Obsidian: The Sentinel Code Book One, page 19
The slap of skin on skin, the sound of my own wrecked moans, the sting of his grip—every sense overwhelmed, every thought reduced to want, to need, to the filthy, glorious stretch of being filled and owned.
“I’m gonna fill you,” Amir groaned, cock jerking, pace turning ragged, frantic, wild. “Gonna pump you full, make you leak, make you wear me for days. Breathe for me, Sebastian. Take all of it.”
A hot rush—Amir’s cock driving as deep as it could go, body tensed, then the sudden flood of heat, his seed spilling inside, thick and endless, pulse after pulse as he emptied himself into my trembling body.
The world narrowed to that: the heat, the fullness, the brutal claim of being bred and used, Amir collapsing over my back, mouth at my ear, breath ragged and desperate.
He didn’t stop there. Fingers smeared the mess leaking from my hole, spreading it over my cheeks, then down between my legs, working it into my skin. “Push it out for me, prince. Show me how full you are. Breathe for me.”
Shame and pride collided—my body obeyed. Muscles flexed, hole fluttering, and Amir’s spend dribbled out, sticky and warm, running down my thighs, pooling beneath me.
A filthy, reverent moan from Amir. His mouth was suddenly there, tongue lapping at the spill, licking up every drop, worshipping the mess, spreading it over my hole, then slathering it back in with slow, deliberate strokes.
“Open,” he commanded, and I turned, mouth falling open, tongue out. Amir’s fingers brought the mess to my lips—cum and lube and sweat—and I swallowed it down, desperate for every bit he’d give.
He kissed me then, mouth hot and punishing, tongue fucking into me, sharing the taste, his breath wrecked and grateful. His cock pressed to my ass again, softer now but still heavy, slick with lube and release.
A wild, hungry gleam lit his eyes. “My turn,” he whispered, and before I could catch my breath, he was straddling my hips, slicking himself up, guiding my cock to his hole, impaling himself with slow, greedy precision.
Amir took control, riding me hard, ass grinding down, hands braced on my chest, head thrown back, sweat dripping down his chest, mixing with mine. His muscles flexed, squeezing, taking every inch, milking my cock with desperate intent.
My hands splayed over his thighs, holding him steady as he fucked himself on me, the table rocking, our bodies locked together in a filthy dance. Amir’s voice broke into moans and curses, chanting my name, begging for more, demanding I give him everything.
A growl tore itself from my chest, wild and animal, as Amir rode me with the reckless abandon of a man unafraid to be seen falling apart. My hands locked around his waist, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin, guiding him down, holding him open, forcing him to take every inch I had left to give.
Every bounce, every grind, every twist of his hips dragged pleasure up my spine like fire. The tight heat of his body clenched around my cock, squeezing, milking, pulling me in deeper with each frantic motion. Sweat dripped from his chest onto my belly, the room thick with the scent of sex, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the sterile hush. Amir’s head fell back, throat bared, dark stubble shadowing the column of his neck—a sight so filthy, so holy, it made my vision swim.
“Fuck, Amir—can’t—” Words failed, mouth dry, the taste of his come still hot on my tongue, my mind reduced to want and hunger, need and devotion.
Amir’s hands slid up my chest, palms finding my nipples, pinching, rolling, driving me higher, making my back arch off the table. His ass ground down, working me mercilessly, using my cock for his own pleasure, owning me with every brutal thrust. “Harder,” he demanded, voice hoarse, ragged, nearly broken. “Don’t hold back, Sebastian. Want to feel you lose control. Want to feel you fill me up, ruin me—”
My body answered before my mind could catch up. I slammed up into him, hands gripping his hips, driving him down, impaling him over and over. Each thrust rocked the table, my vision blurring with the force of it. My nails left crescents in his flesh, claiming him, worshipping him, begging him never to let me go.
He met every move, riding me with reckless hunger, eyes rolling back, mouth open in a silent moan as I fucked up into him, the rhythm desperate, savage, built for nothing but ruin. Sweat ran in rivulets down his chest, pooling in the hollow of his throat. I chased it with my mouth, tongue lapping salt and heat, tasting him, branding him from the inside out.
“Give it to me,” Amir hissed, nails dragging down my stomach, leaving welts that would burn for days. “Come inside me. Breed me. Mark me, Sebastian. Make me yours.”
The words broke me. My grip tightened, hips snapping, the drag and pressure and heat spiraling me out of control. I felt the world contract, tunnel to nothing but his body and mine, the wild, filthy pressure of being claimed and claiming in return.
My cock swelled, every muscle tensing, my mouth found his jaw, biting down as I drove up hard, hips stuttering, balls drawn tight. The first pulse ripped through me, shattering everything. I came deep, cock throbbing, flooding him with everything I had left, every spasm another desperate plea, a vow etched in sweat and heat and need.
Amir moaned, the sound raw and sacred, his body milking me for every last drop, never letting me escape, never letting me hide. My vision blacked at the edges, stars bursting behind my eyes as my body jerked, spent, surrendering everything.
I sagged back, chest heaving, muscles limp, cock still twitching inside him. Amir didn’t move, didn’t let me go. Instead, he rolled his hips, slow and sweet, savoring every aftershock, drawing out the pleasure, keeping me locked inside until I was shaking, ruined, lost.
Finally, he eased off me, sliding slow, our combined spend leaking from his hole, painting my cock, my thighs, the table. His hands were gentle now, reverent, coaxing me out, laying kisses down my chest, across my ribs, whispering quiet, soothing words in the language of touch.
A soft cloth appeared, warm and damp, wiping the mess from my skin. Amir’s fingers worked carefully, tracing every bruise, every mark, cleaning me with a devotion that made my heart ache. He pressed a kiss to the head of my cock, sucking up the last drops, licking me clean, tongue worshipping, eyes locked on mine.
Silence settled in the room, thick as fog, broken only by the whisper of Amir’s hands moving gently across my skin. He dabbed at my hip, wiping away the last traces of mess, working with a tenderness that made my chest ache. The heat between us ebbed, replaced by a raw, aching clarity—every bruise, every lingering throb, evidence of a line crossed that could never be uncrossed.
Amir’s eyes lingered on my face, searching for something in the tired, battered wreckage of my expression. “You alright?” His voice was low, rough, edged with something like regret.
I nodded, still catching my breath, fingers twitching with the urge to reach for him again. “Yeah,” I managed, voice hoarse. “More than alright. But—” The words stuck, thick as blood. “You know this can’t… We can’t—”
He cut me off, a bitter laugh twisting his mouth. “I know. If your father ever found out, I’d be out on my ass before I could pack a bag—if I’m lucky.” He glanced away, jaw clenched, staring down at his own trembling hands. “If he didn’t kill me first.”
The words sat heavy between us, truth and warning all tangled up together. My throat closed, anger flaring at the thought of anyone hurting Amir, even if the threat came from the man who raised me. “I’d never let that happen,” I said, softer than I meant, conviction burning through exhaustion. “No one’s ever going to hurt you because of me. Not if I can stop it.”
He met my eyes again, softer now, sadder. “You can’t protect me from everything, Sebastian. And you shouldn’t have to. This…” He trailed off, gesturing between us, a shaky hand running through sweat-damp hair. “This was reckless. Maybe even stupid.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice catching on the edge of a laugh. “But I needed it. Needed you.”
A silence, almost fond, almost mourning. He stood, stretching out sore muscles, reaching for a white towel to wipe himself clean. His body was marked by what we’d done—red fingerprints on his hips, teeth-marks at his throat, sweat drying in the hollows of his chest. Beautiful, ruined, real.
“Go shower,” Amir said, voice all business now, slipping the mask of the professional back on with a practiced ease. “Use the shower room down the hall. Hot water will help your ribs, and you’ll want to get cleaned up before you run into anyone on the way back.”
A flicker of mischief touched his eyes, just for a second. “And if anyone asks, you were here for a routine exam and the prince is always a bit dramatic about pain.” A quick wink. “No one will question it.”
I slid off the table, legs shaky, collecting my scattered clothes. Just as I turned to leave, he caught my wrist, gentle but firm.
“One last thing,” he said, reaching for a sterile Petri dish and a pair of gloves. “Need a sample for the lab. I want to check for any sign of infection after last night’s mess at the cathedral. And…well, it’s standard after this kind of trauma.” The tiniest smile ghosted across his lips. “And yes, I know what it looks like.”
I didn’t argue. I watched as he slid a finger inside, collecting a milky strand of what we’d left inside each other, sealing it in the dish with a snap. His hands moved with all the precision of a surgeon, but there was something reverent in the way he worked—something that said this was more than just a test.
He set the sample aside, meeting my eyes one more time. “You’re good to go. Get cleaned up, and try not to do anything that gets you back in here tomorrow, alright?”
“Can’t make any promises,” I said, forcing a crooked smile. “But I’ll try.”
I started for the door, then paused, glancing back one last time. “Thank you,” I whispered.
Amir’s eyes warmed, but his voice stayed steady. “Go. Before I forget why I’m supposed to keep my distance.”
I slipped out, heart pounding, every nerve alive with the memory of what we’d done—knowing it could never happen again, and already aching for the impossibility of wanting more.
10
QUIET WATCHER
VIKTOR
The summons came through my comm at seven in the morning.
My chambers. Now. We need to discuss today's schedule.
No please. No courtesies. Just a command delivered like he had the right to order me around.
Which, technically, he did.
I stood outside his door for three seconds, composing myself. Professional distance. Clinical detachment. Just another briefing with a principal who didn't respect boundaries.
I knocked once. Heard his voice call out. “Come in.”
I opened the door.
And stopped.
Sebastian was in bed. Still. Propped up against a mountain of pillows, covers pooled around his waist. Wearing soft grey pyjama pants and a black t-shirt that clung to his frame. Hair messy from sleep. Looking deliberately casual in a way that felt calculated.
Apollo was sprawled at the foot of the bed, tail thumping once in greeting before settling back down.
Traitor.
“Good morning, Viktor.” Sebastian's voice was lazy. Warm. Like this was completely normal. “Close the door.”
I did. Kept my eyes firmly on his face. Professional. Detached. “You said we need to discuss schedule.”
“Mmm. We do.” He stretched, arms going overhead in a way that made his shirt ride up slightly. Just a flash of skin. Gone before I could process it. “The economic advisors. Three-hour meeting this afternoon. Sounds thrilling.”
“Is required meeting. Finance minister will be there.”
“I know.” He settled back against the pillows, one hand resting on his stomach. “That's why we need to discuss strategy. Can't have me falling asleep in front of the money people.”
I forced my gaze to stay above his shoulders. “You could have called briefing in your office.”
“Could have.” His fingers traced lazy patterns over his shirt. “But I'm comfortable here. You don't mind, do you?”
Mind. I minded everything about this. Minded the way he sprawled in that bed like an invitation. Minded the heat crawling up my spine. Minded that my cock was taking interest despite every attempt at discipline.
“Is inappropriate,” I said.
“Is it?” His hand drifted lower. Resting against his abdomen. “We're discussing business. I'm just doing it from bed. People work from bed all time.”
“Not with their bodyguard present.”
“You're not just my bodyguard though, are you?” His eyes met mine. Challenging. “You're the man who ground against me in the workshop. Who came in his pants like a teenager. Who looked at me like he wanted to devour me.”
“That was mistake.”
“Was it?” His hand slid down to his thigh. Innocent. But the intention clear. “Because I've been thinking about it. About the way you felt against me. About how hard your cock was. About the sounds you made when you came.”
“Sebastian.” Warning. Threat. Plea.
“Viktor.” He mimicked my tone perfectly. “Come closer. I can barely hear you from over there.”
“Can hear me fine.”
“Closer.” Not a request. A command.
I didn't move. “We can discuss meeting from here.”
“Afraid of me?” His smile was wicked. “Afraid you'll lose control if you get too close?”
“I do not lose control.”
“Don't you?” He shifted, covers slipping lower.
My jaw clenched. “That was—”
“Hot,” he interrupted. “That was hot, Viktor. Watching you fall apart. Feeling your cock pulse against mine as you came.” His hand moved to the waistband of his pajama pants. Fingers tracing the edge. “Want to see if we can make it happen again?”
“We are supposed to discuss meeting.”
“We are discussing it. I'm just making it interesting.” His fingers slipped just under the waistband. Not pulling down. Just resting there. “Come to the foot of the bed. Stand at attention. Maintain your precious professional distance while we talk business.”
It was a game. A test. He was asserting dominance the only way he could, by making me uncomfortable, by pushing boundaries I'd tried to establish.
I could refuse. Should refuse.
Instead, I moved to the foot of the bed. Stood at attention. Hands clasped behind my back. Eyes fixed on the wall above his head.
“Better,” Sebastian said. Voice dropping lower. Rougher. “Now. The economic advisors. What do I need to know?”
“Finance minister will present quarterly reports. Budget proposals. You will need to approve—”
“Boring.” His hand moved under his waistband. I could see the shift of his wrist. The slow movement. “Give me the parts that actually matter.”
I kept my eyes on the wall. “All of it matters.”
“Does it? Or is it just three hours of old men lecturing me about fiscal responsibility while pretending they care about anything other than maintaining their own power?” His wrist moved in slow circles now. “You're the one who seems uncomfortable. What's wrong, Viktor? Something bothering you?”
“You know exactly what you are doing.”
“Do I?” Innocent. Playful. “Tell me. What am I doing?”
“Asserting control.”
“Smart man.” He pushed the waistband down. Just an inch. Just enough to show a line of bronze skin. Trail of dark hair disappearing beneath fabric. “And is it working?”
Yes. God, yes. My cock was half-hard in my pants. My hands were clenched so tight behind my back my knuckles ached. Every instinct I had was screaming to either leave or cross that distance and show him exactly what happened when he pushed too far.
“No,” I lied.
“Liar.” He pushed his pants lower. Not all the way. Just enough to expose the base of his cock. Thick. Hard. Straining against the fabric still covering most of him. “I can see it in the way you're standing. The way your jaw is clenched. The way you're trying so hard not to look.”
“We are supposed to discuss meeting.”
“We are discussing it. I'm just doing other things at the same time.” He wrapped his hand around what was visible. Squeezed. Made himself gasp softly. “Multitasking. Very efficient.”
“This is not appropriate.”
“You keep saying that. Like appropriate means anything between us.” His thumb swept over the exposed head. Gathering the wetness there. “We're past appropriate, Viktor. We crossed that line when you came all over yourself while grinding on me like an animal in heat.”
“That was—”
“What you wanted. What you needed.” He stroked slowly. Deliberate. “Tell me about the budget proposals. While you watch.”
I stared at the wall. “Finance minister wants to cut social services by eight percent. Reallocate to defense.”
“And what do you think I should do?” His hand moved faster. Cock sliding against his palm. Still mostly covered by fabric but the movement unmistakable. “Approve it?”
“Not my decision.”
“But if it were. What would you do?” Stroke. Breath catching. “Would you cut services? Leave children without support because old men think bombs are more important than food?”
“I would tell them to go to hell.”
“Good answer.” He arched slightly. Hips lifting into his hand. “What else?”
“Transportation budget needs approval. New rail lines. Infrastructure.”
“Boring.” Stroke. Squeeze. “What else?”
“Tax reform proposal. Will affect working class—”
“Viktor.” My name came out breathy. Strained. “Look at me.”
“No.”
“Look at me or I'll strip completely. Let you see everything you're trying so hard not to think about.”
The threat was effective. I dropped my gaze. Found his eyes. Saw the challenge there. The heat. The absolute certainty that he was winning this game.
His hand was moving steadily now. Cock hard and flushed where it was exposed above his pushed-down waistband. His other hand gripped the sheets. He was flushed. Breathing harder. Putting on a show designed to destroy me.
