Page 73 of A Mistake of Worth
David moaned around him, the sound muffled and raw, vibrations rolling up Henri’s cock. His hips jerked, grinding forward again as if chasing the force that gagged him. Tears streaked down his face, and Henri watched them fall even as hiscock slid in and out of David’s mouth, each thrust painting his lips wetter, redder.
Henri’s free hand came up almost without thought, thumb brushing across David’s cheek, wiping the tears away only for more to spill after. A useless mercy. He hated himself for touching him this way while forcing him deeper. Hated how good it felt.
He knew the body could betray itself. He had lived that truth. Moans torn from him when he hadn’t wanted them, his own cock hard when his mind screamed no. But David’s wasn’t only betrayal. His throat clenched tight, yes, but his hips rolled forward, seeking more. That hunger made heat coil sharp and sick inside Henri.
And then Michael’s face rose, unbidden.
Would Michael ever want him this way? On his knees, helpless, gagging on cock while someone brushed tears from his face?
The thought cut through him, sharp and dizzying.
He saw himself there instead, not David, but himself at Michael’s feet. Mouth stretched, throat filled until his eyes streamed. Michael’s hand heavy in his hair, keeping him open. No escape. No choice but to yield.
And God, he wanted it.
His chest heaved. The shame of it hollowed him out even as the heat climbed higher, curling tighter inside him.
Marc was sprawled across from him, gaze fixed, savoring the show. But Henri wasn’t really seeing him anymore. The glass of whiskey in Marc’s hand blurred. The polished leather, the lazy command, all fell away. In his mind’s eye, Marc dissolved into Michael, watching him, holding him, using him.
It was too much.
He was inside David’s mouth, watching the red stretch of lips around him, but every thrust felt as though Michael had himinstead. Henri gagging, Henri gasping, Henri’s throat fucked open. The sight doubled, collapsed into fantasy, until he couldn’t tell which body he was in.
The image wrecked him. His hips drove faster, harder, no longer his own. Heat coiled, vicious and bright, curling deep in his stomach as his breath fractured, orgasm clawing too close. Far too close.
And Marc knew it.
“Stop.”
The word cut clean. Henri froze. David slipped back with a wet gasp, hands braced on Henri’s thighs as he caught his breath. He stayed kneeling, head tipped down, chest lifting in shallow bursts, lips swollen and slick. A small sound—half sigh, half whimper—escaped before he smothered it. He didn’t look up.
“Fuck him, Henri. I want to watch you open the boy up,” Marc said, smooth but edged.
The words hit Henri, not David. David only swayed, loose with afterglow, eyes dark and glassy. He looked dazed, pleasantly wrecked, like the floor had tilted beneath him and he’d chosen to lean with it.
Henri touched his shoulder. “Up,” he said, steadying with both hands—one at David’s arm, the other under his ribs. David moved like someone waking from a dream: boneless for a beat, then trying to stand too fast, laughing once under his breath at himself, a small, breathless sound that flushed his cheeks again. His knees wobbled. He caught Henri’s forearm and held on, grateful, blinking slowly as if the cabin lights were too bright.
When he finally stood, Henri met his eyes. Up close, the edges of him had gone soft. David’s mouth wouldn’t quite close; his lashes clumped in damp points; his throat worked on a swallow that didn’t finish. Heat still colored his skin, each inhale trembling—not with fear but with loose, relieved want. He looked full of it, suspended in that floaty, ruined ease that saidthe edge had been pulled out of him and left something warm behind.
“Good,” Marc murmured from the couch, satisfaction purring through the word.
David’s gaze flicked toward the sound, then back to Henri as though drawn by gravity. His fingers tightened briefly, seeking, and his body angled closer without thought—shoulder brushing Henri’s chest, breath catching, a small, helpless sound slipping out before he bit it back. It wasn’t panic. It read like need finding its center again.
Henri smoothed a hand through David’s damp hair. “Breathe,” he said.
David nodded too fast, then slower, obeying. His lips parted on the exhale, another shiver rolling through him—the kind that lives in muscles after they’ve worked and surrendered. He looked undone and pleased to be. Embarrassment lingered there too, pride smarting beneath the haze, but it didn’t cancel the pleasure humming through him. It layered with it. His pupils stayed wide, his mouth kept wanting to curve, and even the way he stood telegraphed it—hips loose, knees softened, shoulders carrying a new sweetness.
“Good boy,” Marc said lazily. “Let’s see how far that sweet obedience goes.”
David flushed deeper. His chin didn’t lift in defiance; it dipped instead, breath hitching before settling again. He leaned into Henri’s hands as if they were the only solid thing in the room.
An intern. From HR. Out of his depth, tear-streaked, flushed, panting—and hard.
The lace didn’t hide it. Precum had already soaked the pale blue, darkening the fabric where it stretched tight. It clung damp to the head, outlining the curve that pressed against seams never meant to hold it. Henri’s gaze dropped for a heartbeat, tracinghow the lace shimmered and clung, then forced himself to look back up.
David had turned his face away, cheeks burning crimson. Embarrassment radiated off him, but Henri wasn’t embarrassed. Not for himself. People had called him worse, done worse, in lace far smaller and rooms much darker. He felt the ache of it for David. For the boy who didn’t belong here, who had no way out, whose body was betraying him in front of the one man who would never let him forget it.
Henri reached for the waistband. “Let me,” he murmured, reverent and unhurried. He peeled the panties down slowly, past narrow hips and trembling thighs. David stepped free without a word, every movement fragile.
