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“What?”
He props his chin on my head and his hand strays up my chest, coming to rest just below the base of my neck. “You get three guesses and two don’t count.”
I scan the sparse furniture–just a couch, a TV, and a bed in the other room. All my kitchen utensils and gadgets sit scattered across the counter, because opening cupboards is a waste of time, and I get depressed when I see how empty they look. My laundry lives in stacks in the living room. A video game console trails cords across the floor, and all the sneakers scattered around don’t have pairs. “I’m guessing your ass has some problem with how I keep my house.”
“It’s awful.”
“So what?” I pull away and turn around to face him. “I bet yours is equally depressing but a little tidier, just to prove that you’re better than the rest of us.”
His lips twitch as he shrugs slowly, eyes scanning me up and down. “Maybe so.”
7
TATE
Darius is so worn out his dark circles look like black eyes and his tawny skin seems pale. But before I can say anything else he scrambles forward, his weight pushing me back against the door, and climbs me as best he can with three limbs.
Even if I can’t see him again I will never, never forget having his first kiss, his fear and wonder and the delicate but desperate way he tasted my lips like he was waiting to be struck down by lightning from the sky, but wanted me enough to do it anyway. I guess we’re done being delicate, because he’s currently doing his best to lick my tonsils, whimpering into my mouth as our tongues wrestle and thrust against each other. He tastes wilder than any man I’ve ever kissed, like all the meaningless hookups and years spent living a lie haven’t tamed him.
When he starts fumbling with the zipper of my jeans. I push him back and wrap a hand around his wrist, holding him still. His eyes flick up to mine, eager to see what I’ll demand next. I’ve created a monster. Cupping his neck in my hands, I kiss him over and over as I walk him backwards down the hall, past a modest bathroom, to his bedroom. The bed frame doesn’t even have a headboard, just a mattress on metal legs and a mess of unmade sheets. The few pieces of furniture in the house are all good quality, like he can afford nice things but doesn’t have a reason to care. I know the feeling well.
Out of the corner of my eye I notice plastic boxes of art supplies in the corner, with some kind of travel easel folded up on top. Rumpled sketchbooks of the same brand as the one in his backpack are stacked all over the dresser.
“Let me see you, for god’s sake.” Darius drags my attention back when he whines like a frustrated kitten and stuffs his hands up my t-shirt, raking his fingers desperately along my skin. I can feel his nails leaving marks, his hot body squirming against mine, his tongue in the hollow of my throat. He took a flying leap off the cliff, and now he’s frantic for someone to hold his hand as he falls, to keep him from hitting the ground. No, not someone. Me.
I startle a soft yelp out of him when I push him, his knees hitting the edge of the mattress and dropping him on his back with me on top. At the sensation of our half-hard cocks pressed together through layers of denim, he chokes out “fuck” and tries to thrust his hips against my weight. “Easy.” I press my forehead to his, feeling the out-of-control thundering of his heart against my chest. “Slow down.”
“No. I. Don’t. Want. To,” he grits out in time to his unsuccessful attempts to hump me. I have to drop my face into his shoulder to hide how it makes me laugh. As I trail my nose along his neck, I realize I can’t remember the last time I felt relaxed enough to really laugh in the presence of another person.
“Jesus,” Darius complains. “If I had called Ali at least I would have gotten off sometime this century.”
When I come up sharply on my elbows and catch his chin in my fingers, regret dawns in his eyes. I just smile. “You’re not smart enough to make good choices, but at least you have the sense to know when you should be scared.”
He lies still, barely breathing, as I get up on my knees and unbutton his jeans, tugging them down, then tossing them into the laundry hamper that only has clothes around it instead of inside. Next, I unstrap his brace and carefully strip off his hoodie. His cock looks unbelievable in a pair of soft, gray briefs that cling to everything. One of his hands slides up to touch himself, but when he catches my eye he quickly presses it back against the bed.
“If you’re going to behave like an animal,” I comment calmly, sitting on the edge and tracing my fingers along his perfect thighs, “you shouldn’t be allowed on the furniture until you learn to fucking control yourself.”
His eyes widen and his whole body shudders. Christ, I’ve never seen a cock go hard as fast as his, straining against his briefs. He sits up uncertainly, the faint blush on his cheeks contradicting the defiant set of his jaw, then hesitates.
“Do I need to explain myself more clearly? Or would you like to try and convince me I shouldn’t put you in your place?”
“No,” he whispers. “Shit.” Scooting toward me, he grabs a fistful of my tee and buries his face in my neck for a second, pulling in a deep, shaky breath. Then he lets go and slides onto his knees on the carpet. This isn’t the first time I’ve pictured Darius Matthews kneeling for me, flushed, gazing up at me with wide, turquoise eyes glazed with lust and shame. No fantasy could compare to the real thing, rock hard and practically drooling on the floor in front of me.
“Better. Now, it’s been an incredibly long day, and I think we should take a shower. Is that alright with you?” He keeps his lips pressed together and nods. “You’re hopeless, but you do handle correction well. That’s something.” A soft groan breaks in his chest.
I feel the faintest twinge of nerves as I stand up. I’m about to push him much harder, to see how deep he’ll go. Keeping my body relaxed, I head for the bathroom in the hall. At the rustle of Darius climbing to his feet, I turn around. “Hey. Do you think you deserve to walk right now?” When I point at the floor between us, he looks puzzled for a second. Then his face goes slack, stunned eyes fixed on me.
“Tate…” he rasps softly. But everything about him, his voice, his posture, his breathing, is dripping with arousal.
I prop my shoulder against the door frame and watch him. “Look at yourself.”
When he glances down and sees the slick stain of precum darkening the front of his briefs, he whimpers.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it looks like horny little sluts love to crawl.”
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he whispers. His eyes look hazy–either he’s feeling the high of surrendering or he’s panicking and drifting away. I cross the room and tip his face up toward me.
“Listen carefully; I’m adding to the rules. If you’re done, you say I’m done and everything stops. And that’s okay. But unless you’re done, the only other choices are to do what you’re told or pitch a fit and find out how much worse things can get.”
