Chapter 12: Porsche's pregnant belly slaps wetly against the cold stone as Kinn takes him from behind, muffling his cries with a gloved hand while distant shouts echo through the tunnels - 'You take these euros and get to Switzerland,' Kinn growls between thrusts, his other hand gripping Porsche's hip hard enough to bruise.
The silence in the rooftop garden was shattered by the sharp buzz of Kinn’s phone on the stone floor. He snatched it up, his hand still loosely linked with Porsche’s over the curve of his stomach. The glow of the screen lit his face, and Porsche watched as every trace of vulnerable awe vanished, replaced by a mask of chilling, calculated fury. The transition was so complete it stole the air from Porsche’s lungs.
“Get up,” Kinn said, his voice a low whip-crack. He was already moving, pulling Porsche to his feet with a force that brooked no resistance.
“What’s happening?”
“Betrayal.” The single word was laden with a lifetime of poison. Kinn dragged him across the garden to a seemingly solid section of the ornate wall. He pressed a sequence of hidden pressure plates, and a section of the living wall swung inward with a whisper of stone on stone, revealing a void of darkness that smelled of damp earth and cold air. “My father knows. We have minutes, maybe less.”
Porsche’s heart hammered against his ribs. The sanctuary was now a trap. He stumbled after Kinn into the gloom, the door sealing behind them with a soft, final thud. A single, dim strip of emergency lighting flickered on, illuminating a narrow stone staircase descending into the belly of the mansion.
They moved quickly, Kinn’s grip on Porsche’s wrist like an iron manacle. The staircase gave way to a labyrinth of tunnels, hewn from the bedrock centuries ago. The air was cool and thick, the only sounds their hurried footsteps and the distant, ominous hum of the city’s infrastructure weaving around them. Cobwebs brushed their faces like ghostly fingers.
“Where are we going?” Porsche panted, his free hand cradling the weight of his belly, which felt like a lead ball in the sprint.
“Away. Somewhere he won’t look first.” Kinn’s voice was tight, his mind clearly racing through maps and contingencies. He stopped abruptly at a junction, yanking a heavy leather duffel bag from a hidden alcove. He unzipped it, pulled out a thick bundle of high-denomination bills, and without ceremony, shoved it into the front of Porsche’s pants, tucking it against the swollen flesh of his lower belly. The crinkling paper was an obscene, bulky pressure. “For contingencies. Don’t lose it.”
Porsche gasped at the intrusion, but before he could speak, a new, deeper sensation ripped through him. It started as a tight band across his lower back, then crested into a visceral, cramping squeeze that stole his breath and buckled his knees. A guttural moan, half-pain, half-shock, tore from his throat and echoed down the stone corridor.
Kinn froze. The sound was a beacon. He glanced back the way they’d come, eyes sharp. No footsteps yet, but the moan had been too loud. He couldn’t risk another.
In one fluid motion, he pushed Porsche back against the cold, rough wall of the tunnel, a hand clamped over his mouth. Porsche’s eyes were wide with pain and confusion, tears pricking at the corners. The contraction held him in its grip, a powerful, inner fist squeezing his core.
“Quiet,” Kinn hissed, his own breath coming fast. His mind worked with terrifying, pragmatic speed. He fumbled with his belt, then with Porsche’s pants, pushing the bag of money aside, yanking fabric down just enough. His cock was already hard, a reflex of adrenaline and a fucked-up, desperate calculus. He spat into his hand, slicked himself, and notched the head against Porsche’s entrance, which was still loose and slick from their earlier coupling on the roof.
Porsche shook his head against Kinn’s palm, a muffled plea.
“They’ll hear you,” Kinn whispered, his lips against Porsche’s ear. Then he shoved in, a single, brutal stroke that buried him to the hilt.
Porsche’s scream was absorbed by Kinn’s palm, his body arching against the stone. The sensation was a chaotic overload—the deep, relentless ache of the contraction, the burning stretch of Kinn’s sudden invasion, the gritty pressure of the wall against his back. Kinn didn’t wait for him to adjust. He set a hard, jarring rhythm, each thrust punching the air from Porsche’s lungs in forced, silent huffs.
“Listen to me,” Kinn growled, his voice a raw scrape as he pumped into him. The obscene, wet slap of skin on skin filled the narrow space. “You’re going to walk. You’re going to breathe. And you are not going to make a fucking sound.”
He adjusted his angle, driving up hard, and Porsche saw stars, a white-hot burst of sensation that briefly eclipsed the pain of the contraction. A broken, choked sob vibrated against Kinn’s hand.
“When this stops,” Kinn continued, his own control fraying, his thrusts becoming more erratic, “we go left. There’s a grate. It leads to the old sewers. We follow them for two kilometers. There’s a van. Keys are in the bag, taped under the dash.” He punctuated each instruction with a deep, penetrating drive. “You drive. You remember the way to the river safehouse I showed you on the map. The one by the docks.”
Porsche could only nod, his body used, a tool for silence and a vessel for escape plans. The contraction began to ebb, leaving a hollow, trembling ache. But Kinn’s fucking didn’t stop. It transformed, becoming something darker, a frenzied claiming against the cold, judging stone of his family’s legacy. He bit into the juncture of Porsche’s neck and shoulder, stifling his own groan as he felt his climax coil tight.
“You take this,” Kinn panted, his hips stuttering. “You take all of me, and you carry it the fuck out of here. You understand? You belong to me. This,” he slammed home, “is mine.” He spilled inside Porsche with a violent shudder, a hot flood that seared in the cool damp of the tunnel.
He stayed buried for a handful of seconds, catching his breath, listening. Still no pursuit. He pulled out, quickly tucking himself away. With surprising gentleness, he pulled Porsche’s pants up, repositioning the bag of cash. He removed his hand from Porsche’s mouth, his fingers leaving faint, red marks on his skin.
Porsche slumped against the wall, spent, shivering. The pain was gone, replaced by a deep, throbbing soreness and the cooling trickle of Kinn’s release on his inner thighs.
Kinn’s eyes met his in the gloom. No softness. Just a relentless, burning intent. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Can you walk?”
Porsche pushed off the wall, ignoring the tremor in his legs. He nodded once, his jaw set.
“Left,” Kinn said, shouldering the duffel. “The grate. Don’t look back.”
They moved into the deeper darkness, the only trace of their passage the scent of sex and fear slowly fading in the stagnant air. Somewhere above, in the opulent halls of the mansion, the hunt was just beginning.