Chapter 11: Payback in Motion
The city slid by the tinted windows, a smear of neon and shadow. Inside the limousine, the silence was a physical weight, thick with the scent of whiskey, leather, and the lingering sour-sweet smell of Reese’s humiliation. He sat as far from Roman as the spacious seat allowed, curled against the door, his body a live wire of oversensitive nerves. The plug was a dead weight inside him now, a grotesque souvenir. He felt raw, flayed open, every inch of skin buzzing with a phantom memory of vibration.
Roman had not spoken since the car had pulled away from Castellano’s. He simply stared out at his city, one hand resting on his knee, the other holding a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. The calm was more terrifying than any rage.
Reese watched him from under his lashes. He watched the sharp line of Roman’s jaw, the way the passing streetlights glinted in his icy eyes. A corrosive mix of hatred and a deep, shameful need churned in Reese’s gut. He wanted to wipe that placid, superior look off his face. He wanted, more than anything, to make him feel something. To break that control, even for a second.
It was a suicidal impulse. It was the only one he had left.
With a painstaking slowness that sent fresh tremors through his exhausted muscles, Reese uncurled from his corner. The movement made the plug shift, a blunt, awful reminder. He ignored it, focusing on the center of the car, on the man who held his leash.
Roman didn’t look at him. He took a slow sip of his whiskey.
Reese slid across the cool leather, his movements unsteady, until he was perched on the very edge of the seat beside Roman. Then, swallowing a whimper as his thighs protested, he shifted his weight and lowered himself onto Roman’s lap.
He did it slowly, settling back onto Roman’s hard thighs, feeling the fine wool of the man’s slacks against his own damp, soiled trousers. He was straddling him, facing him. The interior of the limo seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to this space, this contact.
Roman finally turned his head. His expression was unreadable. He didn’t push him off. He didn’t react at all. He just watched.
Reese’s body was trembling, a fine, constant shiver he couldn’t stop. It was exhaustion, it was shock, it was the aftershocks of forced orgasms still rattling his bones. He reached a shaking hand between their bodies, his fingers fumbling with the fastening of Roman’s trousers. His own hands felt foreign, clumsy. He got the button open, the zipper down. He pushed the fabric aside, and took Roman’s cock in his hand.
It was already half-hard, thick and heavy. The skin was hot, silken over iron. Reese wrapped his fingers around it, his grip weak. He began to stroke, not with purpose, but with a feather-light, teasing touch. His thumb swirled over the head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had already gathered there.
He leaned forward, his bruised lips close to Roman’s ear. He could smell the crisp, expensive scent of his cologne, overlaying something darker, more primal. His own breath hitched as he moved his hips in a slow, grinding circle against Roman’s thigh, the pressure against his own oversensitive cock and the persistent fullness inside him making sparks shoot behind his eyes.
“Look who’s desperate now,” Reese whispered, the words slurring slightly from his battered state. He coated his thumb in the slick pre-cum and dragged it down the length of Roman’s shaft in a slow, filthy stroke.
A muscle feathered in Roman’s jaw. His hand, the one holding the whiskey, tightened on the glass. That was all. No other movement. But his cock pulsed in Reese’s hand, growing impossibly harder, fuller.
“You’re a mess,” Roman said, his voice low and even.
“Your mess,” Reese breathed back, biting back a moan as he ground down harder. He was playing with fire, dancing on the edge of a blade. It was intoxicating. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Roman’s ear. “You gonna come in your $3,000 slacks, boss? Gonna let your little toy get you off right here?”
He quickened his strokes, just a little, his thumb pressing into the slit on the upstroke. Pre-cum welled, soaking through the fine fabric of Roman’s trousers, a dark, spreading patch of dampness.
Roman’s free hand shot up and fisted in Reese’s hair, yanking his head back sharply. The pain was bright, clarifying. Reese gasped, his stroking hand faltering.
“You think,” Roman said, his voice a soft, dangerous rasp, “that because I let you break, you have power?” He tightened his grip, pulling until Reese’s throat was exposed. “This isn’t desperation. It’s resource management.”
With his other hand, Roman set the whiskey tumbler in the seat-side holder. Then he grabbed Reese’s hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. In one brutal, smooth motion, he lifted Reese and slammed him back down, impaling him on his cock.
Reese screamed.
It was a raw, tearing sound. The intrusion was monstrous, a brutal stretch after the smaller, persistent invasion of the plug. Roman was thicker, longer, unforgiving. He filled Reese completely, a searing, devastating possession. Reese’s back arched, his head still pinned back by Roman’s grip in his hair. There was no preparation, no gentleness. It was a claiming.
Roman didn’t move. He held Reese there, fully speared on his cock, letting him feel every inch, every throbbing vein. Reese’s body convulsed around him, a tight, wet, involuntary clench.
“You’re my fuckhole,” Roman said, his breath hot against Reese’s throat. “You don’t get to tease. You take what I give you. You come when I allow it. You exist for my use.”
He began to move.
It was not lovemaking. It was not even rough sex. It was a punishment, a demolition. Roman pistoned his hips up, driving into Reese with a hard, relentless rhythm. Each thrust battered the tender, overstimulated spot deep inside him, sending jolts of agonizing pleasure-pain through his system. Reese couldn’t hold himself up. He collapsed forward, his hands scrabbling against Roman’s shoulders, his cries muffled against the expensive fabric of his suit jacket.
Roman fucked him with a cold, controlled fury. One hand remained tangled in his hair, controlling the angle, the other anchored on his hip, guiding the brutal pace. The slick, wet sounds of their joining filled the silent cabin, a vulgar counterpoint to the hum of the engine and the muffled city sounds outside.
“You wanted my attention,” Roman growled, punctuating each word with a deep, grinding thrust. “You’ve got it. This is what attention looks like.”
Reese was sobbing, tears and saliva soaking into Roman’s lapel. His own cock, trapped between their bodies, was achingly hard again, leaking against his soiled shirt. He was being torn apart and rebuilt with every stroke, his defiance shattered into a million pieces, leaving only a deep, submissive need. He tried to speak, to form some sarcastic retort, but all that came out were choked, broken moans.
“You’re nothing without me,” Roman whispered, his pace becoming faster, more ruthless. “A clever, pretty nothing. I own every sound you make. Every shudder. Every drop of come in your pathetic body.”
Reese felt the coil in his gut tighten anew, a brutal, inevitable climb. He was going to come again, untouched, just from this, from being used so completely. The shame of it burned hotter than any pleasure.
Roman sensed it. He slammed up into him, hitting that spot with unerring accuracy. “Do it,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Come like the bitch you are.”
Reese shattered. His orgasm ripped through him with a violence that blurred his vision. He screamed into Roman’s shoulder, his body clamping down in rhythmic, desperate spasms around the cock that was devastating him. It felt endless, a white-hot hemorrhage of everything he had left.
As Reese’s convulsions began to subside, Roman’s thrusts grew ragged, losing their precise control. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself to the hilt and stilled. Reese felt the hot, sudden flood of Roman’s release inside him, a claiming more intimate than any before. Roman’s breath hitched, a rare, unguarded sound, and he held Reese there, locked together, as he emptied himself.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the limousine’s tires on wet pavement.
Slowly, Roman’s grip on Reese’s hair loosened. He withdrew, his cock sliding out with a soft, wet sound. Reese slumped bonelessly against him, utterly spent, a hollowed-out shell.
Roman gently pushed him off, settling him back onto the seat beside him. He took a handkerchief from his breast pocket—immaculate, monogrammed—and cleaned himself with a few fastidious wipes before tucking himself away and re-fastening his trousers. He tossed the soiled linen onto the floor.
He looked at Reese, who was curled into himself, shaking, staring at nothing. The dark patch on Roman’s slacks was unmistakable.
Roman reached for his whiskey again, took a long, slow swallow. He leaned his head back against the seat, closed his eyes for a beat, then opened them to gaze out at the passing city.
“The next stop,” he said, his voice once more calm, detached, “is a warehouse on the docks. The Bertinelli shipment.” He glanced at Reese, a flicker of cold assessment in his eyes. “You will stand. You will be silent. You will ensure the count is correct. And you will do it with my come dripping down your leg. Do you understand?”
Reese swallowed. He managed a nod, a tiny, broken movement.
“Good,” Roman said.
The limousine glided on, a sleek black vessel carrying its ruined cargo deeper into the Gotham night.