Zander – POV
He whimpers again—so desperate, so wrecked—and my control snaps.
I'm only a man.
And this is not a battle I can win.
I unbuckle my belt, one hand moving automatically as the other keeps the phone pressed to my ear. The sound of the toy vibrating inside him filters through—slick, rhythmic, punctuated by those broken, breathless little moans I've come to crave.
He's panting now. Responsive. Willing. Completely undone for me.
"Good boy," I murmur, voice thick, low, unraveling at the seams.
"Now listen closely."
I can hear the sheets shifting, the slickness between his thighs as he grinds down in search of relief. Each sound punches straight through my composure. I palm myself through my slacks, barely able to breathe.
"Press the knot function."
And it takes everything in me not to groan when I hear the breath catch in his throat.
"Which—ah—which one?" he gasps, voice cracking, breathless.
"Purple, sweetheart. Bottom left." I sink deeper into the chair, eyes closing, hand moving faster, imagining it all—
His trembling fingers, fumbling with the remote.
His back arching off the bed when the toy swells inside him.
The stretch. The fullness.
The raw helplessness of it.
The mental picture is too vivid—his legs spread, his back arched, his trembling fingers hovering over the remote.
Then I hear it.
The sharp inhale.
The deep, startled moan that follows.
The sound of the toy swelling inside him, locking in place, simulating the one thing only I should ever give him.
"Oh—Zander—!" he cries.
The sound nearly takes me over the edge.
I scramble for the wireless earbuds in my drawer, shoving them in, just to have him closer—in my head, in my blood, under my skin.
"There it is," I whisper, voice dropping an octave. "You feel that stretch? That weight inside you?"
I unfasten my pants and shove them down just enough. My palm wraps around my own arousal, hot and aching, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
"That knot's mine, Ivan. That fullness? That pressure? That's me. That's what I'll give you when I finally take you apart with my hands."
He doesn't answer with words—just a whimper.
Just a sob.
"Say it."
"Y-Yes," he cries. "Yours—I'm yours—"
My breath catches. My strokes become rougher. God.
I shut my eyes.Let it wash over me.
That voice. That confession.
"Now," I say softly, command laced with something warmer, more possessive,
"Ride it."
A cry tears from him.
Helpless. Beautiful. Unapologetically raw.
I picture it all, the flush on his chest, trembling in his thighs.
The wetness, the heat, the overwhelming ache only I can soothe.
His sounds change—higher, needier, uncontrollable.
"Faster now," I whisper, leaning back in my chair, jaw clenched.
"You can take it. I know you can. You were made for this—you were made for me."
The wet sounds grow louder. His breathing unravels into broken gasps.
"You're doing so well, Ivan," I tell him, chest tightening with something more than lust now.
"Don't stop until you fall apart for me."
His voice breaks into a cry, my name tumbling out of his throat, over and over again, until it's the only thing he knows.
And I—
I can't take it anymore.
I let go.
My body arches. My hand stutters. The pleasure crashes through me—blinding, violent, absolute. I gasp his name through clenched teeth, choking on it, riding the edge of my own release right alongside his.
Our breaths sync over the line. Desperate. Shaky. Raw.
He's moaning still—quietly now, softer. I hear the toy wind down. The hum slows. The wet sounds fade into the stillness between us.
I don't say anything.
Neither does he.
For a long moment, all we do is breathe—connected by a wire and the way we've just come apart for each other. Not touching. Not holding. But somehow… more intimate than anything we've ever done before.
I rub a hand over my face, the sweat cooling on my skin. My shirt is wrinkled. My belt's still loose. My heart is still racing.
"You okay, sweetheart?" I finally ask, voice hoarse.
He exhales softly into the mic.
"Yeah…" he whispers.
"Zander?"
"Yeah?"
"You're not allowed to sleep with anyone else."
I smile. Slow. Possessive. Full of something I don't know how to name.
"I wasn't planning to."