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His finger slides up the seam, then over my belly, stopping at the first button of my trousers. He brushes it with his fingertip, without undoing it.

“So that you may have no more torment.”

You are my torment.

His fingers unfasten the button, then slide to the second. And the third. I feel the cloth loosen at my hips, the fabric gives way, and my skin meets the colder air of the room. He lowers my trousers with a slow movement. I remain against the wall, motionless.

If I move, I’ll grab him.

If I grab him, I’ll bend him over the table.

If I do that, he’ll never speak to me again.

Every touch of his vibrates through my limbs, and the only thing I can think is that, whatever his intent, I don’t want him to stop.

My breath catches in my throat when his wrist moves lower and he grips me without haste, a shiver runs down my spine, so sharp I have to press my head back against the wall to keep from faltering.

This time I am not imagining it. It is not my mind creating illusions. It is really happening. It is his hand.

The same hand that plays the cello in front of everyone.

The same hand that has struck me, that has hated me more than once.

And now it is doing this.

His thumb runs along a vein I feel tumescent, and I cannot stop my cock from twitching in his hands.

Indecorous.

Pokhabnyj.

Filthy.

“Do you want me to call you ‘my lord’? Hmm?” His grip tightens. “Or should I use her voice too?”

My hips jerk forward.

“What... what the hell are you talking about now?”

His face hardens, he lowers his gaze and quickens his pace. My fingers spread against the wall, seeking a hold, scratching the plaster just to keep from landing on him.

“Are you holding back?” he hums with that calm that pushes my patience toward a limit I’m not sure I can respect.

My jaw locks, scalding air escapes my throat. He advances a hair’s breadth, his breath grazing my temple. Every movement of his, even the smallest, devours my reason.

His hand slides in a rhythm I cannot control, and I arch just enough to betray everything I shouldn’t show. The icy wall presses against my back, but it’s his proximity that sets me on fire.

“It seems you want to flee, Lord Dorian.”

His voice is deliberately low, yet he doesn’t look at me.

“Wasn’t this what you aspired to?”

My legs give way an inch, and in the attempt to find support, my knee pushes against his thigh. The fabric of his trousers hides nothing.

The bulge is evident, hot against me.

This certainty pierces my cock and makes me twitch more than the touch of his hand.