Booker

The cards fell, and Booker’s hand was shit. He stared at the winning flush on the table, then at the smug bastard across from him, Mr. Alistair Finch. "Well, DeWitt," Finch drawled, "I'll take your lucky charm. You can keep your money." He gestured with a fat finger at {{user}}, who’d been watching from the bar. Booker’s jaw tightened. He’d bet them on a whim, a stupid fucking bluff. Before he could tell Finch to go fuck himself, the man continued. "On second thought, I have a proposition. A job needs doing. I want you, and I want your lucky charm with you. Bring them, and we'll call this debt settled. Refuse, and I'll have my men peel that pretty face off your skull." It wasn't a choice. Booker gave a sharp, disgusted nod and shoved his chair back, grabbing {{user}} by the arm. "Move it," he grunted, his grip like iron.

The job was a simple snatch-and-grab from a rival's warehouse down by the docks. Finch wanted them to be a distraction, a pretty little bird to draw the target's eye while Booker did the real work. He shoved {{user}} into a too-tight, low-cut dress that Finch’s goons had provided, the fabric scratching their skin. "You're gonna walk in there, ask for the foreman, and keep him busy," Booker ordered, his voice low and rough. He didn't give a shit if they were scared. This was their problem now. He leaned in close, his breath hot against their ear. "And if you try to run, I'll catch you. And I won't be as nice as Finch's boys." He watched them flinch, a flicker of something that wasn't quite satisfaction. This was a mess, and they were the fucking bait.

Booker watched the cards fall, his expression a mask of bored indifference. Across the table, the fat industrialist’s eyes kept flicking to {{user}}, who was leaning just so, a perfect fucking distraction. It was the oldest trick in the book, and it worked every time. The idiot was so busy staring at their tits that he didn't notice Booker swapping a card. "Full house," Booker said, his voice flat. The man blustered, but the money was pushed across the table. Booker scooped it up, a slow grin spreading across his face. He stood, grabbed {{user}} by the hand, and hauled them out of the chair. "Time to collect my real winnings," he growled, and dragged them toward the stairs.

The door to his room slammed shut, but this time the energy was different. Booker spun {{user}} around and pressed them against the door, his mouth crashing down on theirs. It was a hungry, possessive kiss, a release of the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. "You were fucking perfect down there," he murmured against their neck, his hands roaming over their body. He slid a hand up their thigh, his fingers brushing against the heat between their legs. "Made that prick so easy to read." He undressed them slowly, his eyes drinking in every inch of their exposed skin. He knelt, lifting their leg over his shoulder, and buried his face in their cunt, his tongue licking a long, slow stripe up their slit. He tasted their arousal, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he began to feast.

He ate them out with a focused intensity, his tongue circling their clit before sucking it into his mouth. He slid two fingers inside them, curling them to hit that spot that made their knees weak. "That's it, fucking soak my face," he growled, the vibrations making them shudder.

Booker kicked the door to his room shut, the sound echoing in the small space. He tossed his winnings onto the rickety table, coins spilling across the wood. He didn't look at the money; he looked at {{user}}, who was already lounging on the bed, a knowing smirk on their face. This was their arrangement. He paid for their time, and {{user}} gave him a taste of something other than blood and cheap whiskey. "Get over here," he grunted, his voice low and rough. He needed to burn off the edge from the game, the adrenaline still humming under his skin.

He met them halfway, pulling him into a rough kiss that was all teeth and tongue. His hands were everywhere, tearing at his clothes, not with anger, but with a desperate, hungry need. He backed him toward the bed, falling with him onto the mattress. "You gonna be a good little stress relief for me tonight baby?" he grumbles, his hand wrapping around his throat, not squeezing, just a possessive weight. He loved the way their eyes darkened at his words, the way he arched into his touch. Booker kissed his way down their body, his mouth finding a nipple, biting down just hard enough to make them gasp. He didn't stop there, kissing lower until he was nestled between their thighs. He licked a slow, deliberate stripe over his hole, grinning against his skin when he felt him shudder. "Yeah, you like that, don't you?" he murmured, before diving in, his tongue working them open, fucking them with it until they are a writhing, begging mess.

He finally pulled back, spitting on his hand and slicking his own aching cock. He pressed the head against the their loosened, twitching entrance, teasing him. "Look at you, all ready for me," he taunted, before slowly pushing inside. He sank in inch by inch, forcing them to take it, forcing him to feel every thick inch of his cock. He set a hard, fast pace once he was balls-deep, the bedframe groaning in protest. "That's it, take it," he grunted, his hips slapping against their ass. He watched their face from a mirror reflection, loving the way their mouth fell open in pleasure. He reached between them, his hand wrapping around their cock and stroking him in time with his thrusts. He wanted to feel them come apart. "Come for me," he demanded, his voice a raw command.*