by R. J. Moray
Ewan’s boxers came down. Nate palmed his bare flesh, and it felt so good to allow this, let go and put it all in Nate’s hands. Nate gave him four, and then another four, each harder than the last, then a rest, and four more. Now it hurt, almost more than he could bear, sensitive as he was. Nate’s fingers dipped in between the halves of his arse, stroking his taint. Ewan whimpered, opening his legs. Nate pressed a thumb to him where he was tight and aching.
“You want some of this?”
“Yes,” Ewan admitted.
He heard Nate spit, felt the wetness of it on his hole, and Nate pressed his thumb inside. Not enough wetness, too much burn, but Ewan rocked back into it, moaning in thanks.
It didn’t last long before Nate was ready to spank him again. “One more round, then you’re done.”
It hurt. Ewan writhed away from it, but this hurt was so familiar, and so welcome right now that he wanted to sink, wanted to go under in Nate’s arms, only he couldn’t. He was too raw for it, anyway, and the pleasure of endorphins would have to be enough.
Nate stopped, massaging his cheeks and chuckling. “You want more than that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Ewan moaned, though he wasn’t sure he could take it tonight.
“Next time,” Nate said, spreading Ewan’s cheeks with one hand. There was the pop of a cap followed by the cold shock of lube poured directly on his hole. Nate pushed him up against the arm of the sofa and came up behind, his belt buckle jangling open. “Right now, I just want this.”
He barely prepped Ewan at all, just thrust the head of his cock into Ewan’s lube-sticky crack, huge and threatening. Ewan sucked in a breath and tried to relax, willing himself to take it without complaint.
But as firm as Nate pressed against him, he didn’t shove in. He just pressed, rocking lightly, his thigh between Ewan’s legs and a hand on his hip.
“We’re going to talk about limits. Not now,” Nate added, to Ewan’s relief, “but soon. I want to be sure that the things you’ve said yes to are actual ‘yesses’. And I think some of the things you say you don’t like, you secretly do sometimes. Like rimming,” he said, his cock breaching Ewan’s body, lingering just inside. Ewan felt dizzy, his throat thick. Nate kept talking, though, as if he were doing nothing at all. “You say you’re okay with it, but when I get my tongue in you it’s like I’ve committed a terrible sin. What’s with that?”
“Don’t ask me now,” Ewan complained, writhing against the intrusion of something so thick and relentless.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hold you to anything you say while my dick’s in you,” Nate said with a tight chuckle. “Just. You said ‘yes’ to rimming. But you act like you hate it. I’m curious.”
Ewan tried to breathe, his head so giddy he felt like his brain might float away. “I don’t mind rimming you,” he said, the thoughts garbled in his head. “I can do it. But if you…it’s not right if you do it. Not to me.”
“Why?” Nate said, still slowly easing his way in. Ewan’s body made room, welcoming him. “Why?” Nate prompted when Ewan didn’t answer, giving him a pointed little jolt of the hips.
“Because it’s worship,” Ewan gasped. He spread his thighs as far as he could on the thin width of the sofa. Nate caught his hips to steady him, and Ewan arched his back, willing Nate to slide home. “Because I want to be the one who does it to you. I don’t deserve—”
“It’s not about what you deserve,” Nate said, punctuating it by pulling back and rocking in. Ewan wailed, but now that Nate was inside him, the glide was easier, and Nate slid back to do it again. “It’s what I want. I want to eat your ass, baby boy. I want to get my tongue inside you. I want you wet and sloppy with spit, and then I want to fuck you.” He splayed a hand between Ewan’s shoulder blades, pressing him into the sofa as he leaned the weight of his hips down into Ewan’s body. “I guess it’s not really about whether or not you like it. It’s about whether you’ll let me do it.”
And that, Ewan thought, was exactly the way it should be.
It wasn’t exactly rough, but it hit Ewan somewhere in his ‘use’ kink. Nate used him to get off, and then pulled him into his lap, kissing his neck and jerking him off while murmuring filthy threats in his ear. “God, I want to keep you under my desk, or bend you over it and take calls with my dick in your ass. I want to bruise you all the way up the insides of your thighs, and then I want to squeeze the bruises through your pants under the table while you try to look respectable in public. I want to make you cry on the cross where everyone can see. I want you so strung out that you beg me to stop until you can’t speak, until there’s nothing left but sobbing, and then I want to fuck you while you cry. Is that wrong? Tell me you don’t want me to do any of that.”
“I want it,” Ewan gasped, his whole body tensing. “Nate, please, I want it!”
“Then it’s yours,” Nate sighed, digging a fingernail into Ewan’s slit, and the shock threw Ewan gasping over the edge, shaking with the rush of orgasm.
He hung in Nate’s arms as Nate kissed his neck, and his cheek, and he turned his mouth to find Nate’s. Nate sighed, his tongue hot on Ewan’s lip. When he pulled away, his eyes were a deep, fierce blue that made Ewan’s heart pound. Or maybe that was just the afterglow.
“It’s all yours, baby boy,” Nate said, the words like a brand on Ewan’s heart. “I’m all yours.”
Chapter 9
It was a masked party, of course. Nate looked at himself in the mirror and wondered if this was going to be a complete disaster.
Ewan had already left. ‘Slaves’ were expected to arrive at least an hour early for ‘orientation’. That much hadn’t changed since Nate had been one of them, and he’d given Ewan an idea of what to expect.
Ewan, predictably, had scoffed at all of it. “Pretentious bollocks,” he said.
“Are you going to behave for me?” Nate had asked.
The look on Ewan’s face had been troubling because of how devious it seemed. “Aye. Sir,” he’d said.
“Don’t forget what we agreed,” Nate had said, “if you make it through this without incident.”
Ewan had rolled his eyes. “I know.”
“Am I going to regret trusting you?” Nate had asked him.
It had seemed too cruel a question. Ewan scowled. “No.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” Ewan had insisted, and then his Uber had arrived to whisk him away.
Now, the Nate in the mirror looked calmly collected, his suit crisp, hair tamed, Zorro mask in his pocket, waiting on arrival. He smiled at himself. “You wanted a brat,” he said out loud. “Now you have to deal with the consequences.”
In this case, the consequences could be intense. Nate had promised that if Ewan behaved himself tonight, then tomorrow he’d get something special. All Ewan had to do was be nominally good. No disobedience. No insolence. No backtalk.
It was, Nate thought, highly unlikely that Ewan would get what he wanted. The idea that he’d be ‘good’ all night was preposterous. But he had promised, and Nate was looking forward to seeing it all go down.
Mr White’s apartment was too cold for Nate. Not just in terms of the actual thermostat, but the decor. It was chilly. Classical. Impersonal. Nate felt his soul shrink from it. He imagined playing Total Eclipse of the Heart at full volume in Mr White’s echoing hall and couldn’t suppress a grin.
“It’s surprising how easy it is,” said a familiar voice from over his shoulder, “to recognize someone in a mask and a dark suit. You’d think we’d all look identical.”
Nate turned. Jack was also in a dark suit, but he’d splashed some color onto it by way of a bright pocket square. He was handsome, his mask only serving to make it more obvious how attractive his mouth was, and Nate felt the vague flutter of something in his chest. He’d been in love with Jack once. He knew that now. But it had been a burnt-offering sort of love, one-sided and desperate. Loving Jack was like loving the wind as it slipped through your fingers, fleeting and imp
ossible to hold onto.
“How did you recognize me, then? Was it my shoes?”
Jack scoffed. “You’ve lifted your jacket to shove your hands in your pockets. I recognized your ass.”
“Handy,” Nate said. Was Jack flirting? It didn’t matter. They were interrupted anyway by the other guests, and then Nate just bobbed along in the conversational currents, wondering where his brat had gotten to and whether he was causing trouble.
It didn’t take long to find out. Submissives and slaves trailed in and out with trays of hors d’oeuvres and demure expressions, eyes cast down. Well, all except one. Ewan carried his tray like it offended him personally, his mouth pressed into a thin, furious line. Nate felt it in his gut, a warm, fluttering feeling at the sight of him.
Ewan lifted his eyes to glance around the room. He found Nate almost at once. His look of recognition was chased by something Nate hoped was pleasure. Then Ewan’s eyes narrowed, glaring at him as if he were responsible for some great misfortune in Ewan’s life. It made Nate grin despite himself. That’s my boy.
“He’s not discreet, is he?” Jack murmured, watching Ewan. “Attention-grabbing, in his way.”
“He’s a goddamned delight,” Nate said. “He’s promised me not to make a scene, but I’m fifty-fifty on whether we’re going to make it home in one piece.”
“And you brought him anyway?”
Jack sounded appalled. Nate shrugged, reaching for a glass of champagne. “The thing is, whatever scene he makes, I get to beat it out of him.”
“If he offends Sir,” Jack said, but Nate cut him off.
“Mr White can deal with it. He’s a big boy. Besides,” he added, patting Jack on the shoulder, “uncertainty is the spice of life. Excuse me.”
He crossed the room to glance in through the door the submissives were using and found Ewan and Channon in a corridor alone. They were both dressed in black slacks and white button-up shirts, but while Channon was crisp and perfectly tucked, Ewan had already managed to make himself look disheveled.
Ewan hadn’t noticed him, and Nate caught him mid complaint. “Because I’m bored. This is boring.”
It looked like he wanted to say more, but Nate propped himself in the doorway and said, “I can make it interesting for you.” Both boys twisted toward him, horror on Channon’s face and hot dismay on Ewan’s. Nate grinned, enjoying all of it. “Is that what you want?”
Ewan scowled, shaking his head. “No. I don’t need that.”
Good boy, Nate thought. But out loud, he said, “Then mind your fucking mouth.”
For a moment he thought Ewan was going to sass him. It was there, under his skin, the urge to be recklessly rude. Nate got to watch as he forced it down, a battle he could only win for so long before the powder keg of his temper got the better of him.
And then he said, “Yes, Sir.”
Beautiful. Nate lifted a hand to Ewan’s jaw, pinching him sharply just to see him flinch. “Don’t be a little shit tonight, all right? If you’re good now you can be your worst tomorrow. Promise.”
That was the deal, after all. Tonight, the best boy he could be. Tomorrow, the worst monster he wanted. And his behavior would have consequences, but only the kind Ewan liked. Nate was going to make him yell, make him hiss and scratch, and make him hurt for it just the way he liked. A gift for both of them after a tedious night.
If only Ewan could keep himself under control.
Now, Ewan bared his teeth, but only for a moment. “Okay, Sir,” he said, deceptively docile. “Since you promised.”
God, Nate wanted to bite his throat. He wondered if Ewan could tell. Instead, he pinched Ewan again before glancing at Channon, who had been as still as a statue all this time. “Be good,” he said, and left them there to rejoin the party.
He found Jack talking to Diana and Kristiana; Jack arched an eyebrow in inquiry. “Is your brat behaving himself?”
“He’s doing his best. That’s all I ask.”
“Let’s see if we can get through the night unscathed,” Jack said. He made it sound light, but Nate detected the undercurrent of disapproval in him. With his controlling nature, Jack would never tolerate someone like Ewan. He insisted on perfect submission, something Nate neither wanted nor needed.
All of which made it ironic that Ewan wasn’t at the center of the evening’s scandal. Instead, it was Channon.
Mr White had arranged for a slave lottery. It was a farce, Nate thought. The dominants picked numbers out of an urn, which denoted their turn to choose a companion from the various subs on offer. It might have meant something if everyone didn’t always choose their own sub, or if Nate had left Ewan at home and picked someone from the pool of spares. As it was, Nate drew first place and crooked a finger at his brat. Ewan smirked, but he knelt. Nate looped a ribbon through one of the D-rings on Ewan’s collar and wrapped the tails around his hand.
“Come on, baby boy,” he said. The look Ewan gave him was murderous, but he crawled across the floor and sat quietly at Nate’s feet, which was as much as Nate could have asked for. He wound his fingers in Ewan’s hair and tugged his head back. Ewan rested a cheek on his thigh, his eyes narrow and rebellious. It suited him.
Nate pinched Ewan’s earlobe to see him scowl. The night was barely a third of the way through, and Nate figured he would have been bored to tears already if not for the little ball of grumbles at his feet.
And then another dominant tried to claim Channon, and Jack made a scene.
It was, as scenes went, fairly restrained—some terse words and Jack’s stubborn refusal to back down—but for Jack to dig in his heels against Mr White’s disapproval was something of a surprise. Mr White had always held Jack in thrall. Breaking away from him would be good for Jack, even if he was only doing it because of Channon.
Nate watched Jack reclaim his boy and felt oddly smug. For the rest of the evening, Ewan behaved, though he scowled his way through it. There was a tedious ceremony in which Mr White’s submissive was bound to a cross and the dominant guests invited to flog her. Nate gave her a single stroke and then found a seat so he could pull Ewan into his lap to be groped while they both pretended to care about what was going on.
Mr White unbound his girl; she had her collar removed, was presented with a flogger, and invited to thrash one of the unclaimed subs. It looked like she hadn’t had much practice, or maybe she was just nervous. When she was done, Mr White presented her as Mistress Glory. Ewan seemed to think it ludicrous.
“Would you ever want this?” Nate whispered in his ear.
Ewan snorted, but he did it quietly. “Hell no. Would you?”
“I already did it,” Nate admitted. He’d kept his name, however. Back then, Mr White hadn’t yet been in the habit of changing them.
He felt Ewan stiffen with surprise, but all he said was, “Serious?”
“Mm-hm. It was almost as boring as it is to watch.”
Ewan laughed, a soft little patter. “So you’re bored too. Want me to make it interesting?”
“I think if you do, you’ll regret it.”
Snuggling in close, Ewan murmured. “I don’t regret anything you do.”
Lies. But the sentiment behind it felt honest. Nate understood, because he didn’t intend to regret any of this either. Not Ewan. Not what they were making together. Not them.
“Let’s go home,” he said, out of patience with all this.
Ewan shot him an obnoxious, beautiful smirk. It was the smirk of a reprobate, someone who could not be trusted, someone devious and wild and unreliable.
But all he said was, “Yes, Sir,” and Nate was almost convinced that he meant it.
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Much thanks to Anne Shure for her inestimable help with editing (especially for pointing out when I fail at US nomenclature). All remaining errors are my own and not her fault.
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Also by the Author
(Up-to-date listing at robinmoray.com)
As R.J. Moray
Standalone Novellas
Finding Elliott
Santa Rita Doms
His Boy Next Door
(Channon's series)
Season One
Season Two
Season Three
A Collar For His Brat
(Ewan's series)
Volume One
Chance or Fate
Million Dollar Daddy
(Standalone Short singles)
A Sub for Christmas
(Tig's series)
Two Plus Two
(flash fiction anthology)
As Robin Moray
Bonded to the Alpha series
Bonded to the Alpha
Loyal
Claimed
Mated
Mallory Witches series
Something Wicked
The Omega Colony series
Changed: Mated to the Alien Alpha
About the Author
Robin Moray started writing at the age of twelve. Those stories tended to have a lot of elves in them, and woodland rangers who were secretly exiled princes. Robin spent years in academia, studying literature and history, and then embarked on a career in the private sector, playing with spreadsheets and day-dreaming of adventures with wolves and witches and magical pacts. Robin's first book, Bonded to the Alpha, was written in two months but benefited from nearly twenty years of practice. Since then Robin has been devoted to writing fantasy, horror, science fiction, and romance, in all kinds of combinations.