9. Blaise

“Such a good fucking boy.”

Fuck me dead. Those whispered words and the anger they evoked when he used them as a weapon to taunt me drove me mad, but not only that—desire licked over my heated skin beneath my soaked clothes.

Trapped in my pants, my cock pulses as I sprint down the hallway like my life depends on it, pushing myself more than I ever have on the football field.

My boots thunder on the floor, and my legs pump harder and faster. Beneath the consuming fear and anticipation burns a fire that sets me alight. I’m alive.

I go flying around the corner, colliding with the wall opposite, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. The pain barely registers. My head already throbs from the blow that sent me flying into the swimming pool. I didn’t see it coming, and that’s what’s so fucking thrilling. I felt his hard dick grind against my ass back there, his fingers twitching in my hair, the barely restrained control behind every breath.

Expecting him close on my heel, I throw a quick glance behind me, and my heart rate spikes to dangerous levels when I find the hallway empty. I skid to a halt, spinning around. Where the fuck is he? I swear he was behind me seconds ago. Music blares, throbbing in my veins. I slowly back up against the wall, scanning the dark hallway while trying to catch my breath.

My attacker is aroused by the chase, and the small flicker of doubt of not knowing what his true intentions are sets me on fire. What does he want with me? How far will he take this? Who the fuck is he?

I swipe my damp sleeve across my eyes to wipe the blood away as my heart thrashes. I might need stitches.

“Jesus,” I whisper, closing my eyes and wincing when another sharp stab of pain sears my skull. He didn’t hold back when he knocked me down.

No, focus, dammit.

Shaking my head, blood pouring in a steady stream from a cut on my eyebrow, I push off the wall and continue down the hallway, glancing behind me every few seconds.

He’s nowhere in sight, and I soon find out why when I turn the next corner.

Moonlight streaks through the window beside him, bathing his imposing form in an ethereal glow as he watches me from behind his mask.

I’m unsteady on my feet, dizzy from the blow, and he cocks his head, intrigued.

I sway, trying to focus, but it’s difficult when I see two of him.

Tightening his grip on the hockey stick in his hand, he steps toward me, and I inch back, cursing my fucking dick for twitching at the sight of the weapon in his hand—the damage it can do if he catches me.

Focus, Blaise.

I need to remove his mask somehow. Expose his identity so that I can destroy him for thinking he could threaten me without consequences.

His blurring shape morphs again, splitting from two into three before merging back into one. I chuckle as I stumble back, blood stinging my eyes. I’m so fucking screwed. But hey, that’s what makes it so damn exciting, right? Very few things in life thrill me, and this masked man might be as unhinged as I am.

I extend my arm, pointing at him, and flash a feral smile. “Catch me if you can, fucker.” Spinning around, I run in the opposite direction, flying down the next corridor, ignoring the stabbing pain in my skull and the burning muscles in my thighs.

The faster I run, the more excited I get, and the more I wish—no, hope—that he’ll beat me bloodied with the stick before fucking me hard and making me feel something real for once.

Wait?

Fuck me?

Yeah, I’ve lost it.

The thought has more laughter spilling from my lips. I must have a concussion. Why else would I be this enthralled by a masked psychopath with an erection chasing me like a bloodthirsty lunatic? This is the stuff of horror movies, and I’m here for it.

I throw a glance behind me, seeing him getting closer.

Shit…

Darting inside the nearest lecture hall, I slam the door shut, ramming my shoulder against it, but I’m not fast enough, and the wood crashes against his hockey stick.

Jesus fuck… I grunt, shoving harder against the stick, then spin around, my eyes darting across the empty hall. The only other exit is across the room.

When the door pushes against my back, I make a rash decision to dash for the rows of raised seats.

I fly up the steps, throwing myself into one of the rows, jumping over the back of seats, ascending higher and higher. I’m weak, and my attacker laughs, knocking the hockey stick against the furniture.

“Where are you going?” he shouts as I scale a bench, and the sound of his voice sends me crashing to the dirty floor between two rows.

I wince in pain, clutching my elbow. Fuck me, that hurt! My chest shakes with silent laughter. How the hell did I find myself trapped in a lecture hall by a fucking madman whose cock I’ve sucked?

Grabbing hold of the nearest seat, I pull myself up, grimacing as pain jabs at my skull. I’ll feel fantastic tomorrow.

I breathe through gritted teeth, my eyes tracking his every move while I try to gain control of my body. There are two more rows behind me. If I’m quick, I might reach the doors at the top.

When he’s at the end of my row, I swallow down a spike of exhilaration, watching him approach. Dark eyes peer at me through his mask. He takes his sweet time, one booted step in front of the other, his black jeans straining against his muscular legs.

Kneeling on the floor with my injured elbow clasped tightly against my heaving chest, I bare my bloodied teeth while trying my damn hardest not to stare at his thick bulge. But fuck me; I can see the outline of his hard dick. I’m an injured animal, playing dead at the feet of his attacker. Something about that turns me the hell on.

Not only that… Something about my attacker reminds me of Cole. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but it’s there in the tense sway of his broad shoulders and that searing gaze.

My heart thuds harder in response, and I allow myself to indulge in the fantasy of my tormented stepbrother being my late-night stalker. How far would I let him descend into the dark night with me before steering him back into the light where he belongs? Or would I take him hostage, dragging him farther into the shadows? He’s too good for a soul like me and too fucking pure, but that’s what makes him so irresistible. I want a taste.

As the hockey stick slides beneath my chin and tilts it up, I stare into the gleaming eyes behind the mask, and for one moment, it’s Cole who stares back at me—conflicted, aroused, fucked up.

A smile plays at the corner of my lips, my heart finding a steady rhythm as I dig my fingers into my palms. The thing about injured animals who play dead is that they don’t stay down for long. It’s a ruse—a game of ‘pretend’ to buy time.

I launch myself at his ankles, taking him by surprise and sending him crashing to the floor. He throws his arms out, but it’s too late—his breath gets knocked from his lungs.

Hurling myself on top of him, I try to grab his mask, fighting with his flailing arms and wriggling body. We roll in the small row like tumbleweeds, knocking against the seats, grunting and cursing, flinging punches until we’re both sweaty and out of breath.

When I start to succumb to my injuries, the weaker of us, I jump up and try to launch myself over the back of the row, but my attacker grabs hold of my ankle and hauls me down.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’m on my back, and he’s hovering over me with the hockey stick pressed against my esophagus. This is it. I can’t fight anymore. I’m too weak and dizzy, coughing and spluttering beneath the unyielding pressure on my throat. I attempt to shove the stick away, grunting from the effort. My attempts are pathetic. Kicking my legs out on the floor, my hips buck.

“I can feel how hard you are,” he taunts, his voice getting lost in the music, but I hear the hunger behind those cruel words. He rolls his hips, grinding his thick dick against mine, and I whimper, unsure if I want to fight him as he thrusts into me again.

“Say it,” he urges, obliterating my defenses with his next crash wave against my throbbing length.

Our cocks rub together through our pants. I part my legs, inviting him closer, and we stare into each other’s eyes.

Who are you?

My trembling breath twirls past my parted lips, and I clutch his hoodie at his sides, wringing and creasing the fabric.

He rocks harder against me, then tosses the stick aside and wraps his hand around my throat. “Say it.”

“I’m a good boy.”

Shifting, he keeps me pinned to the floor while ripping my pants open and fisting my weeping dick. This is it. I could tear off his mask and find out who he is once and for all, but my eyes roll back when his calloused hand slides over my length, from root to tip and back down. I crane my neck, raking my teeth over my bloodied lip, losing myself in a dangerous fantasy.

“Such a good fucking boy, huh?” His words are cruel and cold, yet heated, dripping with something…all too familiar.

Cole…

Images of him laughing on the football field with his helmet balanced under his tanned arm, covered in sweat as Samson ruffles his already mussed-up hair, flash through my mind—the feel of his warm chest against my arm when he brushes past me in the kitchen doorway, his eyes burning into mine for a split second before he’s gone again.

I bite my lip hard enough to hurt, needing the pain to settle my throbbing heart, thrusting into my tormentor’s next stroke.

A ragged breath cuts me open as it expands my aching chest. This is more than bodily pleasure. This is rapture…surrender.

I’m coming apart to thoughts of my stepbrother while a stranger jerks my dick.

“Look at me,” he orders, releasing my throat to clasp my chin, and our eyes clash, sending sparks to my pulsing dick. “I need those eyes on me when you come all over my hand.”

Who are you?

He digs his ruthless fingers into the stubble on my chin, his eyes burning into me. My hips meet his touch, rocking and thrusting. I’m trembling.

As he increases his pace, I struggle to keep my eyes open. Fuck, I’m so close. His grip tightens when my lashes threaten to flutter closed, and I break out into a cold sweat, my balls drawing up.

Moaning, I fist his hair, needing to feel the soft strands between my fingers, but he bats me off before trapping my wrists above my head in one of his hands.

His eyes fly over my face as I shudder beneath his weight. Where do I know those eyes from? I imagine it’s Cole’s eyes staring down at me with his hand on my cock, stroking and smearing the precum over my veiny length.

My damp clothes stick to my skin, cool against my heated flesh. I’m burning up, caught in those eyes.

I’m helpless.

Defenseless.

“Good boy,” he praises, grinding against my thigh.

We move like frothy waves on an ocean, rocking on the grimy floor while gazing at each other. I can’t hold back the climax, not when I scan the crack in his mask, seeing the tanned skin beneath. What if I remove it and find Cole staring back at me with his ruffled dark hair and tormented eyes?

Fuck…

I come all over his hand, quivering, as moans rip from my throat. I bite down hard on my lip to suppress them, but I don’t look away from his eyes. No, I lose myself in him completely as pleasure stiffens every muscle in my tender, bruised body.

I’m ruined.

He slows his slick hand on my dick and stares at me for a fragile, throbbing minute. We don’t speak.

A line has been drawn in the sand on this battlefield.

Then he’s gone, fleeing the room before I recover from his onslaught.

Wise choice.

“Fuck it all to hell,” I curse, dragging my hand down my face.

It comes away slick with blood, a crimson rivulet trailing from my palm down my wrist before soaking my sleeve.

My teeth grind together, and I fist my trembling hand, lowering it by my side.

I feel dirty, but not because I let some stranger with a hockey stick ravage me like an animal. No, I loved the chase and adrenaline, but it wasn’t Cole. It wasn’t my infuriating stepbrother—the one guy who could cut through this numbness with a single look. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I pining after him? And why do I feel this foreign sense of loyalty?