Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

MARSHALL

C lutching the watch in my hand, I circle my thumb over the scratched hourglass. It stopped working years ago but was one of the first gifts my wife gave me when we met, and I've worn it ever since. It's ironic, really, to think I have dedicated over two decades of my life to making it work, to making us work, only to find out she cheated on me.

Fuck this. I'm tired of myself and the self-pity I'm unable to shift.

In need of the toilet, I place the watch on the counter and slip off the chair. The barman collects my empty glass, towel flung over his shoulder.

I make my way down the hall to the restroom. It's getting late, and most, if not all, customers have headed out in favor of a nightclub.

I take a piss, aiming for a skid mark in the porcelain bowl. My wife declared war on the limescale early in our marriage, but it's a different story here—caked on and dark brown.

After rinsing my hands and cursing the empty soap dispenser, I return to find a glass of amber liquid waiting for me. Sliding onto the tall chair, I shoot a questioning glance at the barman currently pouring a glass of wine. He screws the lid back on the bottle and tells me that a young man paid for it.

With a frown, I peer around the almost empty bar. Except for me, a middle-aged woman, and her partner, there's no one around.

"He must have left."

My watch is gone, too.

How typical, but maybe it's a sign to leave the past behind and move on.

Chuckling at my pathetic thoughts, I swig the drink, wincing as the amber liquid burns my esophagus. Christ, that's strong. I rarely drink whiskey, but I welcome the bitter taste tonight, needing something to take my mind off…things. I made the mistake earlier of checking social media, and there she was, in his arms, sipping martinis on a cruise.

A woodsy scent with base notes of cedarwood, moss, and vanilla surrounds me as a young man slides onto the chair beside mine and taps his knuckles on the sticky counter to get the barman's attention. I try to lift my head, but it's heavy, and the hazy room spins. Everything is a blur. I shouldn't be this drunk from what I've had to drink.

"Rough day?" His familiar baritone drifts around me like lapping waves at a pier.

CRUZ

Marshall Kirk, a history professor and my father's best friend, tries to shake his head to clear the poison running through his veins. Nightshade. A powerful plant that grows in spades behind the back of the university building. Consumed in too great quantities, certain death is guaranteed. But when used sparingly, like now, it causes slurred speech and hallucinations.

"Rough month," he replies, swaying into me slightly, the point of contact burning me in the best way possible. His eyes widen with recognition. "Cruz? I'll be damned."

I've worked hard to get us to this moment. It has taken a lot of planning, not to mention stalking, to catch Marshall's wife, a dental hygienist, in the throes of passion with a senior dentist.

When I say that I worked hard, I mean that I installed spyware on her phone and stalked her emails and social media for a little over a year. My mother taught me that patience is a virtue, and she was right for once.

One day, Mrs. Kirk received a highly interesting WhatsApp message from none other than her dentist friend. I'd been in class then, scrolling mindlessly through social media, when the notification popped up on my screen.

They exchanged explicit messages over the following week, boring me half to death, until they finally arranged to meet up. One rendezvous soon turned into more.

That's the thing about affairs. Not too dissimilar to serial killers, the people involved become less careful with time. They take more risks. Seek ways to deepen the thrill.

Fucking on the plush couch in Dr. Pinnegar's living room in full view of his surveillance camera soon became mundane, like all things in life. They decided a spot of sunshine wouldn't hurt, so they drove to a lookout spot on the outskirts of town during Mrs. Kirk's lunch hour. Not that I can argue with their logic. Vitamin D is an essential nutrient, after all. However, if that was their purpose, they should have thought to open the windows to let the rays in while they fucked in Dr. Pinnegar's car.

Slouched behind the steering wheel of my Land Rover, I filmed Mrs. Kirk riding her colleague like a buckaroo at a seedy bar, wondering briefly if she fucked Marshall with such enthusiasm. I dismissed that thought. She barely gave it up to him, if at all, from my observations over the last year since my pesky little fixation began. These days, she only spreads those legs to keep the peace, and Marshall is a good man. If his wife isn't in the mood, he won't push it.

His wife is in the mood, alright.

Just not for him.

Mrs. Kirk is a disrespectful whore.

She has no clue how lucky she is to have Marshall's full attention and devotion. I would chop off an arm to get him to look at me the way he looks at her after decades together. Even when she ignores him, he pecks her on the cheek in passing.

Marshall and my dad are childhood friends who grew up on the same street. Now, in their late forties, their friendship has stayed solid despite life pulling them in different directions. My father left town to study at a prestigious university before returning to start his law firm. Marshall stayed behind with his childhood sweetheart, got married, and worked his way up to become a professor at the local college.

Every Wednesday, they play golf like a bunch of boring, middle-aged men before returning to my father's or Marshall's house for a meal. Marshall is predictable, dull, and without much excitement in his life. Even so, he intrigues me. I can't take my eyes off him when he enters a room. The way he rolls up his sleeves over his corded arms or the way he gazes absentmindedly at the window, observing the clouds as they roll across the sky before clearing his throat and calling the class to attention.

Don't get me started on when he sits on the desk with his ankles crossed and his knuckles curled around the edge. There's something toe-curling about how he looks up from beneath his dark lashes and sweeps those blue eyes over the room.

"Want to talk about it?" I ask, getting my fill of him.

The barman puts a beer down in front of me, eyeing us both. I ignore him as I press the bottleneck to my lips and take a swig. The truth is, I have no intention of finishing this beer. It's for show—a ruse to make Marshall relax. I'm about to play hero and take him home.

For the first time, I'll have him to myself, away from curious eyes. My dick lengthens in response to the elicit fantasies swirling like cigar smoke, and I imagine what he'll look like later, splayed out amongst his crumpled bed sheets with his shirt torn open to reveal his tanned chest and his belt and zipper undone.

Fuck this. I need to do something and act on these desires before they drive me insane. I've waited long enough for my turn to come around. Now we're here.

As he sways into me again, I place the bottle down. "Are you alright?"

"I'm not feeling so well," he slurs, sliding off his chair. "I need to go home."

He nearly stumbles into the tables on his way out. I suppress a smirk as I follow behind. The summer air smacks me in the face, hot and humid, while steam pours from a sewer near the sidewalk. Marshall blinks at his car, swaying on the spot, then mutters something unintelligible and sets off down the road, struggling to walk straight.

At least he has the common sense not to drink and drive.

I hurry to my car, which is parked beneath a broken streetlight, and slide inside. After cranking the engine and backing out, I pull up beside him.

Noticing the headlights, he turns, and seconds pass while he tries to place the vehicle. It's too dark for him to see me through the window.

Leaning over, I push open the passenger door and smile at him with my forearm draped over the steering wheel. "Want me to give you a lift home?"

He staggers closer, settling in the passenger seat and shutting the door. Alcohol seeps from his pores, mixing with his cologne—a scent I've come to crave, with delectable notes of bergamot and lavender.

"Don't tell your dad," he rasps as he rests his head against the window. "I don't want him to see me like this."

"Your secret is safe with me," I assure him, switching on the radio. The seductive rhythm of ‘Babydoll' by Ari Abdul drifts through the confined space as we roll down the dark street.

Drumming my thumb on the wheel, I steal glances at him. He's out cold, sleeping it off, tendrils of graying, dark hair falling over his eyes.

All mine.

Anticipation tastes delectable on my tongue as it swirls through my veins, heady and warm. I've waited patiently for this day and now that he's here, asleep in my car with his spread, jeans-clad thighs stretching out in the small space, I know I'll never let him go.

Now that his wife is out of the picture, he's mine.

No one else's.

Squeezing the hard outline of my aching dick, I squirm and flick my eyes to the rearview mirror, but there's no one behind us. No one to witness my father's best friend, my professor, drugged in my passenger seat.

When we arrive at his house, I waste no time helping him inside. We stumble into the wall, and he chuckles as I take the brunt of his weight. His bedroom is upstairs to the right. I may or may not have jizzed on his sheets once or twice in the past.

What can I say? He drives me insane without even realizing the obsession I've harbored since I hit puberty.

Helping him upstairs is a whole other battle. He's so fucking out of it that he can barely stand up straight, and my T-shirt sticks to my sweaty back by the time we finally reach the top.

Once inside his bedroom, I slide his arm from around my neck, watching him flop onto the bed. This is exactly how I envisioned this moment.

Marshall looks like a damn vision, surrounded by his unmade bed sheets. Even better than I visualized in class while he sat on the desk, his tie loosened.

I crouch down and remove his shoes, then grab hold of his deadweight legs and maneuver him around until all of him is on the bed. He barely stirs, a soft, drunken chuckle dripping from his lips like a sweet elixir. As I walk around to the foot of the bed, I watch his chest rise and fall, enraptured. The sheer size of him makes my mouth go dry.

After stripping out of my clothes, I climb naked into bed and snuggle up beside him. My fingers tremble with nerves as I slowly unbutton his shirt to reveal his tanned chest. He takes care of himself, but I knew that already. Twice a week, he works out for an hour and a half at the gym before spending a further thirty minutes swimming lengths in the pool.

Exercise, golf, work. Rinse and repeat. That's his routine. Oh, and he watches his favorite crime show every Monday and Thursday night.

A shiver runs through me as I brush my fingers through the smatter of dark chest hair. "Do you know how long I've waited for this moment, Marshall?" I unbuckle his belt and reach for his zipper. "A long time."

He mumbles something unintelligible when I open his jeans, so I shush him, catching a glimpse of his black boxers. "I've always wondered how big your cock is." Shifting his pants farther down, I graze the soft fabric and trace my fingers over the outline of his hard length, feeling it mold around his bulbous head. He's big. Even bigger than I thought and fucking perfect in every way.

"When was the last time your wife touched your dick, Marshall?"

"My wife…" he slurs, igniting a pang of jealousy. That fucking bitch doesn't deserve him. She has done enough damage, prepping him for this moment, paving the way for me to track him down and drug him in a bar.

Reaching for his large hand, I wrap his fingers around my veiny length and suck in a breath at the feel of his calloused palm. I nearly come right then and there, jutting my cock against his hip.

His eyes remain closed while I fuck myself with his palm, aroused to the point of agony by the erotic sight of his fingers holding my dick. I'm a masochist.

"Fuck," I grunt, shuddering. "You like my cock, Marshall? Like a fat dick, do you?"

His lids flutter as I pull down his boxers and grab his weeping dick. He's aroused, very fucking aroused, and his whole body jerks when I jack him and brush my thumb through a bead of precum on the crown of his cock.

Thrusting my hips into our combined grip on my length, I place a kiss on his shoulder, his chest. "Fuck, that's it. Feels good, doesn't it?"

Just when I'm about to hurtle headfirst into this black hole of madness, I pull my cock away and slide on top of him, looking between our bodies as I rub my dick against his, grinding down.

Precum seeps from my crown onto his, and my balls draw up tight when he groans while fisting the sheets. Unable to look away from his face, I watch his brow furrow. He shudders, his jaw locking tight.

"You like the feel of my cock against yours, don't you?" I peer down, braced on my arms as I slide my dick against his with increasingly desperate thrusts. I'm an animal, frenzied in my pursuit of marking us both in cum. Fisting the pillow beneath his head, I bite down hard on my lip, two seconds away from blowing my load.

"I always knew you would be this good for me, Professor. Always knew I'd have you beneath me one day." Shifting onto one elbow, I grab our dicks and stroke in long pulls.

With a shiver, his muscles tense, and I look down just in time to see cum squirt from his dick. A guttural groan escapes him and cuts through my heaving breaths, the erotic sight pushing me over the edge. I moan loudly as my release rains over his chest in quick spurts. Not even my wildest fantasies could compare to seeing our dicks ejaculate together.

Sweaty and exhausted, I hover above him. A final bead of cum defies gravity as it hangs onto the tip of my cock. I'm ruined. I'll never recover.

Dipping my chin to my chest, a tremor ripples through me. "Fuck…" It's all I can manage to say.

I collapse onto my back beside him and grip my still-throbbing dick. As the seconds bleed into minutes, I squeeze the softening length while staring at his devastating side profile. He's an addiction. I don't know when I got hooked on his brand of heroin, but I'd walk through fire to taste him again.

Pretending for now that this is a mutual affection, I shift closer and slide my fingers through our combined release. One day soon, this drug of a man will beg me to come all over him and paint his face in cum. One day, I'm going to be his ruin.

"You better be ready for me, Professor Kirk," I whisper, coating his parted lips in cum before sucking my fingers clean. "I'm about to rain hell on your life."