Chapter 14: Corporate Interruption
The meeting was a hell of his own making, every second stretched on a rack of exquisite torment. The fabric of his trousers, soft as it was, grated against his oversensitive skin with each minuscule shift in his chair. The councillor’s droning voice about zoning bylaws and municipal approvals was a distant buzz, drowned out by the pounding of his own blood in his ears, a rhythmic pulse that seemed to sync with the throbbing ache trapped against his thigh.
Vic sat behind his onyx desk, his posture a study in rigid control. His hands were steepled before him, fingertips white with pressure. He nodded at appropriate intervals, his face a mask of polished granite. Inside, he was unraveling.
Every word from the man on the other side of the desk was a needle pricking at the last vestiges of his concentration. He imagined Erye, somewhere in the silent fortress. Smiling. Touching himself, perhaps. The thought sent a fresh, vicious wave of need through him, and he had to consciously unclench his jaw.
“So, without the variance, the project simply cannot proceed,” the councillor, a portly man named Albright, concluded, spreading his hands apologetically.
Vic’s telekinesis, a live wire just beneath his skin, flickered. The pen on his desk trembled. “The variance will be granted,” he said, his voice low and smooth, belying the storm within.
“Well, the committee has concerns about the environmental—” Albright began, adjusting his glasses.
“The committee,” Vic interrupted, the words dropping into the room like stones, “will find its concerns alleviated. By tomorrow.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The cold certainty in his eyes, the implicit threat in his stillness, was language Albright understood far better than municipal code.
Albright paled, swallowing thickly. “Of course, Mr. Moretti. I’ll… convey your confidence to the chair.”
“Do that.” Vic didn’t stand. He just gave a minute, dismissive nod. The man scrambled to gather his papers, offering a nervous bow before hurrying from the office.
The door clicked shut.
Silence.
Vic let out a breath that shuddered through his entire frame. He slumped back in the leather chair, his head thudding against the rest. He was hard, painfully so, a constant, humming pressure that made rational thought impossible. He wanted to smash the desk. He wanted to tear the city apart. He wanted to find Erye and—
The door opened again, silently.
Erye ghosted in, closing it behind him without a sound. He had changed. He wore only a simple, black silk robe, loosely tied. It gleamed under the flickering light of the chandelier, contrasting with the iridescent shimmer of his collarbones, his throat. He moved to the sideboard, pouring two fingers of Vic’s oldest whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He didn’t speak. He just brought the glass over and set it on the desk, within reach but not forced.
Vic opened his eyes. He watched as Erye drifted towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the neon-soaked city. His profile was otherworldly, carved from moonlight and shadow.
“Satisfied?” Vic’s voice was rough.
Erye glanced over his shoulder, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. “You were magnificent. He pissed himself a little, I think.”
“Get over here.”
The command was weak, stripped of its usual force, a plea wrapped in a threat. Erye obeyed, his movements fluid. He didn’t go to the other side of the desk. He came around to Vic’s side, stopping just beside his chair. Vic could smell him now, the clean scent of the mineral springs undercut by that dark, sweet aphrodisiac warmth that was uniquely his.
“You’re suffering,” Erye observed softly, his violet eyes tracing the tense lines of Vic’s face.
“You did this.”
“I gave you what you asked for.” Erye’s hand came up, slender fingers brushing a damp strand of hair from Vic’s forehead. His touch was cool, a brief respite. “You wanted a weapon. You just never considered being on the wrong end of it.”
Before Vic could retort, a soft chime emanated from the computer screen on his desk. An incoming video call. The caller ID read S. Petrovich—a broker from the northern territories. A call Vic could not ignore.
A feral, desperate grin spread across Vic’s face. “Answer it,” he hissed.
Erye’s eyes flickered with a moment of uncertainty. Then he saw the reckless, unhinged challenge in Vic’s gaze. The corners of his mouth tilted up. He leaned forward and clicked accept.
The screen resolved into the image of a man in a utilitarian office, pale and sharp-featured. “Moretti,” Petrovich said, his accent thick. “You’re late. We said nine.”
“Traffic,” Vic replied, his voice miraculously even. His hand shot out, grabbing Erye’s wrist. With a sharp pull, he yanked him off-balance. Erye stumbled, a gasp catching in his throat, and landed sprawled across Vic’s lap.
On screen, Petrovich frowned. “You have someone there?”
“A distraction,” Vic said, his free hand coming to rest possessively on Erye’s hip. Through the thin silk, he could feel the warmth of his skin, the delicate architecture of his pelvis. His own trapped cock gave a violent, aching throb. “Ignore it. You have the numbers?”
Erye, pressed against Vic’s chest, went perfectly still for a heartbeat. Then, Vic felt him relax. He melted into the contact, turning his head to nuzzle Vic’s jaw. His breath was a hot, sweet promise against Vic’s skin.
Petrovich’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he began pulling up a spreadsheet. “The shipment is clean. The border passage is confirmed for Thursday. But the fee has increased. New patrols.”
“How much?” Vic asked. His other hand, hidden by the desk and Erye’s body, went to the fly of his trousers. He worked the button and zipper slowly, the sound muffled.
“Fifteen percent.”
“Ten.” Vic finally freed himself, his cock springing up, rigid and eager, trapped now between his stomach and Erye’s weight. He let out a slow, controlled breath. Erye shifted minutely, feeling the hard length pressed against him through the silk. A soft, approving sigh whispered from his lips.
Petrovich argued. Vic countered, his voice never losing its cool, conversational timbre. All the while, his hands were moving. He pushed the skirts of Erye’s robe aside, baring his slender thighs, the smooth, iridescent skin. He traced a line up the inside of his thigh, feeling him tremble.
On screen, Petrovich was still talking. “...non-negotiable, Moretti. The risk is—”
“Fine,” Vic cut him off, his patience gone, his focus fraying. His fingers found the hot, wet cleft between Erye’s legs. He was already slick, ready. A soft, choked moan vibrated against Vic’s neck. Erye’s hips pushed back, seeking more.
“Smart,” Petrovich said, looking vaguely surprised at the easy capitulation.
Vic didn’t care. He guided himself, the head of his cock slick with pre-come, to Erye’s entrance. He looked down. Erye was watching him, his violet eyes hooded, lips parted. He gave the faintest nod.
With one slow, relentless thrust, Vic sheathed himself inside.
Erye’s back arched, a silent cry seizing him. His head fell back against Vic’s shoulder, his mouth open in a soundless gasp. Inside, he was scorching hot, silken tight, a perfect, wet vise. Vic saw stars. His grip on Erye’s hip tightened, his knuckles white.
On the monitor, Petrovich was detailing logistics. Vic heard none of it. The world had narrowed to the feel of Erye around him, the devastating, slick heat, the way his body clenched in startled, rhythmic pulses.
Erye began to move. He was slow at first, a subtle roll of his hips, lifting himself almost off Vic’s lap before sinking back down. Each descent was a deliberate, maddening drag. He kept his face turned towards the computer camera, his expression one of serene focus, as if he were merely listening intently to the droning broker. Only the faint flush on his glass-like cheeks, the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat, betrayed him.
Vic’s telekinesis buzzed under his skin, uncontrolled. The chandelier above them swayed, crystals chiming softly. The whiskey in the glass on his desk rippled.
“Is everything stable there, Moretti?” Petrovich asked, pausing.
“Perfectly,” Vic gritted out, his voice strained. He drove his hips upward, a sharp, punishing thrust that punched a real gasp from Erye’s lips. Petrovich’s eyebrow raised.
Erye recovered swiftly. He began to move faster, riding Vic with increasing urgency. The slick, wet sounds of their joining were loud in Vic’s ears, a filthy counterpoint to Petrovich’s dry recitation of cargo manifests. Vic could feel his control splintering. His hands dug into Erye’s flesh, sure to leave bruises on the morrow. He pistoned his hips up to meet every downward stroke, driving deeper.
“The transfer will be confirmed by—” Petrovich said.
Erye clenched around him, a sudden, vicious, internal squeeze that made Vic’s vision tunnel. It was an act of pure, merciless will. A moan, raw and unbidden, tore from Vic’s throat.
On screen, Petrovich froze, his eyes wide.
Vic didn’t care. He was breaking. He grabbed a fistful of Erye’s silver hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. He fucked up into him, hard and fast and desperate, chasing his release like a drowning man seeking air. The desk began to shake. Papers rustled. The computer monitor wobbled.
Erye was panting now, little cries escaping with each jarring impact. “Yes… oh god, right there… Vic…” he whispered, the words meant for Vic’s ear alone, a dirty, sacrilegious prayer.
Petrovich’s image sputtered, his mouth moving soundlessly, his face a mask of shock and dawning comprehension.
Vic was beyond seeing him. His entire universe was the heat, the tightness, the impossible friction. He felt the coil in his gut tighten, ready to snap. “Come for me,” he snarled into Erye’s ear, his voice ragged. “Now.”
It was an order Erye couldn’t disobey. His body went rigid, a high, broken sound escaping his lips as he clenched around Vic again, pulsing in a wild, rhythmic cascade. The sight, the feel of it, tore Vic’s last shred of control to tatters.
With a guttural roar, Vic thrust up one final, brutal time and came. His release was a violent, racking explosion that emptied him. His telekinesis erupted outward in an unfocused wave.
The heavy onyx desk cracked down the middle with a sound like a gunshot. The computer monitor shattered, Petrovich’s astonished face disappearing into a spray of glass and sparks. The chandelier swung violently, raining down a shower of crystal shards that glittered like ice in the lamplight.
Silence, then. Broken only by the sound of their ragged breathing and the soft ping of falling crystal.
Erye went limp against him, boneless and spent. Vic held him there, still buried deep inside him, both of them trembling in the aftermath.
The room was a war zone. Smoke curled from the ruined electronics. The desk was a wreck. Vic looked at the destruction, at the man shattered in his arms, and felt a grim, dark triumph.
He had broken. But he had broken everything else with him.
He nuzzled into Erye’s sweat-damp hair, his voice a raw whisper against his skin. “See what you do to me?”
Erye, his body still quivering with tiny aftershocks, turned his head. He looked at the devastation, then back at Vic’s face. His violet eyes were wide, sated, and held a glimmer of something like fear. For the first time, he seemed to understand the full, monstrous scale of the force he played with.
He didn’t speak. He simply laid his head back on Vic’s shoulder, his breathing slowly easing into sync with the man who held him, surrounded by the wreckage of his own impossible need.