Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 10
7
GARDEN PACT
VIKTOR
The clock struck eleven, and I was still walking corridors I'd already memorized.
Fourth patrol of the night. Unnecessary. Obsessive. But sleep wasn't coming anyway, and standing outside Sebastian's door listening to silence felt worse than moving. At least moving gave the illusion of purpose.
Rain misted against the tall windows, turning London into watercolor beyond the glass. The palace was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood settling and the distant murmur of night staff going about their routines.
I should've been tired. Should've felt the weight of the day pressing down. Instead, I felt wired. Alert. Like my body knew something my mind hadn't caught up to yet.
The chandelier kept replaying in my head. The way the bolt had snapped. The angle of the fall. The fact that I'd pulled Sebastian out of his chair seconds before tons of metal and crystal would've crushed his skull.
Too close.
Footsteps approached from the east corridor. Soft. Measured. A servant in palace livery appeared, young man with nervous eyes.
“Mr. Volkov?” He stopped a respectful distance away. “His Majesty requests your presence in the gardens.”
I stared at him. “Now?”
“Yes, sir. He said immediately, if possible.”
No reason given. No context. Just a summons in the middle of the night to meet the King in the gardens without guards or witnesses.
Every instinct I had screamed protocol violation.
But the servant was already retreating, clearly not expecting refusal. And something in the way he'd delivered the message felt less like command and more like plea.
I followed.
The corridors leading to the gardens were lit by lanterns that cast long shadows across marble. My boots were too loud in the silence, each step echoing like a countdown to something I couldn't name.
The door to the Midnight Gardens stood open. Rain drifted through in fine mist, carrying the scent of roses and wet earth. I stepped through into darkness broken by moonlight and the glow of scattered torches.
The gardens were beautiful in a way that felt deliberate. Engineered. White roses bloomed everywhere, their petals catching light like they were lit from within. Ivy crawled over stone arches. Fountains whispered in the dark. The whole place felt like a secret the palace was keeping from itself.
King Alexandre stood beneath an arch of ivy at the far end, coat open despite the cold, no guards visible anywhere. Just a silhouette carved from moonlight and sorrow, staring at roses like they held answers.
I approached slowly, scanning the shadows out of habit. Looking for threats. Finding none except the king himself.
“Your Majesty.”
He turned, and I saw exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “Mr. Volkov. Thank you for coming.”
“You summoned me.”
“I asked. There's a difference.” He gestured vaguely at the gardens around us. “Couldn't sleep. The palace feels heavier at night. Like all the ghosts wake up when everyone else tries to rest.”
I understood that more than I wanted to. “Walls remember too much.”
The words surprised me even as I said them. Too honest. Too revealing. But the King looked at me like I'd given him something he needed.
“Yes.” He exhaled, breath misting in cold air. “They do.”
He started walking deeper into the gardens, and I followed because that's what you did when kings moved. We walked in silence past beds of roses and reflecting pools that turned the moon into something broken.
He stopped at a glass pavilion tucked between hedges. Candlelight glowed inside, warm against the cold. A bottle of brandy sat on a small table with two glasses.
“Sit with me,” he said. Not quite an order. Not quite a request. “Just two men with too many ghosts.”
I should've refused. Should've maintained distance. Professional boundaries existed for reasons.
But I was tired. And lonely. And the King looked like he might shatter if left alone with whatever was eating him.
I followed him inside.
The pavilion was small. Intimate. Rain traced silver lines across the glass roof, and the candles made everything feel removed from reality. Like we'd stepped outside time.
The King poured brandy into both glasses with hands that trembled slightly. Not fear. Exhaustion. The kind that came from holding yourself together too long.
He held one glass out to me. I took it.
“What did you think of today?” he asked, settling into one of the chairs. “The accident.”
I remained standing, glass untouched in my hand. “It was not accident.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
He stared at his brandy. “I thought as much. The timing was too convenient. Too theatrical.” He drank, wincing slightly. “Someone wanted to send a message.”
“Or test security. See how close they can get.”
“And they got very close.” His eyes met mine. “If you hadn't moved when you did...”
“But I did.”
“Yes.” Something shifted in his expression. Gratitude. Relief. Fear. “You saved him. Again. That's twice in three days.”
I didn't answer. Didn't know what to say. Protecting Sebastian was my job. But somewhere between the photographer incident and the chandelier, it had stopped feeling like just a job and started feeling like something I couldn't afford to examine.
“Come,” the King said, standing abruptly. “Let's go somewhere warmer. I can't think in the cold.”
The room he led me to was smaller than I'd expected. More intimate. A sitting room with a fireplace already burning, casting warm light across furniture that looked comfortable instead of ceremonial. Personal. Real.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chairs positioned in front of the fire. “Please.”
I sat this time because refusing would've been more awkward than complying. Set my brandy glass on the side table between our chairs. The King did the same with his, the crystal catching firelight as he placed it down.
He settled across from me, close enough that I could see the firelight catch in his eyes.
“You remind me of her guards,” he said quietly, staring into the flames. “The ones who died trying to protect her that night. They would've thrown themselves in front of bullets without hesitation.” He looked at me. “You're the same.”
“I am paid to be.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You could be paid and still hesitate. Still calculate. Still choose yourself.” He leaned forward. “But you don't. You move like protecting him is instinct. Like his life matters more than your own.”
My jaw tightened. “That is what I am here for.”
“It's more than that. I see it when you look at him. When you think no one's watching.” The King's voice dropped. “You care. Despite yourself. Despite every wall you've built.”
The words hit too close. I wanted to deny them. Wanted to rebuild the distance that was crumbling between us.
But I couldn't.
Because he was right.
“I cannot afford to care,” I said roughly. “Caring is weakness. It makes you slow. Makes you compromise.”
“Or it makes you faster. More determined.” He drank more brandy, color rising in his cheeks. “I loved her so much it terrified me. That's why I was so careful. So protective. And it didn't matter. She died anyway.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“Are you?” He studied me with eyes that saw too much. “Or are you just sorry you understand it?”
I looked away. Into the fire. At anything except his face.
“I lost someone too,” I said before I could stop myself. “My sister. I was supposed to protect her. Keep her safe. But I was too late. Always too late.”
“How old was she?”
“Sixteen.”
“God.” He closed his eyes. “Just a child.”
“Old enough to make bad choices. Not old enough to survive them.” The words tasted like ash.
The King was quiet for a long moment. Then, “You blame yourself.”
“I should have seen signs. Should have been there.”
“You can't save people from themselves, Mr. Volkov. No matter how much you love them.”
“I should have tried harder.”
“You would've just delayed the inevitable.” He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the brandy on his breath. “Some people are drowning long before we realize the water's over their heads.”
His hand settled on my knee. Warm. Heavy. Grounding.
I should've moved it. Should've stood up. Walked away. Maintained the line between us.
But I was so tired. And lonely. And his touch felt like the first human contact I'd had in years that wasn't about violence.
“I'm terrified of losing him,” the King said quietly.
“I will protect him.”
“I know you will.” His hand moved higher. Just slightly. “But who protects you?”
The fire popped, scattering sparks across the grate. I stared at the King's hand where it rested on my thigh, felt the weight of it, the heat bleeding through my trousers. I should have stood, but his eyes—soft, desperate, dark with something like hunger—pinned me in place.
“You don't let anyone close, do you?” he asked, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “Not really. Not ever.”
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My jaw clenched; my pulse hammered, sudden and sharp. The King was staring at me as if searching for the crack in my armor, the softest place, the wound I couldn't hide.
His hand lingered another moment. Then, with the faintest tremor, he withdrew, settling back in his chair, shoulders tense. For a moment I thought the spell was broken.
But then he exhaled—slow, deliberate. His gaze never left mine as his own hand drifted down, almost absentminded, to the loose silk of his pyjamas, fingers pressing over his thigh, then lower. He didn't say a word. Just watched me, eyes glinting in the firelight.
“You ever let anyone see you, Viktor?” he asked, softer now, a confession edged with challenge. “Let them look at you, just as you are? No mask, no armor?”
My breath caught. The room felt suddenly smaller, air thick with unsaid things. The King’s hand flexed, just a little, palm moving slow, measured over the hardening shape beneath the fabric. He didn't rush—he was too old, too practiced in control to be crass about it.
“Not in a long time,” I said, voice like gravel.
He smiled, the curve of his lips both sorrowful and wicked. “I always wondered if desire could survive this much grief. If need just... rots away.”
He was stroking himself now, slow, almost lazy, the silk darkening with heat, his breathing shifting, chest rising deeper with every pass. Not flaunting—no, something more wounded, more honest. Like a man remembering how to feel, even if it hurt.
“You don't have to watch,” he said, voice trembling, “but I wish you would.”
I should have looked away. Instead, I watched the way his fingers tightened, the way he bit his lower lip, firelight catching on his sweat-dampened brow. The silence was heavy but not empty; it pulsed with want, loneliness, gratitude, and shame in equal measure.
“Does this disgust you?” he asked, a challenge and a plea mingled in his voice.
“No,” I said, the word catching somewhere deep in my throat. “It doesn’t.”
I leaned back in my chair, matching his posture, pulse thrumming in my throat. The King's eyes tracked every movement, dark and hungry as I let my hand drift to my lap—fingers brushing over the bulge straining against the fabric of my suit pants. I was already half hard, arousal stoked by the sight of him—by the intimacy of being allowed to watch.
He saw, and a slow, wrecked smile curved his mouth. “You don't need to be alone in it,” he said, voice no longer gentle but edged with need.
My breath came harsh, shoulders tense as I undid the top button of my waistband, just enough for my hand to press down, palm cupping the rigid line of my cock. Even through layers of fabric, the sensation was electric—heightened by the King's gaze, the flicker of firelight, the forbidden danger of the act.
He mirrored me, one hand stroking himself under the silk, movements measured but desperate, breath hitching with each pass. The air in the room was thick—every sound amplified: the rasp of my zipper, the catch in his throat, the fire crackling low and hungry.
“You like to watch?” he asked, voice trembling with hope and humiliation.
I nodded, unable to hide how much I did, hips shifting as I began to stroke myself in earnest—slow, relentless pressure that made my whole body ache.
His eyes went hazy, pupils blown wide, watching every motion. “God, Viktor—don’t stop.”
Neither of us did. We just sat there, knees almost touching, hands working ourselves through layers of clothes, separated by inches and a lifetime of restraint. Every pass of my palm sent sparks up my spine, the friction almost unbearable, pleasure sharpened by the King’s hungry, grateful stare.
A moan tore out of him, muffled and needy. My own breath caught, low and guttural, hips shifting with the pressure building under my hand. The silence was thick enough to drown in.
Without warning, the king slid from his chair to the rug, silk pajamas bunching at his knees. Candlelight pooled across his shoulders, casting shadows as he prowled toward me. His gaze never left mine, jaw tight, every line of his face naked with want. One palm braced on my knee, fingers digging into the wool of my trousers, claiming a handful of me like a man denied for years.
Starting at my polished shoe, he dragged his nose up the leather, then over the sharp line of my ankle. The heat of his breath burned through fabric, every inch of his slow ascent a demand, a prayer. His hands parted my knees, rough with urgency, forcing my thighs wide. My cock strained beneath the zipper, swelling against the taut wool.
He inhaled deeply at my thigh, greedy for scent, tongue flicking out to taste the crease where suit met skin. “You smell like sin and steel,” he rasped, voice shaking. “Let me have it. Let me have you.”
Fingers traced the length of my zipper, deliberate, teasing. No patience left now—he wanted, needed, and so did I. My own hand stilled, bracing on the armrest, letting him take control.
Mouth pressed to my inner thigh, teeth grazing through the suit. A shiver ripped through me, hips canting forward, the last of my restraint slipping. I reached down, cradling his jaw, thumb dragging across his lips.
He sucked my thumb into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed, lips hot and wet. “Don’t stop me. Not tonight.” The words spilled out half-broken, pleading, full of old grief and new hunger.
I groaned, low and raw, pulling his head closer, grinding my cock against the seam of my pants for relief. His hands found my belt, working it open with desperate fingers, knuckles brushing over the ache beneath.
Mouth trailed up, leaving a streak of heat from knee to groin. “God, Viktor. I need you to fall apart for me.”
Teeth scraped my hipbone, the sting delicious. His tongue traced the sensitive line just above my waistband, the silk of his pajamas cool where they brushed my calves. I let my head fall back, eyes shut, surrendering to his mouth, his touch, the hot slick slide of his breath over my cock—still trapped, still aching.
“Say you want this. Say it,” he demanded, voice breaking.
“You have no idea,” I gritted out, grinding into his palm, letting him feel how hard I’d gotten from nothing but his gaze and his mouth. The king’s lips crashed into mine, hungry, reckless, his body pressed between my knees. The kiss was pure ruin, all teeth and tongue and helpless need. His hand plunged between us, grasping me through my open pants, thumb stroking over the leaking head, and I gasped into his mouth, biting down to muffle the sound.
His fingers tightened around my cock, squeezing, milking another ragged groan from my chest. My head spun with the taste of him, the heady bite of his tongue tangled with mine. Desperate for more, I tangled my fingers in his hair, dragging him closer, devouring the heat and need he poured into the kiss. Every inch of restraint inside me slipped, every wall I’d built crumbling under the king’s relentless hunger.
Breathless, he broke away, lips shining, jaw working like he was fighting for control. Instead of returning to my mouth, he pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the hollow of my throat, tongue circling the spot where my pulse thundered. His teeth grazed the tendon, a threat and a promise, before he dragged his mouth lower—tracing a slow, worshipful line down the column of my neck, the line of my collarbone, the hollow between the buttons of my shirt.
Palms braced on my thighs, he knelt between my knees, sinking further, folding himself at my feet. I watched, dizzy with power and hunger, as he pressed his face into my lap, inhaling the scent, groaning as he mouthed the bulge beneath my open trousers. His tongue traced the damp spot in my briefs, collecting the salt and heat, making my hips jerk up in search of friction.
He murmured something half-prayer, half-blasphemy, nuzzling the soft skin just above my waistband. I shuddered, one hand fisting in his hair, the other gripping the armrest so hard my knuckles ached. My thighs trembled under his touch—hard muscle made weak by the sheer worship in every movement.
He drew back then, eyes glazed with lust and something dangerously close to adoration. Reaching for my ankles, he untied my shoes with shaking hands, slow and reverent, as if unwrapping a relic. He pulled each shoe free, careful, precise, letting the weight of the act settle between us. My socked feet hit the floor, cold and sensitive, nerves blazing from the lack of barrier.
Socks followed, peeled down and off, tossed aside like holy things discarded at an altar. The air stung against my bare feet, the vulnerability of it all sending a pulse of arousal through my gut.
“You deserve to be worshipped,” he whispered, voice rough. His breath hit my toes, warm and humid, before he pressed a kiss to the arch of my foot, then the ball, then each toe in turn. Lips parted, tongue sliding out, he sucked my big toe between his lips, eyes flicking up, locking with mine as he worked his mouth around it—sucking, tonguing, lavishing filth and devotion in equal measure.
GARDEN PACT
VIKTOR
The clock struck eleven, and I was still walking corridors I'd already memorized.
Fourth patrol of the night. Unnecessary. Obsessive. But sleep wasn't coming anyway, and standing outside Sebastian's door listening to silence felt worse than moving. At least moving gave the illusion of purpose.
Rain misted against the tall windows, turning London into watercolor beyond the glass. The palace was quiet except for the occasional creak of old wood settling and the distant murmur of night staff going about their routines.
I should've been tired. Should've felt the weight of the day pressing down. Instead, I felt wired. Alert. Like my body knew something my mind hadn't caught up to yet.
The chandelier kept replaying in my head. The way the bolt had snapped. The angle of the fall. The fact that I'd pulled Sebastian out of his chair seconds before tons of metal and crystal would've crushed his skull.
Too close.
Footsteps approached from the east corridor. Soft. Measured. A servant in palace livery appeared, young man with nervous eyes.
“Mr. Volkov?” He stopped a respectful distance away. “His Majesty requests your presence in the gardens.”
I stared at him. “Now?”
“Yes, sir. He said immediately, if possible.”
No reason given. No context. Just a summons in the middle of the night to meet the King in the gardens without guards or witnesses.
Every instinct I had screamed protocol violation.
But the servant was already retreating, clearly not expecting refusal. And something in the way he'd delivered the message felt less like command and more like plea.
I followed.
The corridors leading to the gardens were lit by lanterns that cast long shadows across marble. My boots were too loud in the silence, each step echoing like a countdown to something I couldn't name.
The door to the Midnight Gardens stood open. Rain drifted through in fine mist, carrying the scent of roses and wet earth. I stepped through into darkness broken by moonlight and the glow of scattered torches.
The gardens were beautiful in a way that felt deliberate. Engineered. White roses bloomed everywhere, their petals catching light like they were lit from within. Ivy crawled over stone arches. Fountains whispered in the dark. The whole place felt like a secret the palace was keeping from itself.
King Alexandre stood beneath an arch of ivy at the far end, coat open despite the cold, no guards visible anywhere. Just a silhouette carved from moonlight and sorrow, staring at roses like they held answers.
I approached slowly, scanning the shadows out of habit. Looking for threats. Finding none except the king himself.
“Your Majesty.”
He turned, and I saw exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “Mr. Volkov. Thank you for coming.”
“You summoned me.”
“I asked. There's a difference.” He gestured vaguely at the gardens around us. “Couldn't sleep. The palace feels heavier at night. Like all the ghosts wake up when everyone else tries to rest.”
I understood that more than I wanted to. “Walls remember too much.”
The words surprised me even as I said them. Too honest. Too revealing. But the King looked at me like I'd given him something he needed.
“Yes.” He exhaled, breath misting in cold air. “They do.”
He started walking deeper into the gardens, and I followed because that's what you did when kings moved. We walked in silence past beds of roses and reflecting pools that turned the moon into something broken.
He stopped at a glass pavilion tucked between hedges. Candlelight glowed inside, warm against the cold. A bottle of brandy sat on a small table with two glasses.
“Sit with me,” he said. Not quite an order. Not quite a request. “Just two men with too many ghosts.”
I should've refused. Should've maintained distance. Professional boundaries existed for reasons.
But I was tired. And lonely. And the King looked like he might shatter if left alone with whatever was eating him.
I followed him inside.
The pavilion was small. Intimate. Rain traced silver lines across the glass roof, and the candles made everything feel removed from reality. Like we'd stepped outside time.
The King poured brandy into both glasses with hands that trembled slightly. Not fear. Exhaustion. The kind that came from holding yourself together too long.
He held one glass out to me. I took it.
“What did you think of today?” he asked, settling into one of the chairs. “The accident.”
I remained standing, glass untouched in my hand. “It was not accident.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
He stared at his brandy. “I thought as much. The timing was too convenient. Too theatrical.” He drank, wincing slightly. “Someone wanted to send a message.”
“Or test security. See how close they can get.”
“And they got very close.” His eyes met mine. “If you hadn't moved when you did...”
“But I did.”
“Yes.” Something shifted in his expression. Gratitude. Relief. Fear. “You saved him. Again. That's twice in three days.”
I didn't answer. Didn't know what to say. Protecting Sebastian was my job. But somewhere between the photographer incident and the chandelier, it had stopped feeling like just a job and started feeling like something I couldn't afford to examine.
“Come,” the King said, standing abruptly. “Let's go somewhere warmer. I can't think in the cold.”
The room he led me to was smaller than I'd expected. More intimate. A sitting room with a fireplace already burning, casting warm light across furniture that looked comfortable instead of ceremonial. Personal. Real.
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to the chairs positioned in front of the fire. “Please.”
I sat this time because refusing would've been more awkward than complying. Set my brandy glass on the side table between our chairs. The King did the same with his, the crystal catching firelight as he placed it down.
He settled across from me, close enough that I could see the firelight catch in his eyes.
“You remind me of her guards,” he said quietly, staring into the flames. “The ones who died trying to protect her that night. They would've thrown themselves in front of bullets without hesitation.” He looked at me. “You're the same.”
“I am paid to be.”
“No.” He shook his head. “You could be paid and still hesitate. Still calculate. Still choose yourself.” He leaned forward. “But you don't. You move like protecting him is instinct. Like his life matters more than your own.”
My jaw tightened. “That is what I am here for.”
“It's more than that. I see it when you look at him. When you think no one's watching.” The King's voice dropped. “You care. Despite yourself. Despite every wall you've built.”
The words hit too close. I wanted to deny them. Wanted to rebuild the distance that was crumbling between us.
But I couldn't.
Because he was right.
“I cannot afford to care,” I said roughly. “Caring is weakness. It makes you slow. Makes you compromise.”
“Or it makes you faster. More determined.” He drank more brandy, color rising in his cheeks. “I loved her so much it terrified me. That's why I was so careful. So protective. And it didn't matter. She died anyway.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“Are you?” He studied me with eyes that saw too much. “Or are you just sorry you understand it?”
I looked away. Into the fire. At anything except his face.
“I lost someone too,” I said before I could stop myself. “My sister. I was supposed to protect her. Keep her safe. But I was too late. Always too late.”
“How old was she?”
“Sixteen.”
“God.” He closed his eyes. “Just a child.”
“Old enough to make bad choices. Not old enough to survive them.” The words tasted like ash.
The King was quiet for a long moment. Then, “You blame yourself.”
“I should have seen signs. Should have been there.”
“You can't save people from themselves, Mr. Volkov. No matter how much you love them.”
“I should have tried harder.”
“You would've just delayed the inevitable.” He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the brandy on his breath. “Some people are drowning long before we realize the water's over their heads.”
His hand settled on my knee. Warm. Heavy. Grounding.
I should've moved it. Should've stood up. Walked away. Maintained the line between us.
But I was so tired. And lonely. And his touch felt like the first human contact I'd had in years that wasn't about violence.
“I'm terrified of losing him,” the King said quietly.
“I will protect him.”
“I know you will.” His hand moved higher. Just slightly. “But who protects you?”
The fire popped, scattering sparks across the grate. I stared at the King's hand where it rested on my thigh, felt the weight of it, the heat bleeding through my trousers. I should have stood, but his eyes—soft, desperate, dark with something like hunger—pinned me in place.
“You don't let anyone close, do you?” he asked, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “Not really. Not ever.”
I didn't answer. Couldn't. My jaw clenched; my pulse hammered, sudden and sharp. The King was staring at me as if searching for the crack in my armor, the softest place, the wound I couldn't hide.
His hand lingered another moment. Then, with the faintest tremor, he withdrew, settling back in his chair, shoulders tense. For a moment I thought the spell was broken.
But then he exhaled—slow, deliberate. His gaze never left mine as his own hand drifted down, almost absentminded, to the loose silk of his pyjamas, fingers pressing over his thigh, then lower. He didn't say a word. Just watched me, eyes glinting in the firelight.
“You ever let anyone see you, Viktor?” he asked, softer now, a confession edged with challenge. “Let them look at you, just as you are? No mask, no armor?”
My breath caught. The room felt suddenly smaller, air thick with unsaid things. The King’s hand flexed, just a little, palm moving slow, measured over the hardening shape beneath the fabric. He didn't rush—he was too old, too practiced in control to be crass about it.
“Not in a long time,” I said, voice like gravel.
He smiled, the curve of his lips both sorrowful and wicked. “I always wondered if desire could survive this much grief. If need just... rots away.”
He was stroking himself now, slow, almost lazy, the silk darkening with heat, his breathing shifting, chest rising deeper with every pass. Not flaunting—no, something more wounded, more honest. Like a man remembering how to feel, even if it hurt.
“You don't have to watch,” he said, voice trembling, “but I wish you would.”
I should have looked away. Instead, I watched the way his fingers tightened, the way he bit his lower lip, firelight catching on his sweat-dampened brow. The silence was heavy but not empty; it pulsed with want, loneliness, gratitude, and shame in equal measure.
“Does this disgust you?” he asked, a challenge and a plea mingled in his voice.
“No,” I said, the word catching somewhere deep in my throat. “It doesn’t.”
I leaned back in my chair, matching his posture, pulse thrumming in my throat. The King's eyes tracked every movement, dark and hungry as I let my hand drift to my lap—fingers brushing over the bulge straining against the fabric of my suit pants. I was already half hard, arousal stoked by the sight of him—by the intimacy of being allowed to watch.
He saw, and a slow, wrecked smile curved his mouth. “You don't need to be alone in it,” he said, voice no longer gentle but edged with need.
My breath came harsh, shoulders tense as I undid the top button of my waistband, just enough for my hand to press down, palm cupping the rigid line of my cock. Even through layers of fabric, the sensation was electric—heightened by the King's gaze, the flicker of firelight, the forbidden danger of the act.
He mirrored me, one hand stroking himself under the silk, movements measured but desperate, breath hitching with each pass. The air in the room was thick—every sound amplified: the rasp of my zipper, the catch in his throat, the fire crackling low and hungry.
“You like to watch?” he asked, voice trembling with hope and humiliation.
I nodded, unable to hide how much I did, hips shifting as I began to stroke myself in earnest—slow, relentless pressure that made my whole body ache.
His eyes went hazy, pupils blown wide, watching every motion. “God, Viktor—don’t stop.”
Neither of us did. We just sat there, knees almost touching, hands working ourselves through layers of clothes, separated by inches and a lifetime of restraint. Every pass of my palm sent sparks up my spine, the friction almost unbearable, pleasure sharpened by the King’s hungry, grateful stare.
A moan tore out of him, muffled and needy. My own breath caught, low and guttural, hips shifting with the pressure building under my hand. The silence was thick enough to drown in.
Without warning, the king slid from his chair to the rug, silk pajamas bunching at his knees. Candlelight pooled across his shoulders, casting shadows as he prowled toward me. His gaze never left mine, jaw tight, every line of his face naked with want. One palm braced on my knee, fingers digging into the wool of my trousers, claiming a handful of me like a man denied for years.
Starting at my polished shoe, he dragged his nose up the leather, then over the sharp line of my ankle. The heat of his breath burned through fabric, every inch of his slow ascent a demand, a prayer. His hands parted my knees, rough with urgency, forcing my thighs wide. My cock strained beneath the zipper, swelling against the taut wool.
He inhaled deeply at my thigh, greedy for scent, tongue flicking out to taste the crease where suit met skin. “You smell like sin and steel,” he rasped, voice shaking. “Let me have it. Let me have you.”
Fingers traced the length of my zipper, deliberate, teasing. No patience left now—he wanted, needed, and so did I. My own hand stilled, bracing on the armrest, letting him take control.
Mouth pressed to my inner thigh, teeth grazing through the suit. A shiver ripped through me, hips canting forward, the last of my restraint slipping. I reached down, cradling his jaw, thumb dragging across his lips.
He sucked my thumb into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed, lips hot and wet. “Don’t stop me. Not tonight.” The words spilled out half-broken, pleading, full of old grief and new hunger.
I groaned, low and raw, pulling his head closer, grinding my cock against the seam of my pants for relief. His hands found my belt, working it open with desperate fingers, knuckles brushing over the ache beneath.
Mouth trailed up, leaving a streak of heat from knee to groin. “God, Viktor. I need you to fall apart for me.”
Teeth scraped my hipbone, the sting delicious. His tongue traced the sensitive line just above my waistband, the silk of his pajamas cool where they brushed my calves. I let my head fall back, eyes shut, surrendering to his mouth, his touch, the hot slick slide of his breath over my cock—still trapped, still aching.
“Say you want this. Say it,” he demanded, voice breaking.
“You have no idea,” I gritted out, grinding into his palm, letting him feel how hard I’d gotten from nothing but his gaze and his mouth. The king’s lips crashed into mine, hungry, reckless, his body pressed between my knees. The kiss was pure ruin, all teeth and tongue and helpless need. His hand plunged between us, grasping me through my open pants, thumb stroking over the leaking head, and I gasped into his mouth, biting down to muffle the sound.
His fingers tightened around my cock, squeezing, milking another ragged groan from my chest. My head spun with the taste of him, the heady bite of his tongue tangled with mine. Desperate for more, I tangled my fingers in his hair, dragging him closer, devouring the heat and need he poured into the kiss. Every inch of restraint inside me slipped, every wall I’d built crumbling under the king’s relentless hunger.
Breathless, he broke away, lips shining, jaw working like he was fighting for control. Instead of returning to my mouth, he pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the hollow of my throat, tongue circling the spot where my pulse thundered. His teeth grazed the tendon, a threat and a promise, before he dragged his mouth lower—tracing a slow, worshipful line down the column of my neck, the line of my collarbone, the hollow between the buttons of my shirt.
Palms braced on my thighs, he knelt between my knees, sinking further, folding himself at my feet. I watched, dizzy with power and hunger, as he pressed his face into my lap, inhaling the scent, groaning as he mouthed the bulge beneath my open trousers. His tongue traced the damp spot in my briefs, collecting the salt and heat, making my hips jerk up in search of friction.
He murmured something half-prayer, half-blasphemy, nuzzling the soft skin just above my waistband. I shuddered, one hand fisting in his hair, the other gripping the armrest so hard my knuckles ached. My thighs trembled under his touch—hard muscle made weak by the sheer worship in every movement.
He drew back then, eyes glazed with lust and something dangerously close to adoration. Reaching for my ankles, he untied my shoes with shaking hands, slow and reverent, as if unwrapping a relic. He pulled each shoe free, careful, precise, letting the weight of the act settle between us. My socked feet hit the floor, cold and sensitive, nerves blazing from the lack of barrier.
Socks followed, peeled down and off, tossed aside like holy things discarded at an altar. The air stung against my bare feet, the vulnerability of it all sending a pulse of arousal through my gut.
“You deserve to be worshipped,” he whispered, voice rough. His breath hit my toes, warm and humid, before he pressed a kiss to the arch of my foot, then the ball, then each toe in turn. Lips parted, tongue sliding out, he sucked my big toe between his lips, eyes flicking up, locking with mine as he worked his mouth around it—sucking, tonguing, lavishing filth and devotion in equal measure.
