“Please,” I breathe, prepared at this point to beg for what I want. I pull against the restraints to thrust more deeply, metal clinking, and lick the length of his neck. He tastes of citrus body wash and midnight. I feel a swell of satisfaction when he shivers beneath my tongue.

“Jumalatar auta minua,” he hisses to himself—Finnish swear words, I presume. His fingers slip into my hair to clench it. There’s a long, tense pause as though he’s fighting some inner battle. Then he lets out a steadying breath.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Wielder,” he murmurs against my ear. “Tell me what you need. I want to hear you say it.”

“You,” I reply. “I need you. Need to come.”

Keeping tension on the grip in my hair, he unwraps me from his arm hold and slips his hand down between us. He tugs the shirt from my waist and lets it drop to the floor. I lurch against him as his fingers brush my shaft. He palms my hardness, pushing it into my abdomen and rubbing. It leaves me with only a hint of the pressure I long for.

I whimper a complaint against his neck. “Flanagan.” I don’t recognize my breathless voice.

“Shhhh. Patience.” There’s a touch of humor to his tone. “And my name is Gabriel.”

“Gabriel.”

His huge fist envelops my whole shaft. A shudder runs the length of my body. Using my hair, he tilts my face to his, leaves his mouth so close to mine we’re sharing breath, and strokes me slowly, twisting his grip on the rise, sliding a thumb across my sensitive glans, then plunging deep, pulling my foreskin all the way back before returning. My shaft burns with building pleasure. But it’s not enough. He’s taking his time, watching my face as I grimace with agony and need.

He parts his lips to catch my moans, brushing them close enough to share moisture. Wisps of his beard caress my skin.

“You’re a beautiful man, Michael Blakeley.”

“Please.”

“And I like hearing that word on your lips.”

Without warning, he jacks me hard and fast. My hips lurch in response.

“Oh, fuck.”

With his lips a hairbreadth from covering my open mouth, a fist buried in my hair, he jerks his other hand with a relentless pace. His tight grip gives a satisfying pain. Without restraint, he drives me mercilessly toward my climax. Pressure builds. My balls ignite. I’m thrusting as much as I can to meet his fist.

“G-Gabriel. Oh, fuck.”

“That’s it. Let it come.”

Fiery pleasure bursts through my shaft. Agony sweetens to release. Warmth splashes upward to coat both our abs. Flanagan keeps stroking, milking every drop from me until I’m spent.