Page 83 of Deviant Need

“We don’t look incompetent. We responded immediately—” Lev argues.

“You reinforced after an attack already happened,” Yulian interrupts. “That’s reactive. Makes us look like we’re scrambling.”

Tightening my grip, I stroke faster, twisting my wrist over his crown the way I know drives him insane. Mikhail’s hand shoots to my thigh under the table, gripping so hard it hurts, nails digging in through my pants. His knuckles go white on the edge of the table with his other hand.

This is exhilarating. Jerking him off right here at the table while everyone argues like nothing’s happening. Years of wanting this and never being able to touch him, and now I’m making him fall apart in front of all of them without them even knowing it’s happening.

“What would you suggest then?” Lev snaps at Yulian. “Since you clearly have all the answers.”

“Handle it quietly,” Yulian shoots back. “Don’t broadcast every security upgrade like you’re asking for approval.”

Father’s hand comes down on the table hard enough to rattle plates. “Enough. Both of you.” Then his eyes cut to Mikhail. “And what’s your assessment of the port security? You were there when it happened.”

Mikhail opens his mouth to answer, and I stroke him faster, harder, twisting my wrist over the head of his cock. His breath hitches for a fraction of a second before he controls it.

“Security was—” He clears his throat. “Adequate for normal operations. Not for a coordinated hit.”

Working him relentlessly, I rub my thumb in circles over his slit and spread the precum that’s leaking steadily. His hand tightens on my thigh, nails digging in hard enough to hurt.

“Adequate isn’t acceptable.”

“No,” Mikhail manages, jaw clenched. “It’s not.”

I pump him harder, faster, feeling him pulse and throb in my hand. He’s close.

His thigh tenses under my arm, muscles coiled tight, and his breathing stutters before he forces it back under control.

“The point,” our father continues, “is that we cannot afford another incident. Not with Santiago’s condition making the Nozares unpredictable.”

“Santiago’s losing his mind,” Yulian says flatly. “Dementia makes him dangerous, not strategic.”

“Dangerous is worse. We need to do something,” Lev counters.

Twisting my wrist, I squeeze hard right over the head, and Mikhail’s hand flies to his mouth. He sinks his teeth into the meat of his palm, biting down hard as his cock jerks violently in my grip.

He comes, thick hot ropes shooting out, hitting the underside of the table with a soft splatter before dripping down onto the floor. Pulse after pulse, so much cum spilling from him that it coats my hand, drips between my fingers, pools on the hardwood beneath our chairs. His whole body locks up, muscles rigid, and his chest heaves once before he forces it still.

Watching him come silently while fighting to stay perfectly still while his cock pulses and spills in my hand is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. My own cock throbs so hard it’s painful, precum soaking through my boxers.

I keep stroking him, slowly now, drawing it out until he’s shaking slightly, oversensitive and twitching in my grip. His breath comes out shaky, and he has to swallow hard, throat working. Then I tuck him back into his pants carefully, fingers brushing against heated skin, and zip him up.

My hand is slick with his cum, sticky between my fingers. I grab my napkin from the table and bring it up to my mouth, holding it there like I’m wiping my lips.

Behind the cover of the paper, I slip my fingers into my mouth one by one, licking and sucking his cum off them slowly. The salty taste floods my tongue, and I have to suppress a groan. I clean each finger thoroughly, savoring it, before lowering the napkin.

When I glance at Mikhail, his nostrils flare, and his jaw clenches hard, eyes going dark and heated from watching me.

“Hard to get eyes on them when they’re scattered,” Yulian mutters. “Mateo runs West Coast, but Omar controls Mexico and Cuba. And Cuba’s untouchable because Santiago was born there. They’ve got massive operations running out of Havana.”

“Then we find another way in,” our father says flatly.

My cock throbs painfully in my pants, rock-hard and aching, and I shift in my seat trying to find relief that doesn’t exist. Mikhail shoots me a look that promises that he’s going to get me back for that.

“We’re not discussing this further at lunch,” our mother says suddenly, cutting through the tension. “Eat. You can strategize later.”

Our father makes a dismissive noise but doesn’t argue.

Mikhail shifts in his seat, adjusting slightly, and glances at me. The silence drags on, and he squeezes my thigh under the table. That’s my cue.