Kai reaches down and pulls you up on all fours. Gets a big hand around your throat. His fingers find your carotid artery like they’re playing a flute and delicately, carefully press down just enough to lightly restrict your airflow. Your vision goes spotty, and it’s not from the choking—it’s the pulse of desire that’s been corralled and padlocked in a box, no longer safely contained. He redoubles his thrusts, and panicked, feverish endorphins flood your brain.
“Two,” you whisper, half-strangled.
“What?” He leans closer. You are going to either sweat to death or pass out. Either one sounds good at the moment.
“Two more,” you say, the words burning. “Twenty-two.”
Your arms are barely holding you up. Your whole body seems like it’s trying to shake itself off the bed. The last two slaps aren’t particularly hard, but they are enough to knock you off balance. Kai comes down atop you, covering your whole body. You area pancake against the mattress, totally pinned. His whole hand wraps your neck, and his dick is buried in your ass. The prone position has you convinced that this is it, this is how you will die. It will be a good way to go.
Something inside you lights up at the thought, because you become keenly aware of the friction of the covers against your dick, of the burn of Kai’s cock. And you’re climbing that mountain, arousal pumping your veins full to bursting, making you see exploding stars behind your eyelids. And then, improbably, you are coming with an animal howl, spurting all over the duvet through an orgasm that is more painful than euphoric. Your perineum cramps and your whole body shudders uncontrollably. Almost immediately, you black out a little. Not so much that you don’t feel Kai pull out and come all over your throbbing hole or rubbing the cum into your crack with his fingers, but enough that your eyes close and, for several soggy, distended minutes, there is nothing but a warm void and the distant sounds of the storm outside.
Some time later, while Kai is wiping you down with a soapy cloth, you stir enough to open your eyes. It must be two in the morning at this point. The warmth of the cloth feels good, along with the ministrations of Kai’s gentle hands. After, he pushes the soiled duvet down to the footboard and wraps you up in cool cotton sheets. Gets you a glass of cold water and makes you drink it all as he solicitously takes inventory of the evidence of his hands on your skin. To his relief and your disappointment, the slap marks on your face are all gone. Your ass got the worst of it, raised red lines marking where his fingers struck you and bite marks from his teeth. One spot on your left buttock is mottling in a developing bruise. You’re already imagining poking it for days and remembering how it got there. Kai kisses the marks, and holds you close.
“Did that work for you?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you say. “Thank you.” And, quickly after: “Was it okay for you?”
Kai’s silent for a long moment. “I could have lived without it,” he says briefly. “But it’s okay. I’m glad it made you feel good.”
You want to explain that it wasn’t necessarily aboutfeeling goodso much as dealing with other kinds of unmet needs. But it seems moot at this juncture. Tight in the circle of his arms, you fall asleep to the sounds of thunder and rain. You’ll be very sore tomorrow, but you won’t mind.
Chapter Sixteen
Transaction Report
In the final week of NFA trade eligibility, there were a few surprises. Green Bay traded WR Jefferson Judge to New Orleans for a third-round draft pick. Another big-name WR, Amari Winston, was traded from Pittsburgh to Dallas in what appears to be a salary-dump. Most shockingly, Tampa traded LT Julian Tamatoa to the Buffalo Blues just under the wire. What caused Tampa to offload such a key part of their offense less than two years into his contract? Inside sources say that the front office felt Tamatoa was a bad fit for the locker room.
***
You purposely leave your phone on silent when you wake up before dawn to get in the gym and start your workout the Friday that Grammy nominations come out. You record your vital signs, down 16 ounces of water with lemon and honey, and then start your circuit. You try not to watch for 7:45, but fail. After a few moments of indecision, you mop the sweat from your brow and get back to work. When you’re done with your routine, you take a shower and do your extensive skincare routine, lingering in the mirror over your AM affirmations, then go downstairs and mix up a smoothie from one of the ready-portioned frozen baggies that your nutritionist doled out. Then, and only then, do you retrieve your phone. You wait until your breath is steady, and your heart rate is a cool 65 to unlock it.
You have 76 notifications, including 6 missed calls from your agent. Ignoring all of them, you call Maeve.
She answers on the first ring. “God, you made me wait a long time.”
“Self-discipline is an art,” you say flippantly, trying to quell the butterflies in your belly.
“There’s self-discipline, and then there’s garden-variety masochism,” she retorts. You can’t see her, but you imagine her rolling her eyes. “Do I get to tell you now? Or do I need to jump through some more pointless and ridiculous hoops before you are in the right headspace to receive your good news?”
“It’s good news?” You hate how much you sound like an eager kid.
“Comeon, Ster. It’s not like it’s a surprise.”
“Hit me.” You sit down on a chaise in the corner, playing a stupid little game with yourself.If I get into position before I hear her voice, I’ll get everything I want.
“Album of the Year and Best Pop Vocal Album forGolden,” she recites, “Song of the Year, Best Pop Solo Performance, Best Music Video, and Record of the Year for ‘pretty please.’ Six major nominations total, tied for third place.”
“Who got the most?” you ask.
“Lady Gaga and Kendrick Lamar.”
“Solid,” you nod. “I figured, because Gaga also gets the Dance categories and Kendrick gets Rap as well.”
“You gotsixGrammy nominations, Sterling,” Maeve reiterates gleefully. “With everything going on? That’s ahugeshow ofsupport from the Academy. Never mind what it says aboutGolden.You’ve worked so hard, and you totally deserve this.”
“Thank you,” you say.
Normally, this is the part where you and Maeve jump up and down screaming into each other's ears. Every year, you refuse to let anybody but her deliver your Grammy news, good or bad. Other people might get you first with the VMAs or Billboard Awards or any other nominations, but Maeve gets the Grammys. It’s tradition. Her level of excitement is there, but yours is… strangely flat. You don’t know why. You got every nom you wanted, and a couple that you didn’t expect. Nine albums in, this should be huge. Validating. Momentous.
