Valentine fucking Tye was messed up.
I knew there was something lurking under that perfect façade. I just didn’t know how messed up it’d get.
There was something between us. An undeniable spark. A spark that I thought was pure, unadulterated hatred.
Turns out, he thought it was something else.
And okay, I’ll admit . . . when I was drunk and at his house, that burning desire to punch the shit outta him was a thrill. He put my senses on high alert.
Then he asked me to fuck him. Rough and hard. Fuck him with every ounce of hatred I could muster.
And I was drunk enough and turned on enough to do it.
I fucked him hard.
I’d never been so rough with anyone in my life. Never during sex, anyway.
I’d pushed his face into the bed and pounded into him as if my life depended on it. I wanted to hurt him, and I wanted to show him his place.
That I was better than him and that I was in charge, and I’d fuck him into submission.
It had to have hurt him.
I had plenty of guys refuse to take my cock or stop halfway because I was too big.
He took me like a champion.
And even though I knew I had to be hurting him, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to beg me to stop. I wanted to hear the pleading in his voice.
I would have stopped—if he’d asked.
But he never did.
Oh, no. In fact, he’d begged for more. And when I shoved the back of his head and held him down, calling him a piece of shit, he came all over himself.
I didn’t care at the time. It was so fucking hot, and his arse . . .
Christ.
When he’d said his arse was good, he wasn’t lying. Hands down, the best piece of arse I’d ever had.
Tight, all the way in. And he took all of me. And when he came, his body milked me. It was exquisite.
I came so fucking hard.
When I pulled out of him, I expected anger or tears, threats, or something.
But his whole body was shuddering, he’d come all over himself without even touching himself. And the look on his face . . . There were no tears, no shock, no anger.
Oh no. He had a look of serenity on his face. Like I’d dumped his body at the gates of heaven.
So, yeah. Valentine Tye was messed up.
And then he asked me to go to his place. He had a proposal, he’d said.
I wasn’t gonna go. I was certain he was going to tell me I’d hurt him and I was fired or some-fucking-thing.
But he’d said proposal.
So I went out of morbid curiosity, and out of all the things I’d imagined him saying, what he’d come out with was nowhere on my list.
He wanted me to do it again.
Once or twice a week.
He wanted me to use the hatred I felt for him to hate-fuck him as hard as I dared. The harder the better, even.
You can walk through that door anytime you like, put a load in me, and walk out.
Put a load in me.
Oh yeah. He was messed up, no doubt about it.
And the even crazier part?
I was considering saying yes.
Actually, I was pretty sure I was going to say yes, I was just waiting for the voice of reason to overrule my dick.
And waiting.
But it never came.
No, because instead of the voice in my head saying, this is the reddest flag to ever exist and this will end so badly there will be no survivors, the voice in my head was saying, you get to show that motherfucker what a piece of shit he is twice a week and you can own him with your cock and treat him like the garbage he is.
And I kept hearing him say put a load in me over and over and my dick had never wanted something so bad. I’d had a near permanent semi since.
Christ.
I was going to say yes.
Taka clicking his fingers in front of my face snapped me out of my head.
“You in there?” he asked.
We were at work. It was Friday, just before lunch, and god only knew how long I’d zoned out.
“Shit, sorry. What’s up?”
He nodded to the parking lot. “You got company.”
I turned, and sure enough, there was a black Lambo beside the work trucks, and Valentine was walking over.
Fuck.
Dressed in his stupidly expensive suits, tailored to fit his body like a glove. Carrying a laptop, or something. Though at least this time he had a workplace helmet under his arm. He put it on as he strode over, his long legs making short work of the distance.
God, I hated him.
My blood ran hot, and my hands were automatic fists. I had to make a concerted effort to unclench my jaw.
Even just seeing him made me mad.
“Morning,” he said, more to Taka and Millsy than me. Then he looked at me. “Got a minute?”
My stomach twisted, certain he was about to ask me for my answer. Certain he was about to tell me to forget it. Certain he was going to tell me it was a joke.
We walked over to my makeshift desk, and he opened his laptop.
He discussed a new shipment delay, a trade-off for stock between us, and another worksite to keep both of us pushing forward with the least amount of disruption. It just meant we had to focus on the electrical fit-out instead of insulation next week, but we should be back to normal schedules the following week.
He never mentioned anything else.
Nothing personal, just like he’d said.
I wasn’t sure why that bothered me.
I hated that he rattled me so easily.
He closed his laptop and put it back under his arm, thanked me for my time, and left.
I was sure he was purely making a point so I wouldn’t forget his offer. Like him turning up here in those suit pants that hugged his arse like that would sway my decision.
I didn’t need swaying.
Or maybe he turned up here knowing it would stoke my fires of hatred some more.
I didn’t need any help with that either.
Because I hated him enough to sustain me for three lifetimes.
“Everything okay, boss?” Taka said.
“Yep,” I replied, not taking my eyes off Valentine until his pretentiously expensive car was out of the lot. “Everything’s fine.”
“You know,” he replied with his usual grin. “When we play his team in rugby, I think you might wanna sit that game out?”
I shot him a look. “Why?”
“Because I know you. You will try and take his head off, and that won’t end well for you.”
I grinned at him. “But it’d be so worth it.”
“Yeah, but one of their guys will hit you back, then I gotta get involved. The whole team’ll get involved, then their whole team’ll get involved. There’ll be black eyes and sin bins everywhere.”
I laughed. “Sounds like fun to me.”
He shook his head. “You need to find a better way to deal with your anger, my friend.”
Like walking into Valentine’s place anytime I wanted, putting a load in him and walking out.
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“Good. Let’s work on some lunch first. I’m starving.”
We played Leichhardt at our home field on Saturday, and we won, of course. I managed to keep my cool during the game—I might have tackled harder than was completely necessary and mouthed off a bit—but there was no push or shove, no fists thrown.
And I was even on my best behaviour at the pub afterwards.
I got drunk enough for two men, but all in all, it was a good night. We laughed, we watched the Waratah’s game on the big screen, and I was home in bed by midnight.
Alone.
On Sunday, I woke up hungover and figured a good wank in the shower would make me feel better. It usually did.
I could normally pluck any memory of any sexual encounter and bust a nut pretty quick, but this time a certain someone starred front and centre.
Of him bent over on his bed, his tiny arse taking every inch of me, buried deep and tight. Of me pushing his head down, holding him down, fucking him relentlessly while telling him how much I hated him . . .
Yeah, I came just as hard that time too.
It was starting to mess with my head.
No, Valentine was starting to mess with my head.
So I went about the rest of my day as I did every Sunday. Laundry, groceries, housework, and dinner with my parents.
I had dinner with my parents every Sunday. Mum would cook up a feast and tell me to come around. I usually ate until I wanted to puke, then she’d give me enough leftovers in containers to do me for a week.
It was hardly a chore. I loved spending time with them. Mum would sometimes drop past my unit uninvited, and we’d have a cuppa. We were a close family. After everything we’d been through . . .
“I’ll be around next Sunday,” I said as I got into my dual-cab ute, leftovers on the seat beside me. And I got back to my place feeling pretty good . . .
Until I got into bed and snaked my hand down towards my cock, and my thoughts took a nosedive into Valentine territory.
I let go of my dick in frustrated disgust because god fucking dammit, he was ruining my life.
I was letting him ruin my life.
Maybe if I fucked him twice a week, my body would stop craving it and my mind would stop thinking about it.
What about your job, Marshall? You know this won’t end well.
Yeah, but I had no intention of sticking around after this Mercer contract was finished anyway. I’d see out these next six months, fuck him twice a week for the duration, then turn around and leave him when I was finished with him.
Use him, play him, wreck him.
My grand master plan.
So, putting my plan into action and needing to take back some control—and needing to maybe throw him off his game a little—I decided I’d be a good little site-manager employee and turn up for the meeting first thing Monday morning.
I had no delivery to be on site for anyway, and my team could handle themselves for an hour.
It was worth it just to see the surprise on Valentine’s stupid face.
I never contributed to the meeting at all, none of us did. It was more Valentine discussing the last week’s issues, delays, budgets, yadda yadda yadda.
It just made my point. These meetings were nothing but a fat waste of everyone’s time.
I liked watching him talk though. His carefully chosen words, his long, elegant fingers, his chiselled jaw, and sharp, dark eyes. Because I liked knowing that I’d been inside him, that I’d fucked him. That I’d fucked him so hard he came all over himself.
And no one here had any idea.
To them, he was so cool, calm, and collected, so superior and commanding of respect.
To me, he was nothing but a whore for cock, who had a world of issues that Freud himself wouldn’t be able to fix.
So yeah, I liked sitting there knowing all this.
“Mr Wise?” Valentine said. Shit, I’d been zoning out again. Christ, I needed to focus. The others looked ready to leave. “Anything to add?”
I dropped my pen onto my blank notepad. “No. Nothing.”
I was about to add that this had been a huge waste of time, but I didn’t want to be disrespectful. Not in front of his staff, anyway. I respected my work enough to show some manners.
He called the meeting done and everyone stood up.
“Marshall, a moment,” he said quietly.
I scored a few wary glances from the others as they walked out, but I stayed seated and smiled.
When the door closed behind the last of them, he waited a few seconds to speak. “So you can bite your tongue,” he said with a smirk.
I met his gaze. “What?”
“You wanted to add something at the end there, yet you chose not to.”
“Because you’d wasted enough of everyone’s time already and they wanted to leave,” I said flatly.
He stared, then chewed on the inside of his mouth. Was he trying not to smile? It was hard to tell.
“So have you given any further thought?” he asked.
I shot him a look. We were not going to discuss personal shit here . . .
“About what we could do to improve staff meetings,” he added.
He was playing me.
God, I hated him.
“Yeah, we could not have them. This meeting today?” I gestured to the now empty table. “Biggest fucking waste of my time.”
His face, his eyebrows, did some brief flick thing. It was hard to tell if he was surprised or offended or amused.
“This coulda been an email,” I added. “Or if you have to do face to face meetings, have them every second week. And if your aim is to make this some team-building bullshit or if you want to find out what’s really going on, I dunno, maybe include a breakfast afterward. Bacon and egg roll and a coffee. You’d be surprised what people will actually discuss in an open conversation around the breakroom. Because sitting at a table like this feels like a lecture or an interview. We’re not business corporate types like you. We’re builders, tradies. We don’t do whatever the fuck this is.”
He stared at me and a slow smile spread across his face. “Thank you.”
And while I was on a roll and needing to still be the one calling the shots, I scribbled on a piece of paper from my notebook. I stood up and slid the note across the table to him.
I walked to the door, not game to turn around, though I did catch a glimpse of him when I pulled the door shut behind me.
He read the note and smiled.
9pm
Your place
I knew in all likelihood Valentine expected people to be on time, so I sat in my car a few extra minutes and buzzed his apartment at 9:06.
Spite and loathing were a powerful thing. Petulance too, but if this was some fucked-up game we were playing, I had to play smarter.
I wanted to make him wait longer, but my dick was fully aware of what was going to happen tonight, and it basically made me get out of the car.
My brain, on the other hand, spent the elevator ride telling me this was a bad, bad idea.
But still . . . it didn’t stop me.
He opened the door before I could knock and stood there with a towel around his neck. He’d clearly just showered, wearing expensive lounge pants and a simple black T-shirt. It looked expensive too, the way it clung to him so perfectly.
God, I hated that he was so good looking.
He smelled good too, which I also fucking hated.
He stood aside, a silent invitation, and he closed the door behind me. He walked to the kitchen, rubbing his hair with the towel. “I’ve not long been home,” he said. Like I cared. “I have training sessions on Monday nights, but you said nine o’clock. Can I get you a drink?”
If I cared at all, I’d have asked him what training sessions he had—it wasn’t rugby training because I knew that was Tuesdays for him—but I didn’t care, so I didn’t ask.
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
He poured himself a glass of water from the tap and gulped half of it, then walked to the couch and sat, looking at me expectantly to follow. I’d have preferred to sit at the table where we had a buffer between us, but that wasn’t the case. So I sat on the opposite sofa. “So, your proposal . . .”
He sipped his water this time, his expression unreadable. “Yes or no?”
It rankled me that he was so blasé about it but maybe the no-nonsense, no small talk was part of the appeal.
“I have questions. And conditions.”
There was the barest hint of a smile as he slid the glass of water onto the coffee table. “Good. So do I.”
“You said twice a week.”
“Yes. Anal sex once, the other however you see fit.”
Christ. He was so methodical about this.
I ran my hand through my hair. “However I see fit is very open.”
He stared, studying my face for a second, then let out a quiet sigh. “If you’d prefer I lay down some ground rules, I will,” he said, so matter of fact.
I would prefer that. You seem to have some perverse requirement. I’m just here to fuck.
“Twice a week. Saturday night and Wednesday night works for me but I’m open to your schedule. I’d prefer Saturday night to be the night you fuck me because it gives me Sunday to recover.”
“Recover?”
“Yes. Your cock is a lot to take, and I want to relish the aches and pains.”
Jesus Christ.
“That being said, if you want to fuck me on Wednesdays as well, I won’t object at all. You can, after all, do what you want.”
Fucking hell.
“I like rough sex. I like to be held down and fucked hard.”
“Ah, yeah, I remember.”
“What you did that night was perfection. It’s why I proposed this . . . arrangement.”
“Pure sex.”
“Nothing else,” he added coldly. “I would prefer no condoms, but that would require full testing for both of us beforehand should we engage in that. Which also means you can’t engage in any kind of sexual relations with anyone else for the duration of this agreement. If you do, it’s over. If you meet someone you want to date, this is over. If this isn’t working for either of us, it’s over.”
God help me.
I wasn’t looking to date anyone, so that wasn’t an issue. And I got tested regularly, so that wasn’t an issue either. But sweet Jesus, the idea of fucking him bareback.
You can walk through that door, put a load in me, and walk out.
Yeah, my dick was well and truly on board.
“Do you have any questions about any of that?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“So,” he added, “while I say you can do whatever you want to me, and yes, I like to be held down and fucked hard, I don’t tolerate cruelty or abuse. I expect you know the difference.”
Christ.
“Yeah. You want me to tell you what a piece of shit you are while I punish you with my dick?”
His eyes flashed with desire, and he tried to hide it, but it was too late. I saw it.
“Yes,” he breathed.
“And you want me to muster every ounce of loathing I have for you while I do it?”
He smirked, his eyes fixed on mine. “Yes.”
“That won’t be difficult.”
Because I did hate him. The longer he sat there, looking all kinds of perfect in his two-million-dollar apartment, I hated him a little bit more.
He smirked at me like he’d just read my mind. “I won’t tolerate rudeness or lateness,” he said with a slight flicker of his eyebrow. So yes, my waiting in the car for a few extra minutes had annoyed him. Good. “I won’t be shared. You only come here alone. No filming, no photos. No means no. If I say stop, you stop. Understood?”
“Perfectly.”
“If you need to change the day, just ask. This is a mutual agreement, not a legally binding contract. We need to be flexible because real life happens. We will converse only via text, not at work. This is never discussed at work. Even if it’s just the two of us in a room or worksite.”
“Good,” I said. “And if I ever feel like this is compromising my job, or if I’m treated unfairly or if I’m treated better than anyone else, this is finished.”
He gave a nod. “Likewise. I expect your treatment of me at work to remain the same. I’d like to be able to say you’ll remain respectful, but you don’t show me respect at work as it is, so if that were to change, people might suspect something is going on.”
“I show you respect,” I replied. “You should hear the shit I don’t say out loud.”
He stared at me, raising his chin a fraction, his gaze full of humour and heat. “New rule: we don’t discuss work here. At all.”
I smiled at that. “Agreed. To be honest, moving forward in this agreement—” I gestured between us. “—this is the longest conversation I want to have with you.”
Holding my gaze, he crossed his legs like he was trying to tempt me. Like now the rules had been discussed, the game could play on.
And this was a game I could play.
“If we’re done,” I said, standing up, “I’ll be off.”
His gaze drifted down to my semi-hard cock and his nostrils flared.
I palmed myself and rearranged my junk, then smirked at him. “Shame it’s not Wednesday.”
His eyes drew back up to mine, and that fire was back. “Hm.”
I wasn’t giving in though. Suddenly the wait until Wednesday seemed like more fun. I got to the door.
“Wait,” he said.
I thought he was going to ask me to stay, to fix him up tonight instead of Wednesday, but he met me at the door with his phone. “Your number.”
“You can get it from work,” I said, my hand on the door handle.
“No. I won’t use my position as employer to obtain personal information. You either give it to me, or we don’t do this.”
Fuck.
Okay, so maybe that was fair.
I gave him my number and he thumbed out a text, and a second later my phone beeped.
I didn’t bother reading it. I liked being in charge, I liked being one step ahead in the game. So I opened the door, having to step into his personal space so I could swing it wide. “See you Wednesday,” I murmured.
And much to my dick’s dismay, I walked out.
Yeah, waiting until Wednesday was going to be so much fun. The anticipation, the thrill, the knowing . . .
Until I got into my car and read his text. No hello, no preamble.
Forward sexual health test results to this number.
Did that put him ahead of me in this push and pull game? I wasn’t sure. But as soon as I got home, I made an online appointment at the clinic to get tested.
ASA-fucking-P.
Tuesday at work was just like any other day. Busy as hell, and I absolutely was not disappointed at the end of the day when Valentine hadn’t shown up at my job site.
I drove straight to the clinic after work. Got tested and swabbed for everything, went home, and got changed for rugby training.
Training was always a good distraction. It felt good to let off steam, to run laps and clear my head, and to have a laugh with the boys.
I got home, showered, and deliberately didn’t jerk off. I wanted to save it.
Wednesday couldn’t come quick enough.
Was this part of the game he was playing?
Toying with me, making me think about nothing else. Making me count down the goddamned minutes, so when nine o’clock rolled around, I’d almost burst through his door to give him what he wanted?
I was desperate to give him what he wanted.
I didn’t even care if it made him happy or scratched some perverted itch he had.
Because, holy fuck, I wanted it too.
What I really wanted to do was throw him down and bury myself inside him, but he’d said he’d prefer that was a Saturday night thing. He also said I could do it on a Wednesday if I wanted, but he’d made a point of saying what he’d prefer . . .
So I’d respect that.
At this rate, with how much overthinking what I was doing—and thinking about nothing else—I was so turned on I was gonna last a max of thirty seconds.
At seven o’clock on Wednesday, my phone beeped with some results from my test. Twenty-four-hour testing was now a very convenient thing. But it wasn’t the results of all the tests I’d had done; some took a little longer, which I was sure he was well aware. I’d had a negative result on the HIV rapid test before I’d even left the clinic, but I wanted a full lab test done as well. I’d never had unprotected sex before—not including blowjobs—but never penetrative sex, and I wanted to be certain.
I sent him the results, and he replied with his five minutes later. He’d had his tests done last week . . . like he’d been anticipating this. Like he knew I’d agree, like he knew I’d be an easy target.
God, I hated him.
I managed to eat some dinner and pretended not to watch the clock, and I arrived at his place at ten minutes to nine.
There was no waiting in the car this time. And it wasn’t because my waiting a few minutes had pissed him off last time, it was purely because my dick wasn’t playing games.
I wasn’t sure how this would go down. I had no idea what to expect. But there was no courting, no prelude, no conversation required, apparently. I pressed the button for his apartment and he buzzed me through.
Christ, I was actually doing this . . .
I’d never had a ‘sex agreement’ before. Never even had a friend with benefits.
Not that Valentine and I were friends. We were the opposite of that.
We were what with benefits? Enemies?
Was ‘enemies with benefits’ a thing?
I smiled at that thought as I rode the elevator up. He opened the door before I could knock, though he didn’t invite me in. He didn’t even say hello. He just opened the door, turned around, and walked towards the kitchen.
He was still wearing his suit pants and shirt, top buttons now undone, sleeves half rolled up. His dark hair looked like he’d ran his hand through it a dozen times.
I hated that he was sexy.
He looked like he’d had a really shitty afternoon and that gave me a small flicker of happiness.
“Want a drink?” he asked. He picked up a whiskey glass from the table and took a mouthful.
“Bad day?” I asked.
He shot me a dirty glare and put the glass down. “Are you gonna do what you came here to do? Or you just going to stand there?”
I bit down on the flare of anger that bloomed in my chest, though my voice was rough and I spoke through clenched teeth. “Get on your fucking knees.”
His demeanour changed in an instant. There was no spark of fire aimed back at me, no barbed reply. Instead, he exhaled and a look of calm washed over his face. Even his shoulders relaxed.
And ever so slowly, he sank to his knees.
Holy fucking shit.
My cock throbbed at the sight and my feet moved on instinct. I stood in front of him and he looked up at me, a glazed look in his eyes. He kept his hands on his thighs, and I realised maybe it was because I hadn’t told him to touch me.
I undid the button on my jeans and slowly unzipped the fly, and he sighed.
Jesus, this was hot.
I pulled my cock out, hard and aching. After three days of torture, it was finally going to get what it wanted.
Valentine licked his lips, and fucking hell, he was almost panting now.
“Open your fucking mouth,” I murmured, my voice rough.
He smiled before he opened wide, and I tapped his bottom lip with the head of my cock.
“Tongue it,” I ordered.
His warm, wet tongue licked the slit and lapped at the beads of precome.
“Now suck it,” I said crudely.
He took me in, sucking on the head. He had to open wide to get around me, but his tongue flicked the frenulum while he sucked. His mouth, hot and wet, and the suction was so, so good.
But I knew he could take more of me. Like he had in the bathroom stall that night.
I fisted his hair and he groaned. Christ, he really loved this.
“Take more like the cock whore you are,” I said, sliding in, feeling my cock hit the back of his throat. “Open up,” I said, forcing him by his hair. “All the way up. I know you can take it.”
He gagged but quickly swallowed and never once did he pull back. He grunted and hummed, so I pulled his hair harder and thrust in a few times.
I wasn’t going to last, and it was probably just as well, because I wasn’t sure how much more he could take.
When he put his hands on my thighs, I thought he was going to push me back. But he slid his hands around the backs of my legs to keep me right where I was.
“You’re such a fucking piece of shit,” I said, pulling his hair and sliding in and out of his throat. “Gonna make me come too fast.”
He gagged and I held him on it.
I dared to look down, and seeing the Valentine Tye on his knees with my cock jammed in his throat was so fucking hot.
“You want me to come?” I asked.
He hummed, moaned, even.
So, with both hands holding fistfuls of his hair, I pulled back. He looked up, almost sorrowful that I’d rob him of my come.
“Dirty fucking whore,” I said. “You don’t get it down your throat. I want it in your mouth, I want you to taste it. Taste my come, you piece of shit. Suck it out of me.”
His eyes closed and the fucker smiled, tightening his lips around me, and sucked.
Oh, holy fuck, did he suck.
He took me over the edge, taking every drop I gave him. I convulsed and tried to remember that I was holding him by his hair. But my fucking god.
Best blow job of my life.
He continued to suck me until I couldn’t stand it. I pulled out of him and let him go. He fell back on his arse, and I was almost too afraid to look at him.
That had been rough and brutal.
What I’d said to him . . .
But then he wiped his chin, the movement drawing my eyes to his face.
His hair was a mess, but he was smiling, serene.
Peaceful.
Christ, was that a wet spot over the bulge in his pants?
He’d come all over himself again.
Oh god, help me.
I tucked my still half-hard dick back in my jeans. “Ten o’clock on Saturday night. Have your arse ready for me.”
He smiled and let his head fall back, as if I’d just told him he’d won lotto or something.
I saw myself out, not entirely sure what to make of anything that had just happened.
His behaviour.
Mine.
Christ almighty, I’d never treated anyone like that before.
And fuck, he’d loved every second of it.
Maybe I would have felt bad if I hadn’t seen just how much he’d enjoyed it. But he had come, his dick untouched. Again.
And if I thought my dick would be happy with the best blow job ever, it wasn’t. Semi-hard the whole way home, fully hard by the time I stripped off, and I had to jerk off in the shower.
To visions of Valentine on his knees, his pink lips around me. To the sounds he’d made, and the things I’d said to him, what I’d called him—a dirty whore, a piece of shit—so many horrible things. And I came again.
Just as hard, just as mind-blowing.
I fell into bed, unable to keep my eyes open a minute longer. I wasn’t sure what to make of anything that had happened with Valentine, but I knew one thing . . .
Waiting until Saturday was going to be torture.
