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“I know you can.”
Before I’m even aware of it, one of my hands fumbles up to grab his arm that’s propped against my shoulder. I feel muscle and the soft bristle of hair as my fingers dig desperately into his skin, looking for an anchor. For a moment he doesn’t react. Then he leans down and lightly kisses the inside of my wrist while his other hand traces the shape of my balls. “All that swagger is a lie, isn’t it? You’re a slut for someone who tells you what to do.”
“Uh-huh,” I pant. I’d say anything he wants at this point, because my head has gone empty, like there isn’t a thing in the world to worry about.
“Show me.”
“How?” My breath catches when he swipes his thumb over the messy head of my cock. When he holds it up to me, precum glistening on his skin, I freeze. The very last tatters of me try to cling to some kind of fucked-up dignity.
“Clean up your mess.” When I just stare, unable to move, his fingers stroke the hair at the back of my neck. His bones must be creaking with how tightly I’m holding his arm. “It’s not complicated, Darius. Two choices.”
I can feel something actually fracture inside me as I stick out my tongue and lick his finger, gasping at the sharp, unfamiliar taste of myself. But instead of pain, all I get is a flood of relief and an incredible high. Tate hums in approval as I drag his thumb into my mouth and wrap my tongue around it. When I stop sucking, he pushes deeper, gripping the back of my neck when he feels me panic. “Easy. Just breathe. It’s not even in your throat. A cock is so much bigger.”
Forcing myself to relax, I pull air through my nose until he finally slips out.
“When I give you something,” he says patiently, wiping his hand on my shirt before running his fingers along the inside of my thigh, “What do you say?”
I shake my head frantically, shutting my eyes again even though he told me not to. “I can’t.”
“Why not?” He sounds kind of disappointed, like I’m failing a test.
I can see lights exploding on the inside of my eyelids as my body tenses. “If I say it, I’ll come. I mean it.”
After a moment of silence, I feel a weight in my hair, like he’s resting his face in it. “Fuck. You’re so perfect.” Before I can even try to process that comment, he continues. “I’m going to let you come now. But if you can control yourself for just fifteen more seconds, I’ll post a public apology and say you were right about me the whole time.”
Hell yes. He’s always been too soft, too quick to underestimate me. “Deal,” I croak past my dry, cum-tasting tongue, my competitive side clearing my head a little. I feel his hand close around my cock, a few slow pulls, but that’s child’s play. “You–”
Something warm rubs my taint, then pushes between my ass cheeks, where I’ve never touched myself before because I knew I’d love it and I couldn’t stand to lose it again. My eyes jerk open. He doesn’t even circle my hole once, maybe a quarter of the way, before my back arches painfully and I cry his name, cum splattering my chest, my shirt, even my chin. He keeps rubbing until all I have left is a few exhausted dribbles trailing down my shaft.
The air conditioning starts to raise goosebumps along my arms, even though it’s not that cold. I lie back, staring blankly at the ceiling, and let go of his arm. The couch shifts as he stands up. “I’m not sure that was better, but I do see potential.”
“Fuck off.” My voice is fucked six ways from Sunday. All I can think about is getting his hands on me again. How I’d crawl if it meant he’d fuck me. How I might crawl anyway, because it felt so good. “I never want to see you again.”
To my surprise, I hear the door click shut and when I look over, he’s gone. He’s probably off to kill time at the hotel bar until I get out of his room.
When I was in sixth grade, the teacher told us we’d be reading a novel about two boys who fall in love. My heart jumped into my throat, because I thought about girls a lot but I also thought about boys, and I didn’t know what to do about it except hate myself. Maybe this book had answers, but we never got to read it. The parents, including mine, got the school board to throw it out and replace it with White Fang, because I guess animal abuse is better for a bunch of kids than seeing a gay character.
That’s when I knew that I was broken and that none of the people in my life, not even my family, wanted me that way. So I taped myself together and figured that if I never touched a man, then I’d never fall apart.
Now I’m shattered in cum-soaked pieces across the floor. I only have a few hours to gather it all up, while also getting enough sleep for my first professional meet. But I can’t make my body do anything besides shiver. My mind feels raw and flayed open, all the way down to those memories I try not to think about. Curling into a ball, I fall sideways on the couch and bury my face in my arm. My shoulder burns, and I dig my fingernails into it as hard as I can. I want to leave bruises, some sign to myself that this night happened. As long as I tell everyone they came from fucking a girl, they’ll just laugh and say nice, man.
“Little disaster.”
I jump, almost falling off the couch. Tate’s standing between me and the door, holding a bottle of water. I probably look unhinged as I sit up, pale and blinking back tears. “Go the fuck away,” I croak, because when I push he pushes harder, and I want him to annihilate me.
Instead of giving me the bottle, he uncaps it, takes the back of my head in his hand, and tips it into my mouth. I lift my hands to grab it, but somehow they end up on his hips instead, gripping fistfuls of his jeans. “That’s right,” he murmurs, voice low. I chug three-quarters of the bottle thirstily before I pull back. He doesn’t let go of me, and I’m too tired to do anything but rest my forehead against his hip and try to breathe. The hand that isn’t cupping the back of my neck slips under the collar of my ruined tank top and rubs slowly up and down my back in a calming way I always wished someone would do when I was tired, but no one ever has. “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.”
I open my mouth to say nothing, because all I have is a mix of panic and lust and exhaustion. Instead, I mumble, “I wanted to study art, but they thought it was too gay.”
His hand goes still, and I wish it wouldn’t. “What?” Before I can fumble for an answer, he clicks his tongue and traces a thumb along the marks I left on my shoulder. “Darius, don’t do this.”
Trying to get myself back under control, I push him. “Don’t tell me what to do,”
I can’t move him at all. He just catches my wrist loosely and holds it against his hoodie, his finger stroking my pulse. Why does he have to be so fucking soothing, to tear me open and then make it feel so perfect? And why the actual hell did he choose me?
“Let me help you get to bed. You need to be rested for tomorrow.” At the thought of someone tucking me in for the first time in ten years, of maybe lying down next to me and stroking my hair until I’m asleep, everything inside me collapses into burning fury. I shove him hard this time, and he stumbles back, almost falling over the coffee table. “Fuck off. I’m not your toy. I’m not a poseable doll for my parents to prop up in front of their friends, or my girlfriends to stick in their holes, or you to get off on some fucking power trip. Everyone uses me, and you know who’s still there when I wake up in the morning? None of you. So put your mind games all the way up your ass and never touch me again.”
Part of me hopes he’ll have an answer, more of those rough words that ruin me and fix me at the same time. But he does something so much worse–he snaps out of it. His shoulders sag and he runs a hand down his face. “Shit,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry. I made a bad call.”
