Chapter 9: Mine
The drive back to the penthouse was a silent, pressurized container. Reese leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past, feeling the heavy weight of Roman’s gaze on the side of his face. The air between them crackled, thick with unmet need and the souring scent of violence. Reese’s knuckles throbbed in time with his heartbeat. He flexed his hand, watching the split skin glisten in the passing streetlights.
Roman hadn’t touched him again since that consuming kiss. He just sat, impossibly still, his flawless suit a stark contrast to the raging energy Reese could feel emanating from him like heat from a furnace. His erection, trapped against his thigh, was a rigid line Reese could see from his peripheral vision. A kept promise of retaliation.
“You enjoyed that,” Roman said finally, his voice a low scrape in the quiet.
Reese didn’t look at him. “The fight or the kiss?”
“Both.”
Reese turned his head then, meeting Roman’s icy blue stare. A slow, cocky smile spread across his face. “Yeah. I did.” He let his gaze drop pointedly to Roman’s lap. “Looks like you did, too.”
A muscle in Roman’s jaw twitched. “You left me this morning,” he said, the words dangerously soft. “In a state.”
“Professional consideration,” Reese shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Didn’t want you unfocused. You were plenty focused in there. Mission accomplished.”
The car pulled into the private underground garage. The engine cut, leaving a ringing silence. Roman didn’t move. He just stared at Reese, his eyes dark pools of intent. “Get out.”
Reese obeyed, sliding out onto the cool concrete. Roman followed, his movements precise, predatory. They walked to the private elevator, the click-clack of Roman’s Oxfords the only sound. Once inside, the doors sealed them in mirrored perfection. Reese saw himself, disheveled, blood on his cuff, a bruise forming on his cheekbone from a stray elbow. Next to him, Roman looked like he’d stepped from a boardroom, save for the undeniable bulge straining his trousers and the savage light in his eyes.
As the elevator climbed, Roman reached over. He didn’t grab Reese roughly. He slipped his hand around the back of Reese’s neck, his fingers sliding up into his hair, gripping just enough to make Reese’s scalp prickle. He pulled him close, until their foreheads were almost touching. Reese could smell the adrenaline on him, clean and sharp.
“You think you’re clever,” Roman breathed.
“I know I am.”
“You think you can play with me. Wind me up and walk away.”
Reese held his gaze, unblinking. “Seems to be working.”
Roman’s other hand came up, his thumb dragging roughly across Reese’s lower lip, pressing down. “That ends tonight.”
The elevator pinged. The doors slid open to the penthouse’s stark, cool expanse. Roman released him, shoving him forward into the foyer. “Strip.”
Reese raised an eyebrow but complied. He toed off his shoes, peeled off his ruined suit jacket, his blood-stained shirt. He let his trousers and briefs pool at his feet, kicking them aside. He stood naked in the middle of the room, the city’s panoramic glow painting his skin in pale blue and gold. He made no move to cover himself. He was a canvas of fresh violence—the purpling bruise on his cheek, the split knuckles, the older, yellowing marks on his ribs.
Roman walked a slow circle around him, a collector assessing a new acquisition. “Turn around.”
Reese turned. He felt the cool air on his back, the heat of Roman’s gaze on the curve of his ass, the line of his spine.
“Follow.”
Roman led him not to the bedroom, nor the study, but to a plain, unmarked door at the end of a hallway Reese had never been invited down before. Roman keyed in a code on a discreet panel. A soft click, and the door swung inward.
The room beyond was not large, but it was intentional. The air was cooler, circulated and clean, smelling faintly of leather and disinfectant. The walls were a matte, sound-absorbing black. Neat shelves held an array of tools—paddles, floggers, coils of rope, all arranged with Roman’s signature fastidiousness. In the center of the room stood a piece of furniture made of dark, polished wood. It was a padded bench, but at one end, a sturdy, sculpted column rose at an angle—a chevaux, a pony.
Reese’s breath caught. This was new territory.
Roman saw the flicker of understanding in his eyes. A cruel smile touched his lips. “You like to play games,” he said, his voice echoing softly in the contained space. “I’m done playing.”
He moved with sudden, startling speed. He gripped Reese’s arm, spinning him towards the wooden apparatus. Before Reese could process the motion, Roman had bent him at the waist, his torso forced down over the padded bench, his hips positioned at the apex where the column rose. The padded leather was cool against his stomach and chest.
Roman’s hands were on his hips, hauling him back, aligning him. The rounded, polished top of the wooden column pressed insistently against his perineum, a blunt, unyielding pressure. Reese instinctively tried to shift, to find a more comfortable position, but Roman held him fast.
“Stay.”
A rustle of clothing. Reese heard the slide of a zipper, the crinkle of a foil packet. Roman’s hands, now slick with lube, pushed between his cheeks, a cold, invasive slide. A finger, then two, worked him open with a ruthless, clinical efficiency. There was no tenderness, no teasing. It was preparation for a taking.
Reese clenched his teeth, pressing his forehead into the padded leather. The wooden pony dug into his thighs, his cock trapped beneath him, already hardening again from the rough handling and the sheer taboo of it all.
When Roman pushed into him, it was with a single, deep, unceremonious thrust. Reese cried out, the sound muffled by the bench. There was no warm-up, no gradual acceptance. The stretch was intense, bordering on painful, Roman’s cock a thick, relentless invasion. Roman didn’t pause. He withdrew almost completely and slammed back in, setting a brutal, driving rhythm.
The angle was different. The wooden column beneath Reese ground against his prostate with every punishing thrust, sending sharp, electric jolts of sensation up his spine. Pleasure and pain twisted together, inseparable. He was immobilized, bent over this impersonal device, completely at Roman’s mercy. This was no frantic coupling against a bar; this was a deliberate, sadistic demonstration of ownership.
“You see?” Roman grunted, his voice strained with effort and control. His hands gripped Reese’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, fingers digging into the bone. “This is what you are. A thing to be used. A receptacle.”
He punctuated each sentence with a savage thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud in the quiet room. Reese could only gasp, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth leather, his world narrowed to the burning stretch of his body, the relentless pressure inside him, the wooden shaft rubbing him raw beneath.
“You tease,” Roman snarled, leaning over him, his sweat dripping onto Reese’s back. “You deny me.” He drove in deeper, grinding against him, making Reese see white behind his eyelids. “This is the consequence.”
He fucked him with a focused, mechanical intensity, chasing his own release with single-minded determination. The pleasure for Reese was a dark, coiling thing, born from the very helplessness of his position. Each impact sent a shockwave through him, the dual stimulation overwhelming. His own cock, trapped and leaking, twitched helplessly. A moan was torn from his throat, long and ragged.
Roman’s pace began to falter, his breaths coming in harsh, ragged gasps. He was close. He wrapped one hand around the back of Reese’s neck, pinning him down. “Come for me,” he commanded, his voice guttural. “Now.”
As if on a switch, Reese’s body convulsed. An orgasm ripped through him, violent and unforgiving, with no touch to his cock but the rough friction of the bench beneath him. He spilled over the dark leather, crying out, his vision tunneling.
Feeling him clench and spasm, Roman lost the last shred of his control. With a final, brutal surge, he buried himself to the hilt and came, a deep, shuddering groan escaping him as he emptied himself inside Reese. He held there, pulsing, for a long moment, his weight heavy and warm on Reese’s back.
The only sounds were their heaving breaths. Slowly, Roman pulled out. Reese winced at the sensation, a sudden, hollow emptiness. He felt spent, wrecked, thoroughly used.
Roman stepped back. Reese heard him dispose of the condom, then the sound of a tap running in a small sink in the corner. He returned with a warm, damp cloth and cleaned Reese himself, his touch now oddly gentle, almost clinical. He wiped the sweat from Reese’s back, the come from his thighs.
When he was done, he grasped Reese under the arms and hauled him upright. Reese’s legs nearly buckled; they were trembling, the muscles of his inner thighs screaming from being strained over the wooden pony. Roman held him steady, an arm around his waist, supporting his weight.
He guided Reese out of the room, back down the hall, into the master bathroom. The shower was already running, steam fogging the mirrors. Roman didn’t speak. He led Reese under the hot spray, washed him with the same impersonal care, scrubbing the dried blood from his knuckles, soaping the sweat from his skin.
Finally, wrapped in a thick towel and deposited on the edge of the massive bed, Reese found his voice. It was hoarse. “Feeling less wound up now, boss?”
Roman stood before him, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his chest. He looked down at Reese, his expression unreadable. The violent fury had bled away, leaving a hollowed-out calm. He reached out and cupped Reese’s cheek, his thumb stroking over the fresh bruise.
“You are mine,” he said, the words devoid of their earlier heat, now a simple, chilling fact. “Never forget that the permission to play is mine to grant. Or revoke.”
He turned and walked toward his walk-in closet, leaving Reese sitting there, aching and raw. The silence in the penthouse was absolute, a vacuum. Reese looked down at his own hands, at the split knuckles, the physical proof of his utility. He looked toward the closed door of the special room.
A slow, pained smile touched his lips. He had pushed. And Roman had pushed back, harder. The game, it seemed, had just gotten a lot more interesting. He lay back on the cool sheets, every muscle protesting, and stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of Roman dressing. He was exactly where he’d wanted to be. And he had never felt more seen, or more completely owned.
And he had never felt more seen, or more completely owned.
That possessive calm radiating from Roman was more unnerving than his rage. It settled over the penthouse like a fog, thick and inescapable. Reese lay on the bed, listening to the soft rustle of fabric from the walk-in closet, every muscle a tender, aching testament.
Roman emerged not in a suit, but in dark, tailored trousers and a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows. He carried a small, polished wooden box. He placed it on the bedside table with a deliberate click.
“On your knees,” Roman said, his voice devoid of inflection. “At the edge of the bed.”
Reese pushed himself up, his body protesting. He shuffled to the side of the bed and lowered himself to the floor, the cool hardwood against his knees. Roman opened the box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a plug. It was large, made of polished, black silicone, its base a flared, ornate crest.
Reese’s breath hitched. A low, involuntary sound escaped his throat.
Roman picked it up, turning it in the dim light. “You understand this,” he stated, slicking it with a clear gel from a bottle in the box. “It’s not a reward. It’s a reminder. A seal.”
Reese’s mind flashed to the wooden pony, the relentless stretch, the hollow feeling after Roman had pulled out. This was different. This was a permanence. He nodded, his throat tight.
“Words,” Roman commanded, his hand coming to rest on the back of Reese’s neck.
“Yes,” Reese managed, the word scraping out. “I understand.”
Roman’s grip tightened, guiding him to bend forward, presenting himself. The cool, slick tip of the plug pressed against him. It was broader than Roman’s cock, a blunt, unyielding intrusion. Roman didn’t ease it in. He applied steady, relentless pressure, bypassing any gentleness.
Reese gasped, his fingers clawing at the duvet. The stretch was immense, a burning, tearing fullness that stole the air from his lungs. He trembled violently, a fine shake that started deep in his core and radiated out to his limbs. A high, strained moan was pulled from him as the widest part of the plug slowly, inexorably breached him.
“That’s it,” Roman murmured, his voice a detached observation. He watched the tense lines of Reese’s back, the shuddering effort of his breathing. With a final, cruel push, the plug seated fully inside him, the flared base settling snugly against his skin. The fullness was profound, a constant, shocking presence that seemed to push against every sensitive nerve.
Reese slumped forward, his forehead pressing into the mattress, his whole body trembling with the shock of it. He felt invaded, owned in a way that was more psychological than physical. Every slight clench, every breath, reminded him of what was inside him.
Roman stroked his back, a cold parody of comfort. “Good.”
He left Reese there, kneeling and shaking, as he finished dressing. He returned to find Reese still on the floor, struggling to compose himself. Roman dressed him with methodical care, pulling Reese’s limp arms through a soft shirt, guiding his shaking legs into loose trousers. Each movement jostled the plug, sending fresh, electric pulses through Reese’s oversensitive body.
“Stand,” Roman ordered.
Reese tried. His legs, weak from the earlier strain, buckled instantly. He caught himself on the bedframe, a choked sound escaping him as the movement drove the plug impossibly deeper. A faint, pleasurable-painful spark flickered up his spine.
Roman watched, a faint, cruel smile on his lips. He didn’t offer a hand. “Again.”
Gritting his teeth, Reese pushed himself upright. He stood, swaying, the foreign object inside him a heavy, unnatural weight. He took a tentative step, then another. Each shift of his muscles made him acutely, painfully aware of the plug’s presence. He felt stretched, stuffed, and eerily open.
“We have a dinner,” Roman said, as if commenting on the weather. “At Castellano’s. You will sit. You will be pleasant.”
He took Reese’s arm, his grip firm, and led him toward the door. The walk to the private elevator was an agony of small movements. Every step sent a jolt through Reese, a combination of deep pressure and sharp, biting stimulation that bordered on pain. He leaned heavily on Roman, his breath coming in short, careful pants.
The elevator ride was a silent torment. Roman stood perfectly still, watching Reese’s reflection in the mirrored doors. Reese kept his eyes screwed shut, focusing on not moving, on not grinding down on the thing buried inside him just to relieve the maddening pressure.
In the garage, Roman walked at a normal pace, forcing Reese to keep up. Reese’s walk was a stiff, careful shuffle, his thighs trembling with the effort of not clenching. Roman opened the rear door of the sedan.
He didn’t help Reese in. He shoved him.
Reese fell into the plush leather seat with a pained cry. The impact brutally forced the plug deeper, a sudden, shocking invasion that punched the air from his lungs. White light exploded behind his eyes. He collapsed forward, his face burying itself in Roman’s shirt as Roman slid in beside him. A long, broken moan vibrated against Roman’s chest.
Roman didn’t pull him off. He let Reese cling to him, his hands fisting in the fine fabric, his whole body convulsing around the intrusive object. The car began to move, the smooth purr of the engine a dull contrast to the riot inside Reese.
The deep, unrelenting pressure was finding a rhythm with the car’s subtle motions. Each minor bump in the road, each turn, shifted the plug inside him, nudging that bundle of nerves with terrifying precision. Pleasure, sharp and acidic, began to wire itself into the pain.
“It’s too much,” Reese gasped into Roman’s shirt, his voice ragged.
Roman’s hand came up, not to push him away, but to cradle the back of his head, holding him close. “I know,” he said, his voice low with dark satisfaction. “That’s the point.”
Reese shuddered. The stimulation was becoming overwhelming, a building wave he had no control over. His cock, trapped in his soft trousers, was hard and leaking, a traitorous response to the violation. He rocked his hips infinitesimally, a desperate, involuntary seeking of friction, of release from the unbearable tension.
It tipped him over the edge.
His orgasm ripped through him with shocking violence, tearing a scream from his throat that was muffled by Roman’s chest. He spilled into his pants, his body seizing, his channel clamping down hard on the unyielding silicone, which only prolonged the agonizing pleasure. He sobbed, tears of overstimulation leaking from his clenched eyes.
Before the last pulse had even faded, the terrible, perfect pressure of the plug, combined with the rocking of the car, began building the sensation again. It was cruel, impossible. His body was spent, but his nerves were alight, screaming.
“No, no, please,” he whimpered, rutting helplessly against the seat, against Roman’s leg. “I can’t, it’s too—”
A second climax, dry and painful, wracked him. His spent cock twitched uselessly as his prostate convulsed around the plug, milking nothing but raw, excruciating sensation. A hoarse, broken cry was all he could manage. He clung to Roman, boneless and shattered, his lips finding the sweat-damp skin of Roman’s neck in a weak, apologetic kiss.
Roman held him through it, his breathing even. He stroked Reese’s hair, watching the city lights slide past the window. He absorbed the trembling, the tears, the total surrender with a quiet, complete triumph.
“See?” he whispered into Reese’s ear, his voice a soft, victorious blade. “You can take it. You can take anything I give you.”
The car glided to a halt. They were at the restaurant. Reese was a wreck, trembling, damp, and utterly empty. Roman straightened him up, wiped his face with a crisp handkerchief, and adjusted his own shirt where Reese had clung to it.
“Now,” Roman said, his voice returning to its normal, polished tone. “You will walk in there. You will sit. You will smile. And the entire time, you will remember exactly what you are, and who you belong to.”
He opened the car door, the cool night air hitting Reese’s feverish skin. The plug inside him felt heavier than ever.