The absolute torture of the next minutes felt like an eternity stretched across a bed of liquid fire. Malcolm sat frozen on Dahmer's lap, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, his eyes fixed wide and unblinking on the dark wall opposite the bed. He refused to look down. He absolutely refused to grant the Enigma the satisfaction of his gaze, even as the wet, rhythmic sliding sound of Dahmer's hand stroking his own engorged member filled the silent bedroom. The raw, demanding heat of the flesh pulsing directly between Malcolm's thighs was a psychological torment. It radiated right through the fabric of his trousers, a constant throbbing that began to send a treacherous, involuntary warmth straight into the King's own lower abdomen.
Despite the pure, unadulterated hatred tearing through his mind, Malcolm's S-tier Alpha biology utterly betrayed him.
