10. Olivier

The look on his face. I'm not sure whether I'd describe it as indignation, resentment, or just good old hatred. It pleases me. That, along with the untucked shirt, the loosened collar, the suffering of his seams as they strain to contain his broad shoulders.

"Decent," he replies.

"Decent," I say. "Hm. Have you thought about it at all?"

Drew undoes another button at his neck. He runs a hand through his hair and glances at the door. "Why?"

Why isn't no.

"I've been thinking about it today," I admit. "I can't decide whether I liked it or not. I was wondering if you were in the same boat?"

"Maybe we do have something in common then," he says quietly. I can't be sure he meant to say it out loud given the furtive glance he gives me before looking away again.

"I've never sucked cock before," I say.

His mouth twists. "Could've fooled me."

"A compliment?"

"If you want."

"You've never had a man's mouth on your cock, either, have you?"

"Told you I'm straight," he says.

"So am I, and that wasn't the question."

"No, I've never had a man suck my dick."

"Or forced one to?" I ask.

He glares at me. "I'm s?—"

I cut him off. "I'll take that as a no." I don't want him to apologize. Ever. "Would you say you have anger issues, Drew?"

His glare intensifies, turning the burn in my chest into a bonfire. Being alone with him is different than thinking about him in theory. In theory, he's a beast. Feral and barely contained—a threat. In person, he's all of those things, and he's hot. I've had twenty-four hours to think about it, and over dinner last night with Elodie, I discovered I'd rather be assaulted by him than have any kind of sex with her. A significant shift.

I chalk it up to desperation. Boredom. This caged-in feeling. But the challenge of it gets my juices flowing in a way I wouldn't have predicted. My life is upside down. What better time to experiment with my sexuality, right? I've got nothing better to do.

Drew appeals to me on a very basic level. He's like a guilty pleasure. Like an erotic lactation video on Porn Hub. Like you know you shouldn't be turned on by it, but you can't look away either.

"I came up here to bring you your breakfast and tell you this isn't happening. I'm not interested in a therapy session, either," Drew says with the expected amount of anger lacing his tone. "Now, if there's nothing else…"

"Why is that such a difficult question? You put bruises on my neck—you forced your dick in my mouth. Just because I don't need an apology doesn't mean I'm not entitled to know whether I can expect that type of treatment again."

"I don't have anger issues," he grinds out. "I'm going through some shit right now. Same as you. Although I'm more than willing to trade problems if your family will have me."

That pulls a sharp laugh from me.

"Look," he goes on, "You pushed me, and I snapped. It was wrong, and I?—"

"Don't!" I shout. "If I want your apology, I'll fucking ask, otherwise deal with your guilt on your own, don't put that shit on me."

"You are one piece of work, aren't you?"

"Is that a compliment?"

"It is not," he growls.

"Well, I can't tell anymore," I bite out, close to snapping, too.

"Assume it's never a compliment, then."

"Fine. So you don't want me to suck you off this morning?"

His eyes blow wide, pupils growing dangerously dark in an instant. "Excuse me?"

"I'm offering this time. Or does someone willing to do it turn you off?"

"Fuck you, you spoiled bastard."

"I'm being serious."

"I know."

"Is it because I'm a man? Because you didn't seem to have a problem?—"

He interrupts me. "Not that it's any of your fucking business, but I have a girlfriend."

Well, color me surprised. That wasn't on his Instagram. "Sounds like you owe her an apology, then."

"Fuck you."

I lick my dry lips and hang my head. This is going nowhere. It's better to admit defeat. I was willing to humiliate myself some in pursuit of an epic orgasm, but I'm not going to beg.

And then, Drew surprises me—again. "You want to blow me, rich boy? Is that why you had me come all the way up here after I've been up all night? You want to relieve my stress? Be my fucking guest—I'm too fucking exhausted to fight with you anymore. But good luck. I'm not exactly an easy lay."

I arch a brow. Now that's an even better challenge. I might actually enjoy this.

"You wanna have a seat?" I nod toward the sofa before he can change his mind. "Take a load off?"

Drew glances at the sectional, and when he returns his gaze to mine, he really does look tired. Like the mere idea of lying back on my couch with his legs spread brings about a fresh wave of exhaustion.

Why is that so hot? Why is he so hot?

Why do I want to get on my knees for the doorman?

Is it because he spared my life? Because he has good hair?

Because he's broken in a way I might never understand but yet sort of want to fix?

I think I answered my own questions. I'm bored.

And Drew is a lot of things, but boring isn't one of them.

He steps up to me, shoves his jacket against my chest, and I reflexively grab it. He then storms over to the couch like he owns the damn place, finds a spot in the center, takes a seat, and spreads his arms across the back like a king in his castle.

"Mmm." The sound escapes my bitten lips, but it's soft. He wouldn't have heard it. Not the way I hear the unbuckling of his belt and the fall of his zipper. Those sounds crack like thunder in the open-air space.

I set his jacket on the table next to the croissants and make myself move. I'm hard. I've been hard since he called my blow job decent, but now my erection is pushing against my fly, my crown compressed and aching.

I open my own pants as I make my way over, giving my cock the room it wants to grow. He's got his eyes closed as I step in between his legs. His dick is out, too, along with his balls. But he's limp. Lifeless. He might even be asleep.

Like I give a shit.

Taking matters into my own hands—since he claimed he was too tired to fight—I push up his shirt to reveal the edges of a large tattoo that spans his upper chest.

With his abs fully exposed, I examine the soft trail of light-brown hair leading down to his large, flaccid cock. I don't want to touch anything but his cock, but I was curious whether the view would interest me. Now that I have a better visual of this brutally hard body that failed to make it big in Manhattan, I kneel, taking the situation in from a new angle.

I don't hate it. He has a great body. Enviable.

This limp dick, though…

I know he can get hard—my sore jaw proves that—but he's made his point. He's not into guys—or me specifically. His testosterone must have surged when he was strangling me yesterday. He might have even been out of his mind with it. What's his excuse today, I wonder?

Oh, that's right. He's tired.

Sure.

"If you decide at some point you do want to get off, you can shove me around if it helps."

He grunts, but otherwise stays still.

"Also—if it helps—I'm just using you to come. I don't like you very much either."

"Sure you don't," he murmurs.

I wish his eyes were open because I definitely have a sneer ready to reply, but he keeps them closed, so I don't waste my energy.

Instead, I wrap a hand around his cock, lifting it from his thigh and giving it a few tight pumps in my fist. His abs flex, and he hisses. Probably at the lack of lube. I lean in to take a sniff of him after spending a night in wool pants in the warm lobby. He definitely smells like a man. A man after a workout with traces of his last shower desperately hanging on, but slightly overwhelmed by musk. He's not as well-groomed as I am—a dead giveaway he's got a steady girlfriend he's stopped trying to impress, but he's not all that hairy either. It's all very—masculine down here.

And jarring. My dick is hard, but it's also confused. Vaguely repulsed and threatening to flag one moment, and then overwhelmed with the turn-on of doing something it once considered forbidden—out of the question. It's curious, I guess, the same way I'm curious.

Wetting my lips first, I lick a stripe over his slit with the pointed tip of my tongue. His softness affects me first. His velvety crown is even smoother and softer than my favorite part of a woman—the underside of a breast. The slit itself is tempting, too. I prod it with my tongue, widening the opening slightly and making his hips jerk in what I'm guessing is discomfort. I lick another stripe, and he relaxes again, letting out a long sigh.

With a slow but firm pumping motion, I work my fist over his shaft while I continue to taste and tongue his crown. I trace the graceful curve that serves as a demarcation line between his cockhead and his length. I do this repeatedly because it feels good to me. I've always been a texture person.

Once he's slick with my saliva, it's even more fun to run my tongue back and forth.

"What are you doing?" he grumbles, almost conversationally.

"Just waiting for you to get hard, Jack."

He grunts and says no more.

Now that I'm basically drooling, I wrap my mouth around his entire crown, making out with it like it's a woman's clit. If I could push my tongue inside him I would—it makes the ladies go wild, but all I can do is wish and want and probe that tiny opening because I like that he doesn't seem to care for it much.

Or maybe I just want his hands around my neck again.

Even a hair pull—I'd take it.

Look, I've never thought I'd be into pain. I was beyond coddled as a child. My tears were never mocked. I was never told to man up. In fact, I got even more attention when I cried over a boo-boo which made me prone to waterworks at an early age, so I don't know what appeals to me about Drew's brand of abuse. I've never once connected pain with pleasure. If I get so much as a leg cramp during sex, I won't hesitate to take a break and make a position change.

Maybe I like the way I look with bruises on my neck.

It's possible I'm just shallow like that. I also like that they really, really bug Elodie. I told her last night it was a rash from my aftershave.

Tomorrow, I'll probably tell her I've been diagnosed with hemophilia.

I've considered, in my downtime, giving myself bruises elsewhere, but like I said, that would hurt. I'm not into that kind of pain. I don't even manage my own hangnails. There are professionals for that.

The vein that runs up Drew's cock is pulsing with a faster beat. Without stopping the intrusive kissing of his head, I shift my attention to his shaft, pleased to note it's not so soft anymore. I twist my fist on my next upstroke, and his abs flex again. I've barely taken my eyes off him once. He has yet to lift his head or arms from the sofa, but I'm content to let him bask in his denial.

Now that he's sporting a semi, I change tactics, crouching lower to attend to his hairy balls. This is where he's muskiest. The dark, heady scent shouldn't turn me on, but has me finally reaching for my own cock.

I hold his dick out of the way, my fist still giving it slow, twisting strokes, and I inhale deeply.

"Mmph…"

My brows lift. He liked that?

Wonder what he'll think about this…

I wrap my lips around one of his nuts and suck it into my mouth, gently—very gently—tugging as I swirl my tongue around it, soaking it with my spit. That's when the first shot of pain slices through me. He's gripping my curls at the roots, pulling hard. I jerk myself harder, quicker. Yes.

I have to fight to switch to his other ball, but his breaths are audible now. "Bullshit you've never sucked a cock," he practically seethes.

I want to tell him I haven't even begun to suck his cock yet, but my mouth is full, and I'm kind of in the headspace where I wouldn't have it any other way.

I let out a low groan, a few drops of precum, and I persist.