I won’t,” he gasped.
I set a rhythm, deep and deliberate, the wet slap of our bodies growing louder with every thrust, the sound of my balls striking him punctuating the broken noises he couldn’t hide. I forced his gaze down once, made him see the slick mess between us, the way his body clung greedily around my cock. “Look what you’re doing to me,” I growled, half praise, half possession. “Look what you’ve made of yourself for me.” Shame flickered in his eyes, but arousal chased it quick, his cheeks flushing as he clenched tighter around me. A whimper escaped, defiant and needy at once, as though part of him wanted to turn away from the sight and the rest of him wanted me to force him to keep watching. His chest arched into mine, and I bent to take his mouth, swallowing every moan. His cock slid hot between our stomachs; I ground down to smear him with himself, driving harder until he gasped, and took his breath when he tried to look away.
“Eyes,” I reminded. “On me,marito.”
When I felt him climbing, I slowed to a grind, holding deep, the base of my cock pressed flush so he felt all of me and nothing moved the way he wanted. I ground slow, dragging in circles, making him feel the full length while my balls pressed heavy against him, every shift deliberate. His body clenched around me, desperate, his strangled sound breaking against my mouth as I kissed him hard, keeping him still while I rolled my hips again and again. Then I pulled nearly out, drove back in hard enough to make the mattress creak, balls slapping against him. Again, slower, dragging, until his thighs trembled. Again, sharpand deep, giving him the edge of release only to steal it back. I kept him hovering there, each thrust a mix of promise and denial, until sweat slicked us both and his moans blurred into pleading sounds against my lips.
He begged in fragments, words tumbling out between gasps. “Please, harder…please, let me—” but I silenced him with another grind, another punishing thrust that made the mattress shake. His thighs shook, his voice broke, every plea swallowed into my mouth as I kissed him rough. Each time he thought I’d let him go, I pulled back, drove deep again, balls smacking against him until he sobbed with need. His desperation only made me want to keep him there longer, aching, undone, mine to ruin at the edge.
Obsession twisted tight in my chest. No one else would ever see him like this. I praised him between thrusts, rough words against his mouth, telling him how perfect he felt, how beautiful he was wrecked beneath me, how his voice begging was the only prayer I’d ever answer. Each time I denied him, he answered with another plea, louder, needier, until his voice cracked. His hands clawed at my shoulders, then gripped the sheets, torn between begging and surrender. When I told him he was mine, his eyes fluttered shut, a broken sound spilling out that made me drive deeper, harder, chasing both his need and my obsession with it.
“Please,” he said, voice gone thin. “Please?—”
“Beg prettier.”
“Please,marito. Please let me come.”
“Better,” I said, and didn’t give it yet. He trembled under me, thighs shaking, breath stuttering against my mouth. I put my palm at his throat and tightened, choking him lightly, counting his next three breaths with my grip so he felt the math inside his windpipe: mine to give, mine to withhold.
“You feel that? My hand on your throat. My cock inside you. That’s all the air you get unless you ask.”
His pupils blew wide, body twitching under mine. His throat worked uselessly against my palm.
His cock leaked across his stomach, begging for friction, but I denied him even that. Beautiful, watching him fight for every drop of air and knowing I owned the math inside his lungs.
“Breathe for me,marito. I decide when you stop, and I decide when you come.”
Prayer doesn’t live in churches here. It lives in my grip on his throat.
His eyes glazed. “Damiano…please?—”
I smiled against his cheek. “Good boy.”
