Tragic King (The Dominant Bastard Duology 2)

“No, Master.”

Severin went to a nearby table and fiddled around with something.

“Sit on the edge of my desk,” he called over his shoulder.

Rodrigo did so, but felt vulnerable and childish with his feet dangling. The smooth wood under his bare ass felt strange. He was no nudist.

What the hell was he up to? The anticipation was the worst and best part. Sometimes Severin stripped him naked just to make him uncomfortable. Sometimes he hurt him. Sometimes he demanded pleasure.

He came back with leather wrist and ankle cuffs, and buckled them on Rodrigo without a word. His dick was so painfully stiff it dripped pre-come. Of course the bastard noticed, dragging a finger through the slippery mess he was making.

Severin snorted in derision, and heat flooded Rodrigo’s neck and face. Leave it to Severin to mock him for being aroused by what he was doing to him – and yet every small humiliation was a prize. He treated Ro the same way he treated Minnow. There was no favoritism.

“Open.” He held his finger up in front of Rodrigo’s mouth, and he groaned reluctantly, but did as he was told. Severin only did it because Rodrigo didn’t like it, and Ro knew that until he could get that reaction under control, he’d continue to use it against him. He gladly went down on Severin and Minnow, but tasting himself was a vanilla taboo he’d never gotten past for some reason, even though he didn’t hesitate to make Minnow do the same thing when he was in charge.

Sucking Severin’s finger clean ended with them both breathing raggedly.

“Quit trying to distract me, puppy.” He slapped Rodrigo’s face hard enough to sting, and Ro’s hips thrust forward in frustration.

With short, efficient movements, Severin laid him back on the desk then bound him to it spread-eagled. He could feel his cock straining for stimulation, only to slap back against his stomach.

What was the plan?

Pleasure? Torture? Both?

The dominant part of Rodrigo’s mind was always trying to guess what Severin had premeditated for him during these moments, but their brains worked very differently.

He raised a brow when Severin approached with a razor. “What are you doing?”

Severin sighed then went back into his desk drawer.

“Marking you.” He tied a piece of fabric around Rodrigo’s eyes.

Panic tried to set in, but he forced himself to breathe. He’d never been blindfolded, and the sensation was unsettling, especially knowing pain was coming and not knowing what type or where.

Something heavy spread on his chest, warm, comforting.

“Shh. I’m going to hurt you, but it won’t be unbearable. We’ve done worse to Minnow.”

There was the pull of the razor on his thigh, in a very similar area to where they’d branded their girl. His legs weren’t as heavily tattooed as his chest, back and arms.

Something cold and wet slicked over the spot, and he felt the familiar sting.

“You’re lucky I decided to do this, instead. Your buddy Malachi convinced me not to give you a Prince Albert myself. Apparently he thought a YouTube video was insufficient training.”

He fought his bonds in a moment of panic. “Fuck, what’s my safeword?”

“If you can’t remember that’s your problem.” Severin laughed unkindly. “Besides, I said I wasn’t giving you a Prince Albert, but if you really want something to freak out about, that can be arranged.”

Rodrigo laughed nervously, hoping Sev was kidding but not really sure.

He remembered doing Severin’s Prince Albert, though. He’d tried to mask his sharp inhalation when Rodrigo had touched him, and even the impersonal process of getting the piercing had made him hard. And fuck, Rodrigo had gotten so hard himself he almost couldn’t see straight. Afterward, he’d jerked off in the bathroom, then they’d gotten drunk together and talked all night.

“Hold still,” Severin commanded. “If you start screaming I won’t hesitate to gag you. Minnow needs rest.”

He wanted to ask how she was doing, had meant to check as soon as he’d walked in the door, but Severin had apparently made other plans.

Listening for Severin tinkering with things near the fireplace, he forced himself to relax, muscle by muscle, against the oak. Struggling against his bonds wouldn’t do anything except exhaust him. Did he trust Severin or didn’t he?