The basement was dark, the only light spilling down in strips through the steel rafters above. The air was thick with heat, with the smell of sweat and leather and latex. Devon stood close, so close Elias could feel the weight of his presence before the touch ever came.
When Devon’s hand slid around his throat, Elias shivered. Not from fear, but from the inevitable way his body leaned into it. His chin lifted at the pressure, his eyes darting up to meet Devon’s, wide and uncertain, but not resisting.
“Good boy,” Devon growled, his voice low, commanding.
Elias’s breath hitched, his lips parting as though he wanted to reply, but no words came. Devon’s grip tightened just enough to remind him where he stood, who decided when words were allowed.
“Speak,” Devon ordered, his thumb brushing slowly against the side of Elias’s throat, threatening and tender at the same time.
Elias didn’t know what he was supposed to say. A flush spread across his cheeks. His hands twitched at his sides, wanting to reach for Devon, but unsure if he was allowed. Devon noticed, of course he noticed, and leaned in closer, lips at his ear. His grip on Elias’ throat tightened.
“Do you want my hand here?” he asked, his tone deliberate, a challenge wrapped in command.
“Yes,” Elias gasped, the word barely audible.
Devon’s grip firmed, pulling Elias a fraction closer, their chests pressing together. “Say it properly.”
“Yes, sir,” Elias whispered, this time steady, his eyes lowered in submission.
“Better,” Devon said, his voice a velvet blade. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Devon smiled slowly. He kept his hand at Elias’s throat, using it to guide Elias toward the exit. To take his claim. To remind him of the line he’d already crossed and wouldn’t—couldn’t—retreat from.
