Page 58 of A Mistake of Worth
The grip on his hips tightened, a mix of control and care in the same hold. “That’s my boy,” Michael said, pride warm in it. “Show me. And don’t touch your cock. That’s mine.”
Henri nodded, no hesitation.
He lifted, a slow glide out, dragging over a live nerve, then sank with a helpless moan.
Again. Up. Down. Again.
He found a rhythm: careful at first, then deeper, grinding at the bottom until stars pricked the edges of his vision. Wet sounds. Harsh breaths. The faint creak of the couch.
“Look at you,” Michael murmured. “So tight. So good for me. You feel incredible, baby.”
Heat flushed Henri’s skin. He kept moving. He wanted Michael to feel everything.
“You’re doing so well,” Michael said, sliding one hand to the small of Henri’s back, the other branding down on his hipbone in a hold that would color. “Riding me like you were made for it.”
“I was,” Henri gasped. “For you.”
Michael growled low. He shifted under Henri, searching, then found the angle that sent pleasure knifing bright through Henri’s belly. The next stroke hit it again. Henri’s breath broke.
“Breathe with me,” Michael said, rough but steady. Henri obeyed—inhale, exhale—and the rhythm held.
“You want to cum?”
“Yes—God, yes, please—”
“Don’t you dare.” Michael stilled.
A sob tore out of Henri. His whole body clenched.
Fingers caught his chin, lifted his gaze to storm-dark eyes. “You wait for me.”
He nodded, barely holding on.
Michael moved again. Three shallow rolls, one deep thrust that landed with unnerving precision. Again. Again. The pattern took thought apart.
Henri’s cock leaked untouched between them. His legs burned. He breathed and obeyed. Michael’s hands stayed where Henri had begged, his fingers biting into the soft of Henri’s thigh, thumbprint settling dark over his hip.
A hand slid between them—not to stroke, only to ghost close. Enough to shock another sound from Henri; never enough to tip him.
“Say it,” Michael growled, rhythm fraying toward rough. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” Henri choked. “I belong to you.”
Michael surged up and bit where neck meets shoulder—open-mouthed and luscious. A claim that would bloom visible. Henri cried out as the pressure crossed into ache, into color, into exactly what he’d asked for.
The world went bright.
He came with a sob, release striping hot across their skin as his body clenched hard around Michael. Michael cursed, thrust once—twice—and spilled deep, holding Henri through every pulse.
They stayed there, breathing hard, slick and spent. Henri sagged into Michael’s chest, forehead to shoulder, unwilling to move.
Arms wrapped him fully. No demands. Only a hold.
“You did so well,” Michael whispered at his temple. “Perfect.”
Henri made a small, wordless sound. Michael kissed the bite, gentle now. The edges already darkening.
And Henri let himself be kept, marked and held, the ownership he wanted written on his skin.
