Lucien's thumb brushed the tear from Elian's cheek almost gently, even as his hips rocked forward again, feeding more of his thick cock into that willing, choking heat.
"You cry so prettily for me," he murmured, his voice dark velvet. "Does it shame you? That the man you hate can make your mouth water like this?"
Elian's only answer was a low, humiliated moan that vibrated deliciously around Lucien's length. His eyes stayed locked upward—defiant even now, even with his lips stretched obscenely and drool slipping down his chin.
That look—that stubborn, burning pride—snapped something in Lucien.
He tightened his grip in Elian's curls and began to fuck his mouth with deeper, more purposeful strokes. Not brutal, but relentless. Claiming. Each thrust pushed against the tight ring of Elian's throat, forcing him to take it, to accept it.
