15. Miller

Ryan is wearing a gunmetal-gray T-shirt with long sleeves that he’s pushed to his elbows. His forearms look fucking hot. The sun hits them and reflects off the dark hair scattered there. A thick vein tracks down his arm and meanders to the back of his hand. We’re walking to class mostly in silence. Well, he’s silent. I’m talking. Now and again, he rewards me with a bored-sounding, “Hm.”

For some reason, that bored-sounding hm means more coming from him than all the lavish attention I get from other people rolled into one. I turn to him and watch as he bats his hair out of his face. Wavy and dark. Unruly like him. My eyes land on his lips, and I find myself unable to look away. I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. I’ve tried and tried. I can’t. I know what they feel like, those lips on mine. That tongue rubbing against mine. They feel good, and more than that, they feel right.

“You know what, bud—”

He cuts me off. “Don’t call me bud.”

“Can I call you baby instead?”

“Definitely not.” It gives me the same good-bad feeling I always get when he rejects me.

My insides spark and start quivering.

I love it.

His face is hard and serious. A horizontal line for a mouth and two tiny vertical ones between his eyebrows. I decide to up the ante. I fall into step with him, taking a quick breath before saying what I’m thinking. No pause, no hesitation. I just spit it out. “I think I have a thing for you.”

He doesn’t skip a beat. “No, you don’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I do. I have a huge thing for you. I think it might be serious.”

“You wouldn’t know a thing for someone other than yourself if it hit you in the face.”

I’m not surprised by his reaction. Far from it. Anything else would have surprised me, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting a little. As always with Ryan, it’s the kind of little sting that warms up once it’s landed, sinking into me and twisting something inside me that makes me want more.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” I agree in a way that I hope sounds good-natured and reasonable. I’m quiet for a while, leaving him to settle and collect himself, lulling him into a false sense of security. Then I hit him with, “Hey, Ryan, if I don’t have a thing for you, why can’t I stop thinking of you? ‘Cause I can’t. I’ve tried. I think about you all the time.”

He doesn’t answer. I can tell he thinks I’m talking complete shit. Or at least, I can tell that’s what he’s trying to tell himself. Under the thick, knitted brows and all his bullshit, beneath the sharp twitch of his head and the slight huff that accompanied it, I see it. It’s tiny. Microscopic. A slight intake of breath and a slow exhale as he tries not to smile.

Trip and Dean spot us as we cross the quad and come over. Dean greets me with his usual exuberance, and Trip is quick to offer me some Cheetos. I decline, but Ryan takes a handful and shovels them into his mouth, dropping a few on the grass where he stands. He sees me watching him, squirming in discomfort, when he realizes he’s just been caught doing something nice for someone else.

As he gets ready to head off to his lecture, I swing my arm back and land a little tap on his ass. And by tap, I mean a loud, juicy slap that reverberates through the quad and makes his ass cheek jiggle in the palm of my hand. The rush it gives me to think of his smooth olive skin turning pink in his pants is hard to describe.

Is it wrong of me?

Maybe, but that doesn’t mean it’s not right for me.

His head flies back, and he spins around. Eyes flashing in indignance and accusation. Indignance, accusation, and something else. I see it. Buried deeply in black holes and wild green and gold striations. It’s there. It’s unmistakable. A sullen glare. A subtle snarl. And a quick, dark flash of heat.

I’ve been waiting for him for what feels like hours. I’m lying on my bed now, but I laid on his bed for a while, turning my face into his pillow and sniffing deeply as I stroked my dick through my jeans. I didn’t stay there for long because I kept thinking I could hear the sound of his shoes on the tile in the hallway. I was sure to straighten the covers thoroughly when I got up. It’s one thing soliciting someone for sexual favors and stalking them mildly—or following them intently, depending on how you choose to look at these kinds of things—but it’s quite another to get to the point where you’re smelling their bedding.

Even I know that’s taking it too far.

It’s just that I’ve never felt like this before. I’ve wanted people in the past, sure. I’ve wanted them, and I’ve gotten them, but I’ve never wanted them like this. This is with me all the time, under my skin, simmering, heating me from the inside, burning when he’s close. And lately, since the kiss, it burns even worse when he isn’t.

I hear the key in the lock at last, and as much as I want to jump up and open the door for him, I take the time to pose myself as a person who still has an ounce of their shit together. I cross my legs at the feet and put my hands behind my head. As soon as I do it, I hate it, so I roll over and jump up. The door is open and he’s inside before I have time to lean my hand casually against my desk, leaving me standing awkwardly, with one foot on the floor and the other still on the bed. I quickly correct my stance, but it doesn’t seem to matter. His chin is drawn down to his chest and he’s looking up at me through dark lashes. His lips are parted slightly, and he flicks his gaze to the cash on my desk. He swallows and takes a deep breath, then walks toward me.

He puts his hand out to take the money, but I’m faster. I cover it with my hand and smile at his confusion.

“New deal,” I say. He sighs and looks at the ceiling for a moment before fixing a blistering gaze on me. “Same money. New service.”

“What?”

“I don’t want your mouth. I want your ass.” His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth drops open. “Relax.” I hold both hands out to him, showing him my open palms as a peace offering. “I won’t put my dick anywhere near you. Not today anyway.” His shoulders drop by half an inch or so. “I only want to rim you. I’ll do all the work. All you have to do is let me.”

It takes him a second to register what I’ve said, and then laughter rips out of him. Long, coarse streams of it. A frothy staccato. It shakes him and cranks his mouth wide open, all but screwing his eyes shut before doubling him over.

“Is that a ye—”

That makes him laugh harder. “Um, yeah, Miller. It’s a yes.” He holds back a snort, nodding at me caustically. “If you want to pay me five hundred dollars to kiss my ass, go right ahead. Be my guest.”

If he thinks I’m going to be offended by that, boy, is he wrong. I yank my Henley off and drop it onto the floor. He looks taken aback for a split second but quickly recovers and does the same with his top.

“Shower,” I bark.

He turns and starts walking, and as he does, I catch up with him and wrap an arm tightly around his chest, the other pressed hard against his lower back, manhandling him to get him to the bathroom faster. I turn the shower on, unbutton his jeans, and push them down along with his boxer briefs in one rough motion. He kicks his shoes off as I empty my phone, keys, and wallet from my pockets and then crouch to pull his pants and socks off.

The water is hot by the time I get to my feet and my breathing is uneven. Ryan Haraway is stark naked before me. A vision of muscle and skin and hair and bared teeth. I shove him into the shower and follow him in with my jeans still on. Am I thinking clearly? Not really, no. My heart is pounding, beating so hard and fast that I hear a hissing sound when I move my head.

I know one thing and one thing only: urgency.

The shower cubicle is small, tiled from floor to ceiling in a basic white tile. Ryan’s pressed up against me, or I’m pressed up against him, I can’t tell which. He has his back to me, and as the hot water hits me and runs down one side of my body, things slow. I reach around and allow my hands to snake up his chest and then down again, relishing the warmth of his skin and the water trickling down it. I reach for the soap before he does, rubbing my hands together and then rubbing them all over him. Over his pecs and his abs, up his arms, and then slowly down them. I do it again and again. I do it until the soap has all washed away, and then I do it once more just to gorge myself on him.

He feels good. God, he feels good. Hard, lean, and bulky in all the right places. I take his wrists in both hands and place his hands on the wall of the shower, palms down flat. He breathes heavily but doesn’t object. He stiffens when I run soapy hands up his sides. I wash under his arms, suds forming as I comb my fingers through the thick, dark hair I find there. I let them grow tangled in it, and when I withdraw them, I tug gently, drawing a soft sigh from him. His head drops forward, hanging down, making his shoulder blades cast sexy, winged shadows across his back as I start working my way down his body.

My hands slide over his skin, slippery with water and soap, cupping his pecs and flicking my thumbs over his taut peaked nipples. I lean my chin on his shoulder and look down, not caring at all that water is pelting me in the face because I see his boner jutting out from his body. Standing firm. Standing strong. My own cock bucks in my pants, straining against the confines of wet denim. I trace the ravines that run down his torso all the way down to the lines of the V that leads to his dick, watching my hand as it moves over his skin. The temptation to follow the path of the V is almost overwhelming. My blood has run thick. Congealed and set. My thoughts are moving decidedly slowly.

I want to touch him. I do. I want his thick, meaty cock in my hand so much I can taste it, and holy shit, it tastes good.

But that’s not what I bought, so I don’t do it.

Instead, I soap my hands again and lather his back. I find the tension he carries in his shoulders and dig my thumbs into it until he lifts his head and arches it back. Then I follow the curve of his spine down the center of him slowly, memorizing every knob of his vertebra, committing it to memory for another time. I take hold of his hips, holding him in place as I gently press my thumbs into the little dimples just above where his back morphs into his ass.

I sweep my hands over his cheeks, rubbing water and soap into them and then off them, broadening the circles every time I orbit. Finally, I run my fingers down his crack. A light touch but one he feels strongly. He flinches so hard that the muscles in his back flex. He quickly corrects, forcing himself to relax. I do it again with more soap, and this time, I take the back of his neck in my free hand and gently push him forward. I wash from the top of his crack to the bottom of his taint, moving in slow circular motions when I pass his hole.

He plants an elbow and forearm against the wall and rests his forehead on it.

I start moving again from the top of his crack, edging my way down slowly, “One finger,” I whisper. “Just one. Keep still, and it won’t hurt.”

His chest heaves, and he nods, dropping his head lower, trying to hide but not hiding a thing.

My soapy digit circles his pucker and then finds its way in. I nudge softly, asking for purchase and finding it when my finger slips in. His body spasms, gripping me hard, trying to push me out. I don’t let it. I push in harder. I slide into his tight chute all the way to the knuckle, swiveling my finger around once or twice as he jerks forward and steps in place.

I pull out with enormous regret, panting and fighting the deep groan rising inside me. I free the shower nozzle from its hook and rinse him off, holding his cheeks apart to make sure I won’t taste any soap.

I turn the water off and bundle him out, reaching for his towel and wrapping it around him before he has a chance to do it himself. I dry him quickly, almost roughly, leaving his skin pink from the combination of my attention and the hot water. I dry his back and chest in this way, taking my time to pat his ass dry until he grunts and blasts a warning puff of air through his teeth. Then I sink to my knees and dry his legs one at a time, lifting one foot and then the other to ensure he won’t slip.

I planned on laying him out on my bed, on his belly. I thought it might be fun to lift his hips and shove a couple of pillows under them, spreading his legs and leaving him like that so I could enjoy the view of him spread-eagled and waiting. I’ve been thinking of doing it since I saw him this morning. Since I slapped his ass in the quad and he looked at me like that. With hatred and heat.

I haven’t thought of anything else all day.

I’m sitting back on my heels now, looking up at the spectacular sight of his ass from below, and I realize I’ve gone as far as I can. I can’t move. I can’t go anywhere or do anything that doesn’t directly involve me thrusting my tongue into Ryan’s ass right the fuck now.

I take his cheeks in both hands, kneading them and moaning softly as my fingers dig into his flesh. Then, I pull them apart.

His hole is perfection. Tiny and tight. A pinched, hairy little knothole clenching strongly to keep me out. I smile and bite down on my lip to stop the gurgling sound trying to escape, then I press his cheeks together and kiss the ever-loving shit out of them. Soft, chaste pecks on smooth skin, skin that warms my lips and sends jolts down my spine. Hard, filthy kisses with teeth that make him blow rushed breaths out of his mouth.

“Widen your stance,” I say as I part his cheeks again. He does, spreading his legs wider than his shoulders and leaning forward to brace himself against the sink. It almost undoes me. I’m on my knees. My dick is struggling against the confines of soaking-wet jeans, kneeling in a puddle of water. I haven’t even licked him yet, and my balls are already pulled up tightly against my body.

I rectify that quickly, licking a thick stripe from as low on his taint as I can reach, traveling up the middle of him, lifting at the last moment to narrowly miss his hole. I do it again. And again, waiting until his back arches and my view of his ass changes from spectacular to life-changing. His hole tightens, a little star trying to make itself disappear, and then it relaxes. Winking at me. Inviting me in.

I dive in.

I smash my face into the soft heaven that is his ass and frantically tongue him. Quick, desperate strokes that gradually slow when I hear his first moan. It’s soft, strangled and strained, spilling through gritted teeth.

I knead his cheeks again, harder and rougher this time, parting him firmly, opening him for my assault. He gasps and whips his head up and then drops it down again. It’s the last thing I see before I sink in. I lathe him with my tongue, nudging and pushing, exploring, finding the point of least resistance, and worming my tongue into it. The sound he makes now is different. It’s loud. Almost angry. It’s beautiful. Hoarse and hungry and mine.

It’s mine.

I made it, so it’s mine.

All mine.

I paw him and lick him and fuck his ass with my tongue, thrusting in and out until his knees give way, and he’s left dancing on the spot, legs quivering, moaning his ass off. I’m moaning too. Puffed, frantic sounds that mingle with his, both of us saying exactly the same thing.

I need to come!

“Can I touch it?” I groan. “Your dick. Please. I want it.”

“No,” he says, and then a long, pained whine leaves him.

“Unggg,” I choke out, drunk, almost blind with lust. I struggle to open my fly. Sopping wet fabric sticks to my skin and obstructs my path. I spit loudly into my palm as soon as I have my dick out and start stroking, vision flickering and fading the second I touch myself. “Reach back,” I slur. “Hold yourself open.”

He takes a second or two to respond. Reeling, chest heaving, fighting a cruel internal battle, and then finally relenting. He takes a cheek in both hands and pries them open, offering me his slick, shiny hole. I tongue-fuck him again. Shoving my tongue as deep into him as I possibly can. It’s not pretty or controlled this time. It’s wild and lustful and filthy. My mouth is wide open, sucking and kissing, licking every part of him I can reach.

My hips rock, jerking and making me moan into the middle of him as my pleasure builds and builds. It’s thick and heavy. Dense and unstoppable. It fills me, stretching and thickening me until I feel like I’m going to explode.

And then I do.

I nut so hard come sprays all over the floor. Between his legs. On his feet. And all over me. Pleasure grips me and shakes me, leaving me spasming and helpless, crying out loudly with each surge.

When it’s over, I’m shocked. My balls ache, and my dick is wildly oversensitive. Ryan is still bent over and doesn’t move for several long seconds. His forehead is still leaning against the mirror above the sink. He’s still holding his cheeks open. He lets go at last and straightens himself up. I look up and see him take in his reflection. He looks haunted and lost. Horny and angry about it. Lips thick with arousal, eyes black with frustration.

I cup his ass cheek gently, tentatively at first, waiting to see if he’ll slap me away. When he doesn’t, I lean in and kiss his cheek softly. Then harder. Then, a little harder. My jaw tenses from the sight, sound, and smell of him. Tan mounds of flesh, loud raspy breaths, my soap, his skin, and his own sultry musk.

The idea comes to me in waves, none of them totally conscious, but they drive me forward. I open my mouth and take in as much of his smooth flesh as I can. I feel the firmness of it in my mouth, and I sigh in pleasure.

Then I bite down.

He cries out, arching forward and jumping away with a hand clamped tightly over the marks my teeth left on his skin. He looks down at me, eyes blazing, as his cry bounces off mirror and tile.

He looks as surprised as I am because, yeah, sure, there was pain in his cry. I’m not saying there wasn’t. What I am saying is that there was pleasure too. Raw, rampant pleasure that’s so real and so close I can feel it as if it is my own.

“You’re so horny,” I say sympathetically.

“No, I’m not!”

“‘Course you’re horny. Look how hard you are.”

“I’m not horny. I’m humiliated.”

“You like being humiliated, huh?”

“No,” he says as if that’s the most implausible thing he’s heard yet. “No, I don’t fucking well like it. My dick does.”

“Mmph,” I say. “Looks like your dick and I have yet another common interest.”

Since he’s turned to face me and I’m already on my knees, I tilt my head back and part my lips, letting my tongue show.

“Mouth. Hands. Ass. Whatever you want, Ry. It’s yours,” I offer. He shakes his head without breaking eye contact. He looks crazed. Wild and unhinged. Eyes hooded. Balls swollen and dick so hard it looks almost purple. “You’re your own worst enemy, you know that?”

“Oh, please,” he says with a sharp twitch of his head. “You think I’ve never heard that before?”

I start laughing. Can’t help it. He tries so hard to hide. Not just physically. He tries to hide what he’s thinking and feeling too. I get it. He has trust issues, and I get how he got them. I don’t want it for him. It’s just that it’s weird because, for me, what he says and how he acts don’t line up at all with what I feel when I’m with him. It’s jarring and confusing and attractive as hell.

He turns and heads out of the bathroom, stepping unsteadily over the puddles I’ve made on the floor. By the time I’ve cleaned up, he’s gone.

It’s late when he gets back. Really late. After midnight. I’ve been waiting for him for hours. Wondering where he is and with whom. Wondering what he’s doing and despising the scenarios that run through my mind. Rightly or wrongly, I’m in a fury about it.

“Where’ve you been?” I demand.

“Nowhere.” For someone who’s been nowhere, he sounds really fucking happy about it.

“I’m going to fuck your ass soon,” I tell him to take the wind out of his sails. “You might not know it, but believe me, it’s going to happen.” I regret saying it like that almost as soon as the words leave my mouth.

“That right?” There’s an odd tone in his voice. Calm and removed, not like him at all. I honestly can’t tell if he believes me, and that inflames me so much it takes everything I have not to turn the lights on and rip the covers off him right now.

“Yeah. I’m going to. I’m going to fuck you real good. I’m going to split you open and fuck you so hard you never, ever forget the way my dick feels in your ass.”

He doesn’t answer.

When I wake up, I feel bad about what I said. I went too far. I’m losing my shit, but that’s no excuse to harass him. I don’t know what the fuck’s gotten into me, but I don’t like it. I need to get myself together.

“Sorry about last night,” I say as soon as he opens his eyes and blinks into the light.

He sits up, looking confused, and takes a minute to find focus and swipe the back of his hand against the corner of his mouth.

“What are you sorry about? Threatening to split my ass open or bringing my virtue into question?” he asks sarcastically.

It’s so hot hearing him talk like this that I lose my train of thought for a second.

“Both,” I say when I recover.

“It’s fine. It’s what I expect from you.”

That angers me more than waiting for him last night did.

He thinks this is who I am? He thinks I do this kind of thing all the time? He doesn’t have the first clue about who I am.

“You think I’m like this? You think this is normal for me?”

He bobs his head slowly. “Yeah. Absolutely. I think you’re exactly like this.”

“I’m not.” He laughs long and loudly, face creasing and looking so goddamn sexy and complicated and impossible that I hear myself saying, “No more blowjobs. No more money. No more of this shit.”

“Fine by me.”