Page 76 of A Mistake of Worth
Henri groaned, breath caught in his throat. His body locked, then snapped forward in one final thrust. He buried himself deep, grinding up into David as he came, teeth clenched against the sound he couldn’t hold back.
Silence crashed down.
Henri held him there, still trembling, still straddled. He pressed his face into David’s shoulder and stole a single breath, one heartbeat to pretend it had ended on his terms.
He didn’t see Marc move.
Not until it was too late.
A hand clamped onto David’s arm and yanked. Hard, furious. The boy hit the carpet with a soft grunt, too stunned to cry out, curling against the base of the couch.
Henri reached for him, instinctive, but Marc was already on him.
Fingers knotted in his hair, jerking his head back until his scalp burned.
“You think that was yours to take?” Marc hissed against his ear. “You think you come without permission now?”
Henri opened his mouth, but his legs were swept from under him before the words could form. He hit the floor hard, arms splaying, the breath torn out of his chest.
Marc didn’t pause. He tore Henri’s pants the rest of the way down, shredding the waistband, dragging his boxers with them.
“Face down.”
Henri obeyed, elbows braced against the floor, only for Marc’s palm to shove the back of his neck and slam him flat. His cheek pressed into the carpet, breath muffled against the fibers.
Marc angled him toward the couch. Toward David.
The boy had scurried back, pressed into the corner, knees hugged tight to his chest. His eyes were wide, red-rimmed, fixed on Henri.
Henri couldn’t bear it. His gaze dropped shut, shutting David out, shutting Marc out.
“Beg.”
His voice cracked before it even rose. “Please.”
Marc’s grip tightened in his hair, cruel.
“Please, Marc. Fuck me. I’m sorry. I should’ve waited. Please...”
He didn’t finish.
Marc didn’t prep him. Didn’t touch him with care.
Henri heard the slick snap of the lube cap, then Marc’s cock shoved inside him. Pressure. Pain. A brutal stretch that came too fast.
Henri bit into the carpet.
Marc fucked him as punishment. As correction. Each thrust drove him harder into the floor, his arms trembling, cheek grinding into the rough carpet, tears sliding hot and silent.
And then he left.
To London.
The click of a ceramic mug.
Laughter, soft in another room.
Sunlight spilling across a kitchen table.
