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It’s a dangerous thrill to seek, and that danger multiplied tenfold when I got caught in a Dolce’s web with it. Playing with Duke is playing with fire, and I have the scars on my arm and my soul to prove it.
Something changes in you when you’re forced to smell your own flesh cooking.
Taking something back from him, even if he gets a sick, forbidden thrill of his own from it, was a temptation I couldn’t resist when it presented itself last summer. I don’t have the leash this time, but we’ll make do.
“You sure about that, pretty boy?” I ask, backing up a few steps.
He rests his elbows on the ground, his head hanging down, and takes a few breaths. I watch his muscles flex and bunch through the fabric of the thin t-shirt stretched over his back. Somewhere during the long evening, we both lost our suit coats, and Duke’s out of his button-down too. We’re both too fucked up to feel the cold anyway.
“I’m sure,” he grits out at last.
“Then crawl,” I order, my voice hard.
“Fuck you.”
“Crawl over here and kiss my feet again,” I say. “Or the whole school will know you begged for it.”
“I’m the one with nothing to lose now,” he points out.
“Not quite,” I say, twisting the top off his beer and tossing it in the dirt. “Like you said, you’re still the one with the most power.”
“What’s the point?” he asks miserably. “If you wanted to, you could take it, and we both know it. Like you said, there’s three of you. If you want to destroy me, you will. I can’t win.”
“You still have a place, Duke. We’re not going to do to you what your family did to me. We’re not as heartless as y’all.”
“You’re not?” he asks, lifting his head and squinting up at me.
“I’ll show you mercy if you’re a good boy,” I say. “Now crawl, before I change my mind.”
He drops his head again, then slowly raises onto his hands and knees and crawls toward me. I step back at the same pace, and he pauses like he’s not sure he’ll follow. Then he crawls forward again, following me for ten paces before I get tired of leading him around and stop at the foot of the ladder to the treehouse.
I kick the inside of his elbow just hard enough to make his arm buckle, and he pitches forward, catching himself just before he faceplants.
I press the toe of my cowboy boot down on his fingers.
“Now beg.”
His back tenses, and I watch the muscles ripple along it. God, he’s fucking ripped. It makes me feel even more powerful to stand over him, knowing he’s bigger than me, stronger than me. He could flip the script in a second.
He won’t, though. I may need this, but he needs it more.
“Beg,” I bark.
He hangs his head, resting his forehead on my toe. “Please.”
“Please what?” I demand.
“Please don’t destroy me the way we did you.”
“You know that’s not what I want to hear.”
He hesitates, his breath heaving in and out. “Please, Colt.”
I bear down on his fingers, crushing them into the grass. “Use your words like a good boy.”
“Please,” he repeats, his voice catching when I grind down.
“I guess you want it like a naughty boy tonight.”
