I look over my shoulder at Young-gi. He’s not wearing a suit today, but the casual ensemble of a tight shirt and fitted jeans makes him mouthwateringly tempting.
Holy shit, he’s so fucking hot.If I’d seen him at the club dressed like that, looking at me like that–all unimpressed and impossible to please–I’d have jumped through hoops to get myself on his dick. Just to see if he could make me enjoy it.
Don’t think about him like that!The last thing I need right now is more dirty thoughts about him, especially because all my dreams featured him.
“The Claremonts aren’t big on archery,” I reply.
“Clearly.”
Asshole,I think, but the word isn’t as angry as it should be. What can I say? I have a soft spot for his damn good looks. The fantasy of him biting me and fucking me into a mattress helps, too.
He just stares at me expectantly, waiting for me to ask for guidance. Waiting for me to ask for help.
So I smirk and turn my back on him. Fuck him if he thinks I’ll ask him for advice when I’m actively trying to make my arrow go wide enough to hit that little shit Brian. Fuck him for thinking I’d ask for help, for anything, ever. I take care of my own shit.
“It’s going to fly off course if you hold it like that.”
“Maybe I’m aiming for over there.” I infuse my tone with sarcasm and humor, but I’m not kidding.
“Hold your arm up, and straighter. No, not that arm, the other one,” he instructs, even though I didn’t fucking ask for his help. And even though I should tell him to fuck off, I’m trying to play nice, so I do as he tells me. Or at least, I try to.
“Good, widen your stance. Put your right foot farther forward. Not that far. Angle yourself away from the target. No, not that far, now your aim is off again. No, don’t move your feet–just, just–” His string of directions cuts off with a barely-audible sigh of frustration. Like he can’t bear to see me be this inept, but his stone-cold-killer attitude keeps him from actually losing his temper.
I look at him, only to blink and almost stumble because–
Because he’s closing the distance between us.
And suddenly, he’s right behind me. Like, allllll up in my space. He puts one hand on the wrist holding the bow and raises it to correct my aim. I almost spontaneously combust. He’s barely touching me, just the pads of his fingers against my sun-warmed skin, but it feels like he just wrapped my wrist in chains, locking me to him, making me aware of every single thing he’s doing. I can feel himbreathing.
He puts his other hand on my shoulder and moves me the way he wants me, taps my inner ankle with his shoe to get me to put my feet where he says. He’s still talking, giving me the same directions as before, but he’s physically guiding me this time, making sure I get it right. His deep voice rumbles through my inner ear.
Shit.I feel the heat of his fingerprints everywhere. Every professional, impersonal, feather-light touch is an explosion across my nerve endings. I’m feeling on edge and sensitive after waking up in a sweaty tangle of erotic dreams that I couldn’t finish off, so I’m reallyfeelinghim.
And rationally, I know these feelings are all one-sided; I know he doesn’t mean to be seductive, but fuck I can’t help but beseduced. He’s just standing soclose. Jittery tinges of excitement dance along my skin and my breath hitches.
He skims a palm up my chest and presses at the center of my pecs, correcting my posture. “Breathe, Tommy,” he commands. None of the frustration he probably feels with me for being so clueless shows in his tone. It’s cool and even, almost patient. “Beginners always hold their breath before they release, but you need to breathe through it. It’s a rookie mistake.”
I hiss air out through my teeth and try not to get dizzy. I can feel Young-gi looming over my shoulder, like his shadow has weight. Like he’s got his own gravity, simultaneously pulling me in and pushing down on me. He’s leaning closer, closing in. A puff of his warm breath ghosts along the back of my neck and all my hair stands on end. It takes everything I have not to shiver. He keeps his hand over my heart, and I wonder if he can feel the way it’s skipping around in there, missing all its cues, going off beat, losing its rhythm because of his oh-so-light touches.
My cheeks are burning and I pull the string tighter. He leans even closer, as if he’s anticipating my success or maybe making sure I don’t lose my form while I try to fire. My back actually brushes against his chest–barely, but the fabric of my shirt sweeps against his.
All the heat building in my skin immediately rushes down to my dick and I bite my lip to stifle any embarrassing noises. I thank god for my dark skin hiding my blush and I hope that no one is paying any attention to me right now, because I’m sure I’m sweating bullets now. Not only that, but…but…
I’m hard. My dick is fucking hard.
The sensation is unwelcome.
Okay, wait–I mean, it’s notnotwelcome, because it’s a miracle when I can manage to get it halfway up and right now it’s flying all the way to the top. So it’s not that I don’t want it… it’s just… Now is not the time, first of all.
And secondly, even though a part of me is delighted and excited that my dick still works at all and reallyreallywants my cock to get hard and stay hard and maybe manage to cum while I’m at it… the rest of me… the rest of me locks down tight.
Emotionally, mentally, I flatline.
My brain–belatedly trying to save me from myselfyearsafter I needed it–flips a breaker inside me. Everything goes sideways–hot turns cold, the thrill turns sour. My ribs become too tight. Arousal becomes fear, my eagerness becomes bitter rage.
Sick swirls of shame and guilt shake my guts and make my lungs tremble. I blink and I see my past. For a moment, the scent of Young-gi’s sharp, clean cologne is the only sensory input grounding me as my mind unmoors into panic. I can’t see the target anymore, I can’t see anything at all.
“Breathe,” his deep voice tells me. I inhale, long and slow.
