Library

16. Ryan

It’s been a very weird few days. I’ve been acting super weird. Weirder than usual, and I think we can all agree that’s cause for concern. I can’t seem to stop locking myself in the bathroom, pulling my pants down, and craning my neck to see the almost perfectly round mark on my ass. It started out red, the outline of a set of orthodontically perfect teeth clearly visible. Then it went purple. Now it’s blue with a little hint of yellow in the middle.

It’s fucking embarrassing, but I can’t stop doing it.

And since my pants are down and my junk is out, it seems only sensible to rub the fuck out of my dick, all the while closing my eyes as tightly as possible and trying—unsuccessfully—to block out all thoughts of what it felt like to have Miller’s tongue inside me.

Fuck, it felt good. Eyes-rolling-back-in-my-head good. The-end-of-the-world-is-nigh good. It wasn’t just his tongue that felt good either. It was his lips too. And his hands. And his breath on my skin.

Ngh.

If I continue at this rate, Miller will need to buy more of his expensive face moisturizer a lot sooner than he might think.

That’s not the only weird thing happening either. Miller has been behaving himself. It’s very jarring. Not kind of behaving himself. Not smiling with ulterior motives or anything like that. Actually behaving himself, and given everything I know about him, that in itself is very unusual. He’s been friendly and polite, even going so far as to give me space. He hasn’t been lurking in our room all the time, and he hasn’t even been drilling holes into the back of my head with his eyes when I have my back turned on him. He hasn’t been interrogating me about where I’ve been, and he hasn’t made a pass at me once in like four or five days. For him, that’s a record.

It’s a big relief. Obviously, it’s a relief.

I mean, yeah, the money was nice. Of course it was nice. It’s the most I’ve earned from any job I’ve ever had. It’s the first time I’ve had more than a couple hundred dollars in my bank account that wasn’t earmarked for something else. It’s a nice feeling to check your account and not feel sick with panic. It’s a huge relief. Anyone would enjoy it. It’s totally normal to like having money, and it’s totally normal not to be completely happy about not being able to get more. Anyone would feel a bit bleak about being cut off from this type of cash.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It definitely doesn’t mean anything.

Actually, you know what? It does. It means one thing. It means I’m human. That’s what it means.

I head out of the dorm to go to a lecture, and as I walk down the stairs, I run into Miller and Dean, who are on their way back from the gym.

“Yo, Ryan,” says Dean, stopping on the landing when he sees me. “You good?”

“Yeah, you?”

He smiles and nods and holds a fist in my direction. I bump my fist skittishly against his, feeling like a fraud. We all know I’m in no way cool enough to pull off an authentic-looking fist bump. That’s just a fact. I hate that I know Miller can probably tell how I’m feeling even more. Now that I know how observant he is, it’s even harder to know how to act around him.

“You coming for pizza tonight?” asks Dean.

“Nah, can’t.” Miller doesn’t react. No reaction whatsoever. Not a blink. Not a smile. Not an accusing glare. Nothing, so I tack on, “Em and I are going out. Yeah, we’re going out. We’re meeting Ben and Nic.” I let my voice drift to nothing, not least because I’m talking complete and utter bullshit.

“Nice,” says Miller, smile still notably absent. “Em’s a great girl.”

Em’s a great girl?

Em’s a great fucking girl?

Dean gives me a little shoulder butt and a pat on the back and then starts to head for the doorway. I stand frozen, dumb and confused about what I want from this inane interaction that I haven’t already got. Miller watches me thoughtfully as I try to figure it out. I can’t stand the look on his face so I turn and start walking. The second I do, I hear it, or feel it, or however the hell you describe a smile you can’t see but know for a fact is aimed straight at you. I spin around to catch him at it, and as I do, I’m all but toppled over by the resounding slap he lands on my ass.

My entire body bursts into heat. It travels through my flesh, up my spine, and makes my face hot with frustration.

“Ow! What the fuck?” I hiss.

“What?” he asks, raising his shoulders innocently. “Want me to do the other side so you’re evened out?”

I walk off as quickly as I can. I’m annoyed and irritated and humiliated to boot. Not least because the handprint on my ass is stinging, making me hot, burning me, and setting my dick and balls alight.

I was right about the smile though.

He was smiling. His whole face was alive with it. It was the worst smile I’ve seen on him yet. Sexy and seductive and lustful as fuck. It was terrible. It really was. It was so horrible it made me feel lightheaded and sick.

And if you want to know the worst thing about it—I’m not one hundred percent sure I hated it.

I round the corner and find my favorite section of the library completely deserted. My lungs empty the breath I didn’t know I was holding, and I feel myself relax. There are few things in life better than libraries and solitude. It’s heaven. A forest of books, a labyrinth of high shelves, a comforting cocoon of letters on pages, and complete and utter silence. I sit and lean back in my chair, relishing the peace, closing my eyes, and sighing so loudly that a librarian would probably shush me if there was one nearby.

I’m about to get my notes out of my bag and start reading through them when I’m hit by a familiar feeling. A hair-raising feeling of being watched. A feeling of gunmetal-gray eyes piercing deep into me. A feeling I factually hate but one I’ve found myself strangely adrift without for the past week or so.

I look behind me, and there Miller is, resting against a bookshelf with his arms crossed and one leg bent at the knee. A vision of blond arrogance wrapped in a crisp white sweater and eye-wateringly well-fitting jeans.

“What are you doing here?” I make no effort to remove the accusation from my words.

“I followed you.” He raises a careless shoulder. “I do that sometimes.”

I catch flies for a second. It seems like an odd and disturbing admission, even for Miller. What’s even more odd and disturbing is that my lungs expand when he says it, swelling and puffing my chest up. I quickly correct myself, sitting straight and fixing him with a disapproving look. I’m going to give myself a big lecture about this later, don’t you worry about that. It’s just that, right now, I’m in real-time, and I have to deal with Miller before I do anything else.

“Why?”

He shrugs again. “Dunno. Want to be close to you, I guess. Want to know where you go and what you do. Just want you, basically.”

His face is open and honest, totally unguarded when he says it, and it catches me off guard. Way, way off guard. My mouth moves a lot faster than my brain. “You know what to do if you want me.”

His lips tug back, full and luscious, and he lets his gaze run down my body. His eyes narrow and he cocks his erection at me. Openly flirtatious. Completely irresistible. “And what’s that, huh?”

I smile sweetly and rest my chin on one hand. “Pay me.”

The second I say it, my senses start screaming.

Danger. Hunter approaching. Run, dumbass, run!

I push my chair back and stand quickly, moving a few steps back to put as much space between him and me as possible. He moves slowly, sinuously, advancing on me with a menacing, almost-manic look in his eyes.

I find myself backed against a bookshelf, looking around hastily, unable to tell if I’m looking for help or checking to see if the coast is clear.

He reaches for his wallet. Big hands, soft supple brown leather with two Ms embossed onto it. He riffles through it and curses under his breath.

“I only have a hundred and”—he counts his small notes frantically—“twenty-three dollars on me.” I smile and shake my head with faux regret. “A kiss,” he breathes. “Just a kiss. Please.”

“You know what a kiss costs.”

He groans softly, advancing on me, blurring the books on the shelf behind him out, making the colors of the spines swim in a swirl of reds, blues, and greens. “What’ll this buy me?” He holds the money out, and I look on with interest as my hand reaches out and wraps around it.

“You can touch me. With your hands…and your mouth.” And his mouth? The fuck? That’s news to me. His eyelids drop to half-mast, and he groans again, this time in relief. It’s too much. Too close. Too hot. I can’t stand it, so I add, “But you can’t touch my mouth. A-and you can only touch skin you can see.”

I’m pleased with myself.

I do wish I hadn’t said he could use his mouth, but I think limiting him to skin he can see is borderline genius. I know I’m severely compromised right now, and I’m amazed I managed to come up with an offer like this. A tidbit. A taste. Something that won’t cost me anything, yet something that’s almost guaranteed to drive him crazy.

He takes his time putting his wallet away, flipping it closed and sliding it into his front pocket. For good measure, he takes his boner in his hand and rearranges it brazenly through his pants, smiling and squeezing it when he feels me looking. It unnerves me almost completely, but I quickly remind myself I have the upper hand here. I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to just below my elbows. My mouth is out of bounds, and he hardly has any skin to play with.

I’ll be fine.

Totally fine.

I finally have him right where I want him, and it’s a really, really good feeling. Smug with a rare, unfamiliar hint of what it would be like to have my shit together. I’m here for it.

Miller considers me for a while, grinning darkly, unnerving me quickly. Dismantling my smugness with remarkable ease. I try not to react when he moves toward me, but I feel the bookshelf behind me dig into my shoulder blades, so maybe I do. He runs a finger up the back of my middle finger, moving slowly but surely over nail and then bone, lighting a path up the back of my hand and up my arm. He stops moving when he gets to the cuff of my sleeve, but his touch keeps going. It travels through me even though he’s not moving, even though he’s not touching me at all. I try to think of something to say but come up with nothing. It’s a mercy. Believe me, it is. I couldn’t come up with anything other than a horrific series of monosyllabic grunts right now if my life depended on it.

He senses my weakness, he must, because he acts quickly, taking my wrists in his hands and lifting roughly them over my head, stretching me out enough that my chest juts out and I have to raise myself onto my toes. He looks down and smiles with pretty pink lips and sparkling white teeth. Menace and mayhem are alive in his eyes. It’s more than that though. It’s more than menace and mayhem. It’s satisfaction.

Oh shit.

That doesn’t bode well for me.

He crosses my wrists over each other, holding them tightly in one hand, and uses his free hand to stroke my inner arm lightly, stopping when he gets to the fabric of my T-shirt and skipping to his target: my lower belly.

That’s it.

That’s what this fucker has done. He’s lifted my arms and manipulated my body. He’s played me like a master puppeteer, all to expose a little more of my skin. He looks down, thoughtful and serene, watching his hand as his fingers dance over the extra sliver of me he’s uncovered. His touch is buoyant and light, so light that my skin tightens and goosebumps erupt up my sides. He rubs the ones he can see, warming them. Warming me. Careful to stay in the confines of my bare flesh. Taking only what he’s paid for. No more, no less. Burning me with the pads of his fingers and then the flat palm of his hands. I stand as still as possible and try to take it without showing anything. The last thing I want is for him to see what a mess his soft touch makes of me.

When he’s had his fill of that part of my body, he moves his attentions upward, releasing one of my hands from his grip and watching as it falls slowly, almost catatonically, to my side. He takes that hand in his, lacing our fingers together and lifting my hand to his lips. He kisses me softly on each of my knuckles and then turns his gaze to my lips. I turn my head sharply to the side so he can’t kiss me. It’s a mistake. I’ve fallen straight into his trap. I’ve exposed my jugular. He doesn’t miss it. Predators seldom do. He goes in for the kill, kissing my neck ravenously. Wet. Open-mouthed. Hungry.

He lets go of my hands and takes my head in both of his. Fingers rake through the hair on the back of my neck, holding me steady as he grazes my jaw with his teeth. My head lolls back. He licks my throat from my clavicle to the shell of my ear. Hard, then soft. Then softer and softer until he’s touching me so gently I can’t quite tell what’s really happening and what I’m imagining. I’m dizzy. Books, ceiling tiles, and fluorescent lighting are spiraling, moving in a slow circular motion. My legs feel unsteady. I’m rooted to the spot and in serious danger of lifting off and drifting into the ether.

He kisses my neck again. Hard. It feels good and bad and dangerous, but I’m struggling to concentrate on that because, for some reason, my idiot right hand has wrapped itself around Miller’s waist and is pulling him tightly against me. My hips buck, grinding my hard cock against his as he sucks the soft skin of my neck into his mouth.

“How much?” he rasps into my neck as he kisses me over and over. “Want you.”

“H-how much for what?” I’m pretty impressed I’ve managed to form words, but the tinny whine posing as my voice quickly reminds me I’m far from doing well.

He pulls back, dipping his gaze to my mouth and then fixing me with a look that makes me suspect my eyes are milliseconds from rolling back in my head.

“I want to be inside you,” he whispers and then laughs softly as if he’s amused himself. “No, I don’t want it. I need it. Just my tongue inside you.” I feel his breath on my ear, hot and desperate. It compromises me irrevocably. It takes all the faculties needed to make good decisions and drops them into a blender. “And my fingers. Please. How much?”

“Seven hundred dollars,” squeaks a person who sounds nothing like me.

The thing about losing your mind and acting impulsively is that you are still the one who has to deal with the consequences. They don’t just magically disappear. It doesn’t matter if you’re sorry or if you decide never to do something so stupid again. Consequences have a way of finding you and not letting you out of their grip until they’ve made you their bitch. That’s one of life’s harsh realities right there. It’s been hours since I saw Miller in the library. Time has passed. I should have recovered by now. I’m standing at Ben’s door. I’m here for a long overdue visit. I should be excited to see him and Nic, and it’s not that I’m not. It’s just that I’m still shaking inside from what Miller asked for. What he’s going to buy. What I’m going to sell.

I knock on the door and hear a muffled scramble as the people inside the room hastily pull themselves together.

“Holy shit!” shrieks Nicole, laughing so hard she almost falls over as she lets me in. “What attacked you?”

My thoughts have been coming in a little thick and woolly of late, but still, I have less than no idea what she means. Ben peeks over her shoulder, takes a good look at me, and then starts laughing too. His dark brown eyes water and his face turns pink before he’s able to stop himself.

I don’t love being laughed at, but I don’t mind it as much from these two. I would like to know what it’s about though. I really would.

It isn’t until Nic points at my neck that it occurs to me. Miller didn’t just kiss my neck. He kissed it hard. Sucked it hard. So hard I could feel my skin being dragged between his teeth. I slap a hand over my neck quickly as my face heats unbearably.

“Well,” says Ben, giving me a little nudge on the arm, “who was it?”

I open and close my mouth three or four times and then manage, “No one.”

They both laugh uproariously at that, and I can’t blame them. It’s a stupid answer, but it’s the best I can do.

“Seriously?” Nicole wails. “You’re not going to tell us?”

I mutter something about gentlemen and never telling, and thankfully, they move on. I hang out for a while, but I make my excuses and leave when they get ready to start the movie. It’s after ten, and now that I know it’s there, it feels like someone is holding a brand to my neck. I head back to the dorm in such a high temper about the neck situation that I almost forget what else I’m walking into.

“What the fuck?” I say, not for the first time today.

He tilts his head and takes in the mark he made on my neck. It makes him smile. A slow, sexy smile that makes me feel like the floor is caving in under my feet. When he doesn’t answer, I wave wildly at my neck and demand an answer through extreme overuse of my eyebrows.

“Had to do it,” he says with one of those careless one-shoulder shrugs. “Want everyone to know.”

“Know what?” I’m suddenly unable to tell if I’m tired or wired. I can’t tell if I want to fight or to fuck. The only thing I know for sure is that I want. I want so big and so hard and so deep that I can’t think of anything else.

I want crisp hundred-dollar bills. I want to hold cash in my hand, smooth the bills out, and tuck them in my wallet. I want to carry them around with me for a few days just to know that they’re there. That I have money. That I can spend it if I want to. I’m not even sure what I want to spend it on. Textbooks for next year or new clothes, probably, but more than that, I just want to enjoy the feeling of having a wallet full of money.

I want this time to be completely different from last time and the time before. And the time before that. I want to have my shit together. No goosebumps and trembling knees this time. No whining and greedily swallowing him down. No clinging to the sink, clenching my teeth to fight the urge to beg him for more. And definitely no wayward boners. Absolutely none of those. I want him to feel like shit afterward. Like he’s the one who’s been used. I want to see his eyes when he realizes he hasn’t won. I want to see that smug smile wiped off his face when he realizes I’ve taken his money and haven’t let him affect me at all.

That’s what I want.

“That you’re mine.”

It takes me a second to make sense of his words.

And shit. Speaking of wayward boners. There’s one now. A big one.

I make a mad dash for the bathroom, locking the door when I see him moving toward me in my peripheral vision. I shuck off my clothes and leave them on the floor as I get into the shower before the water is hot.

Yeah, that’s what I need.

A nice cold shower. That should sort me out.

It doesn’t. It only makes me hyperventilate and hop around on the spot, gripping my dick in my hand and jerking it without really meaning to. I know I said earlier that I would give myself a big lecture about something, but right now, I’m struggling to remember what it was about. I go with a general, vague one instead, reaching around with my free hand and washing myself the way Miller did before he rimmed me. The same but a little more thorough.

Pull yourself together. Pull yourself together, for the love of all that is holy.

Stop thinking about Miller. Stop smiling for stupid reasons. Stop looking at his mouth.

And for Christ’s sake, stop trying to catch a glimpse of his tongue when he talks.

I come hideously hard. Hard and fast without a nice, slow build-up. So hard that I have to hold on to the faucet to keep my balance and have no choice but to yell, “I’m coming!” when I hear Miller knock on the door.

I feel weakened and breathless, with none of the mental clarity that usually arrives post-orgasm. My chest is heaving so much that I have nasty flashbacks of the last time I mistook myself for the sort of person cut out for fitness as I dry myself off quickly. I pat my face with my towel, and when I’m done, I look in the mirror in horror.

Jesus!

I knew to expect a hickey, thanks to Nic’s and Ben’s reactions. I was expecting something pinkish and small. Embarrassing and juvenile. This isn’t that. This is big and angry. Dark red, almost purple. It looks like I’ve had an altercation with a vampire and come away second-best. The same part of my brain that wasn’t able to stop looking at the bite mark on my ass sees it, and it makes something shiver inside me.

Mine.

Oh my God. I’m losing my shit. My mind is out of control. The bathroom is starting to feel way too crowded. Too steamy. Too sexy. Too lonely. Too far from…

I yank the bathroom door open, wearing nothing but a towel around my waist and something I hope resembles a businesslike, nonchalant smile.

Miller’s eyes widen, letting me know it’s a no-go for nonchalance.

“Are you okay?” I instantly hate the concern in his voice. “Are you having second thoughts?” I don’t answer. “Seriously, Ry, if you don’t want to, just say so. I don’t want you to do anything unless you want to. Despite what you might think of me, I don’t want that.”

This conversation and the whole situation are making me feel unsteady. To cut it short, I drop my towel to the floor and step over it. His chest caves, and he sucks a loud, guttural breath in, dropping his bottom jaw slightly as he does it. And fuck, I like it. I like how much he wants me, and I like the fact he doesn’t try to hide it. I like how he’s looking at me. Like I’m air, and he’s suffocating without me. He pulls his Henley off over his head, only breaking eye contact when he disappears from view. His hair is disheveled when he reemerges. His shithead grin is firmly in place.

“Did you jerk off in the shower?”

“No,” I lie with all the indignance I can muster, trying not to smile proudly at my dick, which is, for once, doing a sterling job of hanging limply between my legs despite the fact Miller is close.

“Pity. It’d be great if you had. Then you could take so much more of what I’m going to give you without blowing your load.”

Whoopsie.

Didn’t think of that.

My insides tighten in dread.

He curls a hand around my neck and traces the line of my jaw, a thumb glancing over my lips, warning me what he’s going to do next. He’s going to kiss me, and he’s giving me time to stop it. Or accept it.

“You know these pieces of you?” he says softly, looking down at my lips. “The ones you sell to me? Well, they’re like anything else. Once I’ve bought them, I own them. They’re mine.”

That’s all the warning he’s going to give. I know it, yet I don’t move. He lifts my chin as I stand there, frozen, on fire, and plants the softest, sweetest kiss I’ve ever tasted on my parted lips. It’s one of those kisses that tastes sweet but is laced with venom. It must be because I can feel it running through my veins. Poison. A toxin that makes me feel drunk. I sway when he pulls back. My tongue finds his first when he kisses me again, weaving its way into his mouth through his lips and licking into it greedily. He walks me back to his desk, sweeping the lamp, keyboard, and screen off it and onto his bed with little care that he might break them.

He cups my ass in both hands, playing with it, lifting and jiggling my cheeks for a while before pushing me back so the shelf of my ass is perched on the desk. He places my hands down on either side of me on the desk, wider than shoulder-width, and makes me lean back until my head and upper back rest against the window behind me. He nudges my legs open with his knee and kisses me again. I kiss him back harder and hungrily. More hungrily than he kissed me if I’m being totally honest about it.

While I’m distracted by the way his mouth and his stubble scrape my chin, he lifts my legs, bending them at the knee, and plants my heels on the edge of the desk. He steps back and opens his top drawer to get the lube out. That bit of space from him sobers me up.

Holy shit. How did I get here?

I’m stark naked, leaning back on a desk with my legs open wider than they would be if they were in stirrups at a proctologist’s office. I feel it. I feel it all. Every inch of the shame, the humiliation, and the arousal the situation warrants spills over my body and into my mind. I drink it down, gulping and choking on it as it comes in too thick and fast to swallow.

He places the lube next to me and looks at me almost kindly.

“You’re hot as fuck, you know that, Ry?” I badly want to argue or at least tell him not to call me that, but fuck, I can’t remember how words work. My tongue, which I’m sure usually plays an integral part, is heavy and thick. “So fucking hot.” He touches my chest with a flat palm and looks on as I quiver helplessly from the light touch. “So hot, I can’t take it.” His hand moves down my body, and his breathing becomes labored. “Never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

My dick loves this kind of talk. Absolutely loves it. Eats this shit up and asks for seconds. Truth be told, it’s kind of a fan of being naked around other men, and to my surprise, it seems to have a bit of a thing for having my legs splayed open and my hole on display too. I feel the tell-tale zing as it starts to thicken, I try not to look down, but I can’t help it, so I blink helplessly at it as it grows before my eyes.

It’s almost a relief when he puts his hands on my knees, even though I know full well their trajectory isn’t going to be easy to come back from with dignity. He moves them slowly, skimming my skin, ruffling the hair on my inner thighs as his hands move over them, burning a trail up and down me as they do.

He stops when he reaches the smooth, soft skin near my balls and picks up the lube, squirting a generous dollop onto his fingers, making me watch as he spreads it all over his middle and forefinger. I shift uncomfortably, lungs burning from how fast and shallow I’m breathing.

“Have you been touched like this before?” he asks.

I shake my head dumbly.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel good.” He reaches between my legs and strokes two slippery fingers gently up my crack, dipping in, using a little more pressure when he touches my hole. My toes curl, and my ass jerks off the desk in fright, or something.

He smiles. Not sneers. Not grins. He smiles like he’s looking at someone he likes. He eases me back down with a heavy hand on my chest and a soft sigh. He strokes me again, and this time, he circles my asshole, using the pad of his middle finger, teasing, pressing gently, nudging softly until it sinks in. He keeps still an inch or less inside me, waiting for me to relax before sliding in all the way to the knuckle. My hips buck, and an awful, low sound is torn from my chest.

“D’you like it?” He sounds sweet and totally sincere.

I can’t stand it.

I hate how he’s looking at me. Like he’s cracked a code to my psyche. Like he can see the cracks in the surface and he’s about to peer in and see everything I spend my life trying to hide.

“No!” I croak, shaking my head vigorously. “I don’t like it.”

That sets any sweetness in him on fire and gives rise to something completely different. Luscious lips curl into a snarl. “Oh no?”

“No, i-it doesn’t feel good. I-it’s”—fuck, what’s the word I’m looking for? I should know this. It’s not a hard word—“u-uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable, huh?”

He locks his eyes on mine, lowering his chin in determination as he swivels his finger a little and then crooks it inside me. I make an awful sound. Horrific. Truly unbearable. I sound like something that’s been punctured. I look awful too. I’m sure of it. My teeth and eyes are clenched tightly shut, but my lips are pulled back in a feverish grimace. It’s using every ounce of my strength not to writhe. Not in discomfort. God, I wish that was it. In pleasure. Because fuck, it feels amazing where he’s touching me. It burns, not a lot, just a little. Just enough. Just enough to set me alight.

He saws his hand back and forth slowly, fucking his finger into me until my cock visibly throbs. Then he adds a second finger. He’s slow and careful about it, pinching his fingers together at his fingertips to ease his entry. He eases his fingers in. Taking his time and making me feel it even harder than I already was. I gasp and tense from the stretch as he pushes into me deeply. He waits again, letting me stretch, stroking my face with his free hand. I roll my head into his touch, almost delirious from the effort it’s taking not to buck and moan.

Two fingers feel completely different from one. One was a hint. Two is more than a taste. I feel full and debased, and while I’ve never thought having fingers in my ass would do it for me, it does. It really does. My blood is boiling and pumping furiously through my veins. Everything around Miller is dull, and I feel removed from all of it. In contrast, everything he touches is in crystal-clear focus.

Miller looks at me the whole time, studying my face, reading my movements and quite possibly my mind, responding before I have time to consciously want what he gives me next and giving it to me the exact second I realize I want it. He touches me gently and respectfully, so fucking respectfully, and for some reason, that makes it even harder to take. It makes me even harder too. He looks at me the same way. In amazement. In rapture. It’s so intense and beautiful that I can’t hold eye contact with him. I look down to see my engorged dick leaking copiously onto my lower belly, lurching helplessly when he touches the thing inside me that makes my hair stand on end as my ass lifts off the desk.

“You feel good inside. So good.” His voice is becoming more and more strained with each word. “Why? Why’d you feel like this, Ryan?”

“Uh…” It takes me a while, but this seems like a direct question that requires an answer. “Uh, um, all asses feel good.”He leans in and rests his forehead briefly against mine. “Nah, yours is better. Your ass feels better than anyone else’s.”

My eyes cross, but I quickly right them. Still, I’m not sure how to respond to that. I’m not all that good with compliments in general, and I’m suddenly aware that I’m wholly unprepared to deal with compliments specific to my anus.

I don’t think he notices. He’s moved on to something else.

“Can I touch your dick?” he rasps.

I whine and buck, neck arching back and eyes growing watery from the effort it takes to shake my head.

He bites his bottom lip and tries not to roll his eyes, no doubt at what a colossal idiot I am, and then leans down and kisses me sweetly on the mouth. He pulls his fingers out of me and quickly replaces them with his left hand, struggling to unbuckle his belt with his right. I help him, hands shaking as I undo his top button and drag his zipper down. His boxer briefs are heather gray, almost the same color as his eyes. The outline of his boner is massive and proud, stained by a clear wet spot. The sight of it makes my mouth fill with saliva.

He scoops his dick out of his pants and starts stroking hard and fast. His hand is curled around his shaft, forearm working hard and fast enough to make muscle bulge. The fingers he has inside me are still working me over. He’s less deft than he was with his dominant hand, but it still feels dangerously good. Dangerously close to making me lose the shard of control I’m clinging to. Dangerously close to making me come so hard I fully expect bits of my brain to shoot out of my dick. Close, but not close enough.

“Lift your balls,” he groans at last. “Show me that pretty hole.”

He pulls his fingers out of me at the last second, leaving my ass blinking and pouting in shock. His whole body stiffens, abs tensing, neck sinews straining as he shoots the biggest load I’ve ever seen all over my ass, my dick, and my balls.

“Damn.” He sighs, lips parted in a wonky smile, eyes misted over. “That’s some ass you got there, Haraway.”

It dawns on me sometime later that the moment has passed. He’s come. My work here is done. Yet, I’m still on the desk, and my legs are still spread-eagled. My asshole is still on display, only now it’s frosted with lashings of semen. Red-hot humiliation travels under my skin, flushing my cheeks and shocking me to my senses. I scramble to my feet and start the arduous journey to the bathroom, hobbling along as Miller’s load slithers down my legs.

“Hey, Ry.” I stop and look back to see Miller fully recovered, skin glowing, hair an ode to blond hotness. He lifts one hand, holding up a stack of notes between two slick fingers. “You forgot your money.”

It’s mercifully dark. Miller and I are both in our respective beds. I’m working through mountains of the same shock, humiliation, and jubilation I experience when Miller buys something new. I think this time might be the worst.

I’ve never been that hard in my life, not even when I came in my pants from blowing him that first time. Not even when he rimmed me, and God knows, my dick could’ve cut through steel that time. I was harder this time. I know it. And I know he could see it.

Ooof.

There’s always a lot to unpack when I’ve been with Miller. There’s the disbelief that he asked for whatever he asked for, of course, but more than that, there’s the utter shock that I agreed. That shit hits like a sledgehammer every goddamn time. Not only that, there’s the incredulity that I actually went through with it. That I did it. I’ve always heard the saying he has some balls, and I’ve never once related to it. I’ve never thought it applied to me because everything I’ve ever done has implied the exact opposite. But it does. It must. There’s no other possible explanation.

Only someone with a gargantuan set of swollen, low-hanging balls would even consider getting up to what I’ve been getting up to with Miller. If I didn’t have a front-row seat to this madness, there’s no way on Earth I’d believe it was happening.

I hardly think I need to explain the humiliation, but on the off chance I do, let me reiterate once again. I don’t like Miller MacAvoy. I don’t like him, and I don’t like people like him. I don’t trust him as far as I can kick him—which isn’t far at all. Can’t remember if I’ve mentioned it before or not, but I’m not what you’d call athletically inclined, so me kicking anyone, much less tall, built, blond fuckboys would be unlikely to result in much mileage.

The fact that it’s Miller that I’m giving access to my person makes my entire body feel like it’s going to burst into flame if I think about it for long. It makes me feel like I’ve been liberally dunked into a pressure cooker and the lid has been screwed on tightly. I swear my core temperature skyrockets at the mere thought of what I’ve let him do to me. It’s a horror unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

And the jubilation? Well, that’s a little harder to explain. I’m not sure I’ve landed on a satisfactory explanation yet, so I won’t harp on about it, but suffice it to say, it’s definitely either jubilation or something worryingly like it. It’s washed over me after every, um, transaction I’ve had with Miller. It comes out of nowhere, interrupting shock and shame, bursting from me in a big, heavy swell. Lingering around me, settling on my chest, making me feel weighed down and impossibly light at the same time. So light that when I breathe in deeply, I feel like I could take flight. Just lift up and float off.

“…everything bagel today.” He’s been talking for ages, and while I’ve managed to tune most of his words out, I’m struggling to do the same with his voice. The smooth, sexy timbre of it moves through the dark, stealthy and sly, seeping into my blood and infecting it until it starts to vibrate. “…so good. The best one I’ve had. There was nothing but cream cheese on it, but I swear, it had sooooo much seasoning. My mouth was so happy.”

I’m so boneless and brainless, I only just manage to suppress the urge to tell him about the fucking everything bagel seasoning. Fortunately, he changes the subject while I try to get myself under control.

“You know what you need, Ry?”

“Ryan.”

His throaty chuckle tickles lightly under my ribs. “Fine. Do you know what you need, Ryan?”

“Why do I feel like you’re going to tell me whether I want to know or not?”

He smiles loudly. “‘Cause you know me so well.”

The scary thing is he’s not even bullshitting right now. I do know him. I’m starting to know him anyway, courtesy of how he seems completely unable to go to sleep at night unless he’s spent ages asking me about myself and telling me random things about him.

I happen to know that he goes out to the street to check to make sure the windows of his Range Rover are closed every night, even if he hasn’t driven anywhere all day. And I know he thinks the plural for penis should be penii instead of penises. Don’t ask me why, but he feels very strongly about it. I know he likes Dean more than Trip, and he feels bad about it. I know he wakes up in the night sometimes and can’t fall back to sleep, but I don’t know why. I know his favorite color is white, and he secretly wishes for more people to know he can sing. I know that his love language is acts of service. Not because he told me. Not even because he can’t stop doing shit for me, but because when I poured him a glass of water without thinking once, he looked about as happy about it as it’s possible for a human being to look. Seriously, you’d have thought I’d given him a billion dollars. He sat there, smiling from ear to ear long after he drained the glass.

I know he looks sexy in the mornings.

And I know he looks happy when he has sex. With me. I know he looks happy whenever we’re touching.

Jesus! What’s wrong with me.

I’ve got to stop thinking this kind of shit.

I quickly tune into his ramblings, as I’m pretty sure whatever crap he’s spewing is better than the nonsense running through my head.

I’m wrong.

“What you need is a good dicking down. That’s what you need.” I don’t answer. I can’t. I can feel words, jumbled and muddled, working their way up my throat, but they’re the wrong words. They’re not words I want to hear myself saying, so I press my lips together firmly and make a weird sound. It’s strange. It sounds almost like a giggle. It eggs him on. “Yeah, that grumpy, uptight little butt of yours needs a dick in it.”

I close my eyes to try to block out his words. It does nothing to help. His voice wafts through the space between us and lands on me like a warm blanket. My dick loves it. Loves it. Jumps right up and tries to poke a hole through my sleep shorts when it hears it. I reach down to get it under control. I press down hard with the heel of my hand, and fuck me, it feels so good that I have no choice but to do it again. This time, I wrap my hand around it and squeeze through the flimsy fabric. “That’s what you need. A nice, thorough fuck. Not a pounding because you haven’t done it before. But a good fuck. The kind of fuck you’ll feel for days.”

I pull the waistband of my shorts away from my body, taking an unbelievable amount of care to make sure the elastic doesn’t snap against my skin. When I have my dick where I want it, I hold it in one hand, pulling my foreskin down to expose my head. I raise my free hand to my mouth, dip two fingers in, and make them wet, then I reach down and circle my crown slowly. My abs contract and my head presses into my pillow from the effort to stay quiet.

Miller, on the other hand, has no such compulsion. He’s still talking. “I wanna be the one to do it. To strip you naked and spread you open. I wanna be the first one to rail you. Mmm, yeah. I want it to be me. It has to be me. I’ll lose my mind if it’s anyone else.”

My dick feels so sensitive I could scream. I jerked off in the shower again after I got my prostate pummeled earlier, but it’s almost like jerking off isn’t working anymore. The relief doesn’t seem to last. It might actually be making it worse. Wish I could stop, but I can’t. I stroke my tip, tapping my finger lightly on my piss slit, feeling the thin string of precum that sticks to my finger when I lift it.

“How much?” Miller’s voice startles me, a rude reminder that I’m not alone. I quickly let go of my dick.

“Huh?”

“How much for your ass?”

“One thousand dollars,” I say without pause, with no hesitation whatsoever. I even have the nerve to sound sure of myself.

Miller doesn’t skip a beat. “Done!”

Christ in a casserole.

What have I done?

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