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Seven

”Iwasn’t planning on it, no.”

This appeared to amuse him. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t enjoy having poisonous, deadly things in my living space.”

“Christ, I thought you were reading classics and literature, not drama.” He pushed past me with the same entitlement he’d always had, like he owned every space he existed in, even my dorm room.

Again, I considered running. Walking out, closing the door behind me, and going far far away.

“Close the door,” he said as he began to pinch off his gloves.

Steeling myself with a deep breath, I closed the door.

He unwrapped the scarf he wore and tossed both it and the gloves down on my armchair. It wasn’t a large space, the dorm room, and he was already far too close to me. It seemed absurd that he was there at all, after all this time; how he’d just strode back into my life as easily as he’d strode out.

I stayed near the door. His scent was already on me and I didn’t know what I might do if he got within arms reach. Fortunately, I’d set the vodka on the desk, which was by the door, and so I reached out for it and brought it to my mouth.

Caspien watched.

“Drink?” I asked him.

“I’m not convinced that’s what that is.” He said, looking around, mouth twisted in what I read as distaste.

“How did you even find me?”

He looked at me and frowned. “Were you hiding? I was quite aware you were at Oxford, Jude.”

“I meant here. Now.”

“Oh. Well, Finlay told me of course.”

I wondered what else Finlay had told him. Suddenly, those thoughts I’d had about having him find out about Finn and I were less fantastical and far-fetched. What would he do if he knew? Would he care? I suspected not.

“Of course, he did.” I took another drink.

He said nothing, glancing around my room again as though he wanted to burn it, or clean it.

“What are you doing here, Cas?”

“In England? At Finn’s party? At your dorm? Be specific.”

My fist curled around the bottle. “Here. In front of me. Why are you here, right now?”

I saw some of his composure slip a little. “You ran off. I wanted...I didn’t expect to see you there.”

“I suppose that makes both of us.” I glowered. The anger helped keep away some of the other thoughts scrabbling for attention in my vodka-soaked brain. Go to him. Hold him. Kiss him. Fuck him. Love him. Love him. Love, love, love …

“I was visiting Gideon in London, and then I had to be in the area,” he explained vaguely. “I told Finlay I’d drop by and wish him happy birthday.”

“That’s really lovely and all, but it doesn’t explain why you’re here. In my dorm. Why I’m having to look at you.”

“Are you and Finlay fucking?” he asked as though I hadn’t said anything at all. I couldn’t tell how he felt about it; it was said with only the barest hint of curiosity.

“What has that got to do with you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“Then why ask?”

“I am curious, is all.”

“Didn’t you ask Finn?”

“He said that you were friends.”

I smiled. “Then that’s what we are. Friends.”

Caspien stared at me for a few long moments before he came toward me. He reached out and took the bottle of cheap supermarket-brand vodka, brought it to his lips, nose wrinkling slightly as he did, and took a large gulp. After he’d swallowed, he let out a gasp, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“If you’re going to drink yourself to death, the least you could do is make sure it’s something decent,” he said, disdainful, as he held the bottle out to me.

“Yeah, well, we can’t all afford to drink $500 bottles of wine with dinner.” I regretted saying it immediately. He’d posted the picture on his Instagram a few months ago. I didn’t go there almost as much as I used to, but him knowing that I went there at all made me feel ill.

He spared me the mortification by saying nothing.

“What, your trust fund isn’t enough to cover a bottle of decent wine?” He lifted an eyebrow.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Cas?” I pressed. “You came all the way over here to ask me about Finn and make snide comments about my drinking, really?” After everything that had happened, that’s all he wanted to say? “You could have called to do that.”

A beat. “And would you have answered?” he asked, his voice was softer. But I hardened myself against that because it wasn’t real. Imagining his voice being soft was my mind inventing things I wanted to be true.

“Yes,” I admitted. “But that would be a mistake: everything about you was, is, a bloody mistake.” I thought I saw him flinch a little at this.

“You finally hate me then.”

“You tell me?” I asked, slamming my bottle down on the desk. “What are my eyes saying, Cas? Do I hate you?”

I could feel the alcohol in my bloodstream now, hot and fervid. I was taller now than the last time we’d been face to face, and from this angle I could see the faintest trace of circles beneath his eyes, a dullness in them that had never been there before – even when they were hard and cold, his eyes were always bright and sharp. His lips were pale and dry, but I’d never wanted to kiss them more.

“No,” he said, looking into my eyes. “You don’t hate me. You wish you did, but you don’t.”

I grabbed his arms and pushed, walking him backwards until he hit the wall. The smell of him hit me the way it always did, sharp and clean like the whitest freshest snow.

“I fucking hate you,” I hissed, quietly.

“You’ve always been a particularly bad liar, Jude. I’d have thought all these hours spent with Gideon might have taught you a thing or two, made you better at it, but it seems not”

I used my body to press him into the wall, almost groaning out loud at the feel of him against me after so long. My dick grew hard instantly, the feel of him everything I’d lost and seemed to have found again. Even if it was just for moments.

I said, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

His eyes dropped, slowly, to my mouth. He said, “Yes, well, it seems I have rather a propensity for making mistakes.”

My head was buzzing loud, my blood as wild for him as it always was. But to have him here, pressed to me, body warm and real, felt desperately vital in some way. A fierce, urgent thing beneath my skin. The potential of it breaking loose frightened me.

I brought my hand up, intending to brush it over his cheek, shift that section of hair back so that I could see all of his face, but I couldn’t do it. Was too afraid of touching him. Of what it might unleash. Instead, I thumped my fist against the wall beside his head. His breathing was fast and hard but he didn’t flinch, as though he expected it.

“Jude,” he said.

He wasn’t touching me, not voluntarily, not anywhere on my body; I was pressed against him, and he was merely allowing it to happen. But when he said my name, Christ, whenever he said my name, it felt like the most tender caress.

Against all reason and better judgement, I dropped my head onto his shoulder, turning it so that I could press my nose against his neck and inhale. I nosed gently at the skin, breathing him in. I waited for him to mock me, push me away, or tell me to stop, but he did neither. Instead, he angled his head to give me better access. I breathed deeper.

Then I felt his hand on my dick. I groaned.

Drunk on both him and the cheap vodka, I pushed into it. I was already rock hard, but his hand on it loosened the last of my fear and resolve. I grabbed his face and turned it toward me, thrusting my tongue into his mouth. It opened readily, warm and hot and sweet as I remembered.

I kissed and bit and breathed him in, rough with his mouth, before I dragged my lips down over his chin and his jaw and his neck. Caspien fumbled with my waistband, sliding his hand inside my sweats as he panted. Before he got his hand around my bare dick, I gasped and pulled back.

I don’t remember how my hand got to his throat, but it was there, wrapped around it, as I held his head against the wall.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

His mouth was a ruin. Red and wet and asking to be fucked. His eyes were glazed over with something I remembered painfully well. Lust.

“I’d have thought that rather obvious, no?” He stroked my length, thumbing the tip in a way that sent sparks shooting through my balls.

I squeezed his throat tighter.

“Cas,” I warned. “This isn’t going to stop at a wank, or even a blowjob. If you don’t stop.” I didn’t want him to stop. I let out a desperate moan as his perfect fingers traced lower, over my balls.

“What are you going to do?” he taunted. “Finally shove your dick in me?”

The image blasted itself across my frontal lobe. Cas bent over, open and begging. Me shoving into him over and over and over. Punishing him for everything he’d done. Taking from him what I’d wanted for so long. What I deserved to have. Drinking up his pleas for me to slow or stop and ignoring every single one. There was no hesitation or confusion about what I wanted when it came to him. There never had been. I was almost feral with the certainty of what I wanted from Cas.

I sprang back, away from him, alarmed by the realisation.

“You need to leave,” I said, turning from him. I went to the desk and lifted the bottle again, all but pouring it down my throat. It burned. Everything in me burned. Dangerous and unstoppable, on the cusp of something incendiary and uncontainable.

I turned to see him lounging against the wall where I’d left him, watching me, breathing a little quick. It was a long time before he spoke.

“I think about it sometimes,” he said. “Your perfect dick. About how it would feel in me. I do regret ending things with you before trying it out.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I said but my breath was coming in hot, heavy pants.

I’d imagined seeing him again so many times, hours and hours of walkthroughs, of contemplating what I’d say when I got the chance to look him in the eye, how much better I’d be. How this time I’d stand up tall, how I’d not embarrass myself again. I’d be in control, sensible, cunning.

But, once again he’d reduced me to a fucking animal. From beaten and broken in that birdwatcher’s hut to this. A fucking predator.

Caspien pushed off the wall, but instead of going toward the door to leave, he came toward me – slowly, his calculated gaze fixed on mine.

No, I wasn’t the predator. He was. He’d always been the one hunting me. I’d only ever tried to survive him.

“Sometimes I wish you’d done it that day. Instead of crying and begging the way you did,” his mouth twisted with contempt. “I wish you’d held me down and fucked me – who knows, maybe things would have turned out differently if you’d behaved like a man instead of a little boy.”

Something snapped.

I slammed the bottle down, heard it topple and glug onto the carpet, and reached for him. He seemed to weigh nothing as I threw him on the bed. He made some half-hearted attempt at fighting me at first, but then I felt his body go pliant and loose, opening itself to me. I think he took his coat off himself, or it shrugged off his shoulders as we tussled. I reached for his belt, black and thin around his slim waist, and pulled at it before tearing down his trousers. He wore black briefs, neat and tight against his body which I also tore at with a feral need. Layers. He wore a shirt and a pullover, and we both fought the fabric off his body.

When he was naked but for his trousers at his ankles and his shoes and socks, I flipped him over so that he was on his front and grabbed him by the hips to pull him up towards my mouth. I’d never done this before, eaten someone’s ass, and I don’t recall it being a conscious thought even then. It was only need, a crushing overwhelming need to taste him and open him, get him wet and ready before I fucked him. I spat and licked and shoved my tongue into him over and over. My fingers, too, pushing and spearing in and out. I watched him writhe and pant and twist, and I gave him more than what I thought he could stand if the noises he made were any indication.

I tried not to think about Blackwell, about how intimately he knew this part of Caspien’s body, but it was impossible and so I licked and ate and sucked at every part of skin I could reach. Jealousy and possessiveness fought with lust and arousal, which only made me rougher.

I forced him to fuck my mouth, pulling hard on his hips as I made a meal of him. When I felt him reach for his dick, I grabbed his hand and held it in mine before slapping him hard on the side of his ass. He stopped moving then.

When I leaned back to look at his hole, I saw it was red, open, and clenching desperately.

I pulled his legs out from under him and he pitched face forward, then I climbed onto him, yanking down my sweats. I was painfully hard, throbbing and hot. I looked at his hole: I was going to ruin it.

“I don’t think I’ll use a condom, you know,” I said, running my cock over his gaping hole. It was thick and red and angry against the faded golden tan of his ass, an ass which was pinked from my mouth and hands. “I think I’ll fuck you raw. Make you go back to him with my come inside you.”

He made a desperate whimpering noise against the duvet. I leaned forward and dropped another mouthful of spit into his open hole.

I felt more powerful than I ever had in my life. I’d never felt so divinely righteous, so mighty, so completely in control of my own fate as I did then. Caspien under me and helpless, unable to say no, suffering me. It should have terrified me. And there was a low-level hum of terror at what I was prepared to do to him whether he wanted me to or not. I loved him, desperately, and he’d taken that love and turned it into this, turned me into this.

Or had this always lived inside me, dormant and ready to be unleashed? Whatever it was, he held the key to its cage. Only him.

Either way, I understood that there was a side of myself that existed only in opposition to him, a side that, when I was alone and tried to understand it, felt so separate from my conscious mind that I imagined it was what possession felt like.

I leaned forward and fisted, roughly, a handful of soft golden hair, pulling his head back to meet me.

“Tell me to stop, Cas,” I hissed in his ear. The head of my dick pulsed against his hole and I was sure I was asking only so I could refuse him. But I said again, “Tell me you don’t want this.”

His face was flushed with desire, and his eyes bright and alive as stars. He looked both furious and utterly resigned.

And in a voice that would haunt my dreams, he said, “Make it hurt.”

And, like always, I obeyed.

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