Page 122 of The Mourning Throne
There was no pleasure quite like dragging Lex back to himself. Not even the act itself, but the aftermath. The glow of recognition returning to those too blue, too wide eyes.
Morgan moved his hand, gentler now. Less guiding, more supportive. He let the silence stretch around them, let Lex ride the edge.
Control, after all, didn’t need to be cruel. It only needed to be constant.
Lex started shifting. Finally. Restless, needy, chasing friction with all the instinct of an animal in heat. Searching for something to ease the ache.
Morgan didn’t let that happen.
He increased the intensity by a single notch. Then another. The device was silent—but Morgan felt it in the way Lex jolted, how his body betrayed him without grace or control.
Lex’s knee hit the table.
The sound was sharp. Hollow. Wood against bone.
Morgan didn’t stop.
He only pressed one elbow to the table’s edge and rested his chin on the back of his hand. Like a man observing a gallery piece he’d memorized—the lines, the trembling frame, the beautiful red face—yet still found something new in each viewing. Still loved enough to study again.
Lex’s voice broke through in a hiss. Desperate. Raw.
“Morgan—”
“No.”
Lex choked back whatever he’d meant to say. Morgan watched him swallow the words whole. His breathing was ruined. Each inhale staggered, catching on invisible threads.
“I—I need—” he whispered, barely audible. “Ineedto—”
Morgan turned the vibe off.
Lex sagged like a puppet with its strings cut, head lolling against Morgan’s shoulder.
“Tell me what you want,” Morgan murmured. “Do you want me to leave you like this? Would you like me to get you off with my hands? My mouth? Fuck you? What do you need most right now?”
Lex’s response was immediate, breathless. “Fuck me.” His hands were already climbing Morgan’s chest like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d forgotten anyone else existed. His mouth brushed against the side of Morgan’s—pleading and perfect. “Like we do at home.”
Nothing had sounded so good.
“Bathroom. Now.”
Lex’s chair scraped the tile as he stood. Wobbling on his feet. The scent of sweat and want clung to him, sharp and sweet, like the aftermath of a fever. He didn’t look back.
Morgan waited threebeats then followed.
Restaurant bathrooms were all the same. It didn’t matter where he was in the world.
Glossy white, meant to suggest wealth but failing under fluorescent scrutiny. Too clean. It reeked of bleach and piss. The smell clung to the back of his throat, dragging up memories of college dorms. Of hazing rituals he endured before finding his true purpose.
Lex barely had time to scramble onto the counter before Morgan closed the distance. His palms hit the porcelain basin, boxing Lex in, guiding the back of that pretty blond head against the mirror.
Words weren’t altogether necessary. Not anymore.
Need was already breathing between them.
Morgan slipped the vibrator from his hand, tucking it into his pants pocket. From his wallet came the single-use lube packets—always ready. A small indulgence.
Perhaps Lex’s obsession with public sex—his insatiable craving for risk, for exhibition—was starting to seep into Morgan’s bloodstream. Infectious. Addictive.
