Chapter 21 He's won
“Delusional,” I manage to choke out, breath shaking. “You’re completely fucking delusional.”
Bastian’s low chuckle brushes the shell of my ear.
“No,” he says calmly. His grip tightens slightly, guiding me back a step with him.
“I’m honest.”
My head tilts back before I even realize I’m doing it. The room feels too small now. Too hot. Every nerve in my body buzzing like someone plugged me into an outlet.
I look down. His hand moves with ruthless focus, steady and confident in a way that makes my brain short-circuit. My thoughts scatter in every direction, none of them coherent enough to hold onto.
“Jesus—” I mutter under my breath.
I’m close.
I can feel it building fast, sharp and overwhelming, curling tight in my stomach. He's ruthless, efficient, and entirely too familiar with my body. I’ve stopped fighting. My head falls back against his shoulder, my lips parting as desperate, broken sounds tear out of my throat. I’m muttering curses, half-formed pleas that I don't even recognize, because the world has narrowed down to the sliding pressure of his palm and the scent of his expensive cologne.
“Fuck...” I breathe.
My vision is swimming with white spots, my muscles coiling like a spring about to snap.
"I know exactly how you’ll take it," he whispers, his lips sucking my earlobe, sending a fresh wave of electricity through my nerves.
“You’ll fight me every step of the way.”
The words slide through me like a slow burn. “Clawing at my back....acting like you hate every second of it.”
My grip tightens on his thigh. His body presses closer behind me. “Right up until the moment I break you. And then,” he finishes softly, “you’ll beg for more.”
The confidence in his voice makes something snap hot and reckless inside my chest. He pauses the stroke for a heartbeat....a cruel, calculated hesitation that makes my hips jerk forward in a silent, pathetic demand.
"Tell me I’m wrong," he commands, his voice dropping into a dark growl.
I can’t form a sentence, let alone a lie. I reach back blindly, my fingers digging into the hard, expensive fabric of his thigh, feeling the ridge of his own cock digging into the small of my back. It’s too much....the heat, the stillness of the bathroom, the terrifying weight of his obsession.
"Bastian, please—" I gasp, my voice shattering.
"Let go...give it to me," he instructs, his thumb crushing against my tip as his hand moves faster. “Or fight it. I like watching you lose.”
That’s the final snap.
I lose it. My climax hits like a physical blow, a violent, white-hot explosion that sends a jolt through my entire frame. I cry out, my head thumping back against his chest as my cock twitches helplessly in his iron grip. I come hard, the heat of it spilling over his fingers as I go completely limp against him, my breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
The silence that follows is deafening. I’m shaking, my knees barely holding my weight, my skin buzzing with the aftershocks of a release that felt less like a finish and more like a surrender.
Bastian doesn't move. He stays there, holding me, his hand still wet and heavy around me, his heart thudding against my back.
He’s won.
He hasn't even taken his clothes off, and he’s already dismantled every defense I had. And when I finally manage to pull in a shaky breath again, his voice comes low and controlled beside my ear.
“See, Kaden?” he murmurs, “I’m honest.”
I don’t move, can’t move, can’t even think straight. My chest rises and falls like a drummer trying to catch up to a chaotic rhythm. The pressure of his hand vanishes, and with it, the only thing keeping me upright. My lungs are burning as if I’ve just been pulled from a wreck.
He doesn't say a word. He simply turns and walks to the adjacent sink. I watch him in the mirror, my vision still hazy, as he turns on the tap and begins to wash my cum off his skin with a clinical, detached grace. Every motion is controlled. He’s just washing his hands, and somehow, it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I can feel his gaze cutting through the reflection, burning straight through me.
He dries his hands with a paper towel, then turns around, leaning his hip against the counter. His gaze drops, heavy and unhurried, to my spent cock, then sweeps over the marble vanity and the floor where the evidence of my surrender is splattered.
“You made a mess,” he says finally, voice calm, darkly amused, with that faint, untouchable smugness that drives me half-insane. “You should take care of it.”
I can’t move. My hands are trembling so violently I have to keep them fisted. I just glare at him, my dignity a pile of ash at my feet.
"I’ll see you at the Distillery tomorrow morning," he says, pushing off the counter.
"Like hell you will," I snap, though it lacks the bite I intended. It sounds more like a wounded hiss.
He chuckles....a dry, amused sound that makes my skin crawl. That fucking sound that I hate loving. He’s walking to the door, slow, almost teasing, and then he stops. My eyes narrow as I watch him in the mirror, my brow furrowing as he reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a pristine white silk handkerchief. He wraps it around the door handle, turning it with germaphobic precision.
Fucking weirdo....
He pauses with the door cracked open, the light from the hallway silhouetting his broad shoulders. He doesn't look back, but his voice carries perfectly in the quiet room. "I promise to be nothing but professional and respectful tomorrow, Kaden. It’s my launch on the line, after all. I’d hate for a little workplace friction to ruin the project."
He steps out, the lock clicking back into place behind him before I can even find the breath to tell him to go to hell. Then he’s gone, and I’m left alone with the persistent echo of him, which is almost as intense as everything he just did to me.
I finally clean up, fumbling with the tissues like a goddamn idiot, tucking myself back in. Everything feels wrong and absurd. My hands are trembling, knees still weak, but I manage to pull it together....or at least pretend I’m pulling it together.
Then I dig both hands into my hair, cursing under my breath so hard I’m pretty sure a few elderly residents could hear it if they were still wandering around.
I just let him jerk me off in a retirement home washroom!
The words echo in my head.
I lean back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather some shred of dignity, but it’s gone. Dissolved into the lingering heat of him. My fingers fidget, twitch, like they’re trying to erase every memory of that touch. I shake my head.
God, I’m a fucking mess...because why am I already imagining it all over again.