It took every ounce of self-control I had not to call into Marshall’s job site. I wanted to walk in and see the look on his face, see how he acted, and see the brief moment of fear in his eyes as he wondered what I’d say.
Oh, how I wanted to see that, very much.
So I tortured myself by not doing it.
A small self-sacrifice to punish myself, to keep myself in check. To not give into whims and practice self-discipline was something I’d prided myself on.
After all, torturing myself was a skill I’d perfected years ago.
I’d had a terrible afternoon. Probably not undeserving, but being the target of my father’s ire was something I’d had to endure all my life.
Unrealistic expectations, inevitable disappointments one after the other. Right foot, left foot, it was how my father operated. A march of regret he reminded me about every chance he got.
Whatever I did was never good enough, would never be good enough.
I could so easily take it out on those around me. I had a few hundred people on my payroll I could take my frustrations out on. So many yes-men who would do whatever I told them, who would wear any tirade of misdirected anger I sprayed at them. But I refused to be like my father.
So I aimed my arsenal inwards where it belonged.
And Marshall knew as soon as he saw me that I’d had a bad afternoon. Did he falter and ask me if I was okay? No. Did he ask me if I wanted to talk? No, thank god.
He did exactly what I needed him to do.
Ordered me to my knees and made me suck his dick.
And what a glorious dick it is.
Better this time than the bathroom stall incident. This time he’d fisted my hair and drove himself into my throat, making me choke, and called me a whore and a piece of shit while he skull-fucked me.
He was relentless.
He was perfect.
I’d gone to bed feeling lighter and less stressed, as if he’d shared the weight of my burdens. My throat was sore the next day, and every time it pained me to swallow or talk, I flushed at the memory.
I wanted him to do it again. Every night, even.
And then he’d texted me the full results of his bloodwork. Condoms were now officially optional.
Fuck, yes.
I wasn’t sure why I wanted that so badly. I’d never even considered it with anyone else.
Part of me wanted him to own me so badly, I couldn’t even think straight.
Waiting until Saturday was a different kind of torture. The anticipation was delicious, and it made every minute more gratifying.
I hoped he thought about nothing else. I wanted him so on edge by the time he walked through my door, he’d simply shove me over the back of my sofa, rip my pants down and impale me.
So, while I wanted to see him at work, see his face, see him squirm, I hoped my absence served a greater purpose.
I wanted him to think about nothing else. To want nothing else.
I wanted him to suffer as I did.
So I stayed away.
I knew he’d be playing rugby at Sutherland and the likelihood of seeing him at all before 10 pm was miniscule, so I was quite surprised when Connor—who was sitting by the window at the bar—said, “The Ryde boys are here.”
Shit.
It was almost nine o’clock. I’d had maybe three beers all night, not anywhere near my usual amount after a win. And my nerves ratcheted up a notch when half of Marshall’s team bustled through the door in a burst of noise, laughter, and bad language.
But no Marshall.
And suddenly my nerves were something else.
Unease? Concern?
Disappointment.
He knew I’d be here, so maybe he didn’t want to see me. Maybe he was getting shitfaced somewhere else and had no intention of being at my place at ten o’clock. Maybe he—
“Look, dickhead, just sit the fuck down.”
Or maybe he was the last guy in, helping one of his injured teammates into a seat.
His friend, one of their team’s big burly forwards, had his ankle strapped and looked incredibly drunk.
Marshall, on the other hand, appeared to be completely sober.
He had a red mark on his cheekbone and a bump on his eyebrow, common war wounds of a rugby game.
“Hey, Wise,” one of them yelled. “Whaddya want to drink?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “I’m all good, thanks.”
“Oh, come on, ya soft-cock,” another one of them added. He was staggering, drink in his hand. “Since when do you not hit the piss after a game?”
“Since I had to drive you fuckwits,” he replied.
“Well, you can have one now,” Taka said, putting a bottle of beer in his hand.
Marshall’s gaze ran across the crowd, finding me. I hid my smile behind my own beer as I took a sip, and then he looked up at Taka. “Fine. One drink.”
Was he not drinking because of our arrangement?
I liked to think that was the reason. That he was being considerate, courteous. That he didn’t want to jeopardise his plans for fucking me later.
I’d like to think I was the reason, even if I knew it wasn’t likely.
I nursed my last beer, keeping one eye on Marshall while pretending to ignore him. For all of twenty minutes, anyway . . .
“Oh look, it’s Rocky Balboa,” Chris said. “Last time I saw you, you were about to get your head smacked in by five guys in Bondi.”
“Correction,” Marshall replied. “They were about to get their heads smacked in.”
Chris snorted. “Yeah, right. If Valentine didn’t save your arse, you’d a went home in an ambulance.”
I turned at the mention of my name.
“He didn’t save my arse,” Marshall said.
Chris looked over at me. “Ain’t that right, Valentine?”
“Something like that,” I replied.
I met Marshall’s gaze. Only he and I really knew what happened that night, what he’d done to me . . . how much I loved it. And what he’d be doing to me tonight.
I just needed to rattle his chain a little.
So I made a point of looking him up and down with as much distaste as I could manage, and I caught the bulge of his jaw before I turned back around.
He was so easy. Like waving a red flag at a bull. He really did hate me. Just one look and it was enough to piss him off.
Oh, I needed him angry.
I smiled as I drained the rest of my beer, and then I stood up. “That’s my cue,” I said, throwing a couple of twenties on the table. “Have a round on me.”
“Aw, come on,” Lleyton said. “One more. Don’t go just cause these guys turned up.”
“Nah, that’s not it,” I said. “Though the stench sure is something.”
“The fuck d’you say?”
I turned at the familiar voice, and sure enough, Marshall was staring at me. He put his beer on the bar, then his steely eyes lasered in on me. “Wanna say that again?”
I grinned at him and he took a step towards me, then suddenly there were a wall of guys between us. Lleyton grabbed me and led me towards the door. “He’s not worth it,” he said.
But he had no idea.
It was going to be so worth it.
“Save it for work on Monday,” he said as we stepped outside into the cold air. “Make him redo every single bit of paperwork or something.”
Oh, I was gonna make him do something, believe me . . .
“It’s all good,” I said, walking to my car. “Want a lift home?”
He looked back at the bar. “Nah, I’m gonna kick on. One of us has to hold up the team, and it’s clearly not you. I can’t believe you’re pikin’ out on me.”
I smiled at him over the roof of my car. “See you Tuesday.”
He pointed at me and shook his head. “It’s that smile that makes Marshall Wise wanna punch your head in.”
I laughed. It was why I did it. “Night, Lleyton.”
I got in my car, buckled up, and drove home. I had about forty-five minutes before Marshall said he’d be here.
If he was still planning on it.
Maybe I’d crossed a line . . . It was in front of our teammates, after all.
So I took out my phone and shot him a text.
When you requested my arse be ready by 10pm, how ready is ready?
I should have specified in my rules or asked for clarification before now. I’d just assumed it meant douched and lubed, but I shouldn’t assume anything.
I could see that he read the message, but he didn’t reply. So I went about my bathroom-business, figuring if he was a no-show, I’d just use one of my toys.
But fifteen minutes later my phone rang. It was Marshall’s number, and I almost didn’t answer it. We’d said we’d text, not call, and I was certain he was calling to tell me our deal was over.
Maybe I’d deserve that.
I hit Answer, and his voice was low and commanding in my ear. No hello, no anything.
“I don’t give a fuck how ready you are,” he murmured. It sounded like he got into a car. The wind was gone and then his engine started. “I’m fifteen minutes away and then your arse is mine. Ready or fucking not.”
The line clicked off and it sent a jolt of pleasure through me. His words, the authority.
The ownership.
It warmed me through; my blood hummed, and my skin prickled in anticipation.
I already started to relax, knowing what was going to happen. That peacefulness only this could give me.
Thoroughly cleaned, I lubed myself and stretched my hole as much as I dared. I didn’t want to overdo it because the stretch of him was part of the pleasure for me. But he was big, and he sounded somewhat impatient. I didn’t want him to waste time by getting me ready.
When I’d said I wanted him to walk in, put a load in me, and leave, I hadn’t been kidding.
I pulled on grey trackpants just as the intercom buzzed. I let him in, heard the elevator and that thrill of anticipation, of blazing desire, pooled low in my belly. I was already hard; the expectation, the knowing what I was about to get.
I’d never wanted anything so bad.
I opened my door for him, and he stood there, fire and loathing in his glare. He looked me up and down, his gaze lingering over my nipples, clearly liking that I wore nothing but grey tracksuit pants.
I smiled and turned around, walking slowly to the couch. I put a towel down and dropped one knee on the sofa, right next to the bottle of lube.
He closed the door and watched as I made a show of kneeling on the seat, my forearms on the backrest. He stood there, not moving, so I slid my pants down a little, revealing the top of my arse, and that made him move.
He strode over, determined and mad. Mad at me, or mad at himself, I didn’t care.
I stretched my back, sticking my arse out, and he undid the button on his jeans. The sound of his zipper made me moan.
“You’re such a whore,” he bit out, and with his hand gripping the back of my neck, he forced my head down to the seat of the sofa so my arse was sticking up. “Stay down.”
Oh, yes.
Then he pulled my trackpants down. “You lubed yourself?”
“You said you wanted me ready,” I said, muffled into the sofa.
He groaned. “You want it that bad, huh?”
He pressed the length of his hot erection along the crease of my arse. “God, yes.”
He picked up the lube but then he stopped. “No condoms?”
Christ, he was taking forever.
I pulled myself up using the back of the sofa. “You can if you want. I thought you—”
He gripped my throat and pulled me back against his chest, his erection pressed hard against my lower back, his breath hot in my ear. “You have no idea how bad I want to fuck you raw.”
Holy shit.
I was panting, my cock leaking precome. I moaned.
Then he shoved me back down, his hand on the back of my head, his cock pushing against me. So close, yet so far. “I said, stay down,” he bit out.
My heart was thundering but when I heard the pop of the lube bottle, that blanket of calm washed over me. He drizzled more over my arse, and I could hear the wet, slick sound as he covered his cock.
Oh, yes.
Yes, yes, yes.
He tapped his blunt cockhead against my hole and pushed into me.
I’d thought I was prepared . . .
I was not prepared for this.
The stretch, the burn. The size of him, the heat of him. So, so hot. I groaned into the sofa, my hands trying to find purchase on anything.
He pushed all the way in, letting out a cry as he did. “Fuck, fuck,” he groaned, his voice strained. “Oh god. So fucking tight.”
I was panting, taking in the pain, and fighting the urge to resist. Letting it consume me instead. I was so full. He was in so deep.
Taking him bareback was everything I’d hoped it would be.
Then he began to move.
Sliding out and pushing back in, slow at first. Then, like he’d remembered who he was fucking, he gripped my hips and slammed into me.
I cried out and he pushed down on my back. “Fucking take it,” he growled. “Like the slut you are.”
Then he leaned over me and took a fistful of my hair as he pushed my face into the sofa. It hurt and, god, it felt so good at the same time. It also changed the angle inside me, and I saw fireworks behind my eyelids. “The way you looked at me tonight, trying to make me hate you. Well, guess fucking what?” He slammed into me over and over. “You got what you wanted.”
He fucked me so hard, so deep, and so brutally perfect. The fingers of his left hand bit into my hip and his right hand held me down.
“Now take what you deserve,” he said, fucking me into submission. Harder, faster, he owned me, treating me as though I was nothing but a means to an end. My god, I loved it. Then, with a loud cry, he slammed into me one final time as he came. And god, I could feel his cock pulse.
I could feel him come inside me.
Now take what you deserve . . .
Oh, believe me. I took it. I took every drop.
He groaned with each throb, until his body twitched and his thighs shook, and then slowly he pulled out of me.
I missed his cock already.
His hands stayed on my hips, and I was breathing hard. I felt good, used for his pleasure, and his pleasure only. I hadn’t come, and even though my dick was hard, the high I felt was enough.
I waited for him to walk out . . . but he didn’t. He kept his hand on my arse, and I realised, somewhat belatedly, that he was admiring his handiwork. At the wet I could feel leaking out of me.
“Fuck yes,” he whispered.
I lifted my head, pushing myself up, but he was quick to grab me. One hand on my hip, one around my throat. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice hot in my ear. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I shivered, goosebumps erupting over my whole body.
“Can you take more?” he asked, his hand at my throat, tightening just enough.
“Always,” I whispered. It sounded like a prayer.
“Your arse looks so good,” he murmured against the back of my head. “My come running out of your open hole.” He pulled me back so he could rub his still-hard cock against my hole until he was nudging the back of my balls.
“Oh god,” I breathed. I gripped my dick, pleasure rippling through me.
“Fuck, I’m gonna need to come again.” Letting go of my throat, he took my hips in both hands and drove his cock back into me.
I cried out in pleasure and pain, so entwined I couldn’t tell them apart. I gripped the back of the sofa to balance myself and he impaled me, holding my hips and rocking me on his cock.
God, he was so far inside me.
“You’re such a slut,” he bit out. “Taking my cock like this. Good for nothing, letting me fuck you like the piece of shit you are.”
Oh god, yes.
I stroked my erection, desperate for release. But he let go of my hips and drove my face into the backrest so he could hold my arm.
It hurt so good.
“You don’t touch,” he barked, ramming into me and pinning me to the sofa. Then he reached around and under, tweaking my nipple. “You open the door without a shirt for anyone? Or are you just a worthless whore for me?” Then he twisted my nipple, pinched, and pulled it.
I cried out, pain and ecstasy shooting through me, from my nipple directly to my balls, and I came. He held my hips and fucked me as my orgasm tore through me, and in that moment, his massive cock was almost too much to take . . .
Until he roared, pulsing inside me again and again.
He held me still until he caught his breath, until he began to soften, and then he pulled out. He pushed me down onto the sofa and he stuffed his cock back into his briefs.
I was in that blissed-out state, that place between heaven and hell where I knew I was going to hurt in the best of ways, and I longed for it.
The sound of Marshall’s zipper snapped me back to reality. He put his hand on the side of my head and held me down, not rough but certainly not gently. “You look like a used whore full of my come,” he whispered. He gave me a little shove. “Be ready for the same again on Wednesday.” He turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the aftermath.
Tonight had been so much better than I’d ever expected. He said I looked like a used and worthless whore, and my god, I felt like one.
I was so full of his come.
He’d claimed me. Owned me like I was something to use and throw away.
I smiled into the silence.
