It was a strange thing seeing Valentine with a banged-up face. He had a bandage wrapped around his head. His left eye was half covered but clearly swollen and there was already bruising.
Whoever had hit him had hit him hard. And it wasn’t a typical knock from rugby. Lord knows I’d had my fair share of those. This was a deliberate hit.
And it bothered me in ways I wasn’t quite prepared for.
In ways I couldn’t quite rightly explain.
Because just a few days ago, I’d caught a quick glimpse of the bruises I’d put on his throat and, as disturbing as it was, I found it hot.
I’d marked his skin.
Imprints of my fingers when I’d gripped his throat while I fucked him. While I owned him, owned his body in animalistic ways.
Yes, it was fucked up. Me marking him? I was totally on board with that, and so was he.
But someone else?
Someone else hurting him?
Yeah, that didn’t fly with me.
As soon as I’d seen him, a burst of fire flared behind my sternum, embers white hot.
No one else touches him.
No one but me.
And that feeling, that possessiveness and claim of ownership was a new and strange thing.
Because I didn’t own him.
I mean, I did in bed.
But I didn’t really. I had no claim on him. I had no business even caring what had happened. Before our agreement, if he’d copped a black eye from someone, I’d have found it funny and would have assumed he’d deserved it. I’d probably have offered to buy the guy who did it a beer.
Now I wanted to kill him.
Number four from Burwood. Second row.
No one touched Valentine fucking Tye but me.
God, it was so fucked up.
And so was sneaking out of the pub and slipping into the Uber with him. He was pale and clearly not feeling well. His friends should have noticed that. They hadn’t.
But I had.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he whispered, probably so the Uber guy didn’t think I’d hijacked the ride.
“Making sure you get home okay.”
He snorted. “Guess it saves you paying for your own ride in an hour’s time.”
God, he infuriated me.
Like saving a few bucks was the only reason I’d joined him.
“If you’re not gonna say thank you for me checking on you, then just shut the fuck up.”
He shot me a glare with his right eye, but given the bandages and swollen left eye, it fell far short of menacing. It would have been funny if it didn’t look so painful.
And if it didn’t fucking bother me so much.
We made the rest of the trip in silence, got out at his place, and I followed him inside. We stepped into the elevator and he sighed as we went up to his floor.
“Does your head hurt?” I asked.
He nodded.
“And your eye?”
He nodded again, just as the elevator doors opened. He unlocked his front door and I followed him inside. He dumped his wallet and keys on the fancy cabinet thing, just as Enzo the cat came out to yell at him.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” Valentine said. “I’ll feed you. I’m sure you’re starving.”
Enzo yelled at him some more.
I pulled Valentine’s arm and led him to the dining table. “You sit. I’ll feed the cat.”
I could see Enzo’s bowl on the floor, and there were still some biscuits in it. I pointed to it. “You haven’t eaten all of those yet.”
Then the freaking cat yelled at me.
“All right, all right, Christ.”
I opened a tall door I assumed was the pantry door and found some vet brand of cat biscuits. I held it up for Valentine to see. “This?”
Valentine damn near smiled. “Yes.”
Enzo yelled at me again.
“You make a lot of demands for someone who doesn’t pay rent,” I said to him. He yelled louder, so I filled his bowl with his stupid biscuits just to shut him up.
I found the first aid kit from the overhead cupboard I’d seen Valentine get it from before, and there were some headache tablets next to it. I grabbed those too and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Make yourself at home,” Valentine said flatly.
I shut the fridge door with my foot, took everything over to the table, and popped two capsules for him. “Take those.”
I pulled a chair over and sat in front of him, our knees interlocked. He took the pills without argument, and I gently unwound the bandage from his head and peeled the wad of gauze off his eyebrow.
It’d stuck to the butterfly clip with blood, and it did pull a little even with me being gentle and slow. But he never flinched.
I had to wonder about his pain tolerance.
His eyebrow was swollen and his eye was almost fully shut. It was mottled and bruised with dark red and black near the bridge of his nose. The cut on the corner of his eyebrow seemed to be the least of it.
It looked sore as hell.
“Jesus,” I breathed. “Do you have any pain other than the headache?”
He half shrugged. “No. The medic felt all along my orbital bones. Said nothing felt broken. It’s just swollen. And I passed the HIA.”
I stood up and went to the freezer for some peas or corn. There were none. “Do you not have frozen peas?”
“I hate peas.”
There were exactly two bags in the otherwise empty freezer. Frozen mango pieces and a huge bag of edamame. I grabbed those. “You have freaking edamame and not peas?”
“I like it.”
I wrapped the bag in a tea towel and gently pressed it against his eye. “Hold that.”
Then I remembered how he’d been the other day when I’d seen him at the office. He was pale and a bit shaky because he hadn’t eaten. “Did you eat tonight?”
“No.”
“Did you eat today?”
He looked away.
Christ.
“I had breakfast,” he said.
I opened his fridge again, noticing now just how empty it was. Sure, there were bottles of water, a small tub of expensive butter, some chutney on the door, a block of some fancy cheese.
And nothing else.
Then I checked his pantry again and realised there wasn’t much in there either.
“What do you eat?”
Enzo saw the open pantry as an opportunity for more food, so I scooped him up and held him. At least he wasn’t yelling at me now. “There’s more food in here for you than what there is for your dad.”
I carried Enzo back to the table and sat down; Enzo sat himself down on my lap. “What kind of pizza do you like?”
Valentine looked at me, then at Enzo, then shrugged. “Any. I’m not fussy.”
I took out my phone and ordered two pizzas. “I hope you like tandoori chicken pizza or meat lovers, because that’s what we’re having.”
“You don’t have to do . . . any of this,” he said quietly. He let his hand drop, his swollen eye making him look more pitiful.
I lifted his hand and the bag of edamame back to his eye. “Keep it on there.”
“I’m no stranger to pain,” he mumbled.
Jesus Christ.
I didn’t want to think about that.
“So,” I said, giving Enzo a pat. He started to purr. “Number four on the Burwood team, huh?”
His good eye cut to mine before he looked away, and he sighed. “I really can’t say for sure. I don’t remember it. I woke up in the dressing rooms. But they said it was number four, and he was in the sin bin, so . . .”
I nodded slowly. “Kinda convenient that we play Burwood next week.”
He snorted. “What are you gonna do? Get even?”
“Fuck yes, I am.” I pulled on his shirt collar to get a look at his neck. The marks I’d left there were gone. “No one lays a finger on you but me.”
He rolled his good eye and let his hand drop to his lap. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”
I didn’t know what it was supposed to mean. It sounded better in my head, less possessive and less . . . I didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.
I pointed my chin to his eye. “This was a dog shot. A cheap, deliberate hit. So fuck the guy that did this.”
He put the bag of edamame back to his eye and gestured to Enzo, who was now a black loaf purring on my lap. “What the fuck is this?”
“He likes me. Cats are a very good judges of character.”
“He’s a traitor, and he crossed enemy lines.”
I laughed. “Enemies with benefits includes cuddles with the cat.”
Valentine sneered at me but then winced.
“Why don’t you go have a hot shower,” I suggested. “Then the pizza will be here and then you can take more pills and go to bed.”
He dropped his hand again. “What about our Saturday night arrangement?”
I almost laughed. “You think I’m fucking you with your face banged up like that?”
“Sorry I’m not pretty enough—”
“I don’t give a fuck what you look like, arsehole. You’re in pain enough as it is, and there ain’t no way I’m pushing your face into the mattress or squeezing your throat when you already have a headache and a head wound. Jesus Christ, Valentine.”
He sneered and made a low rumbling sound. It was possibly a growl, and maybe under different circumstances it would have been hot. “Then what are you here for?” he asked quietly.
Like it was a completely foreign concept that someone might want to make sure he was okay. “You weren’t lookin’ too good when you left the pub.”
He raised his chin a little. “You can go once your pizzas get here.”
“The pizzas are for you, arsehole. And I’m staying here tonight. I’ll take the couch.”
He looked stunned. “Stay?”
“You said you don’t remember being hit, and you woke up in the dressing rooms. That means you got knocked out. Which means you need someone to check on you to make sure you wake up. For fuck’s sake, did they say none of this to you?”
He shook his head and shrugged in an I-don’t-know kinda way, which meant he had no idea what they’d told him because he got knocked the fuck out and couldn’t remember.
He sighed, resigned, because he knew I was right.
“Anyway, me and Enzo are besties now.” I gave him a few pats, making him purr louder. “I’m here for him, not you. It’s not all about you, arsehole.”
Valentine rolled his good eye, and damn, he almost smiled.
“Now go have a shower,” I ordered. “You’ll feel better. Then you can eat and go to sleep with a belly full of carbs.”
It also wouldn’t hurt him to see his face in a mirror.
Ignoring him so he’d go do what he was told, I picked up Enzo and went to the couch, found the remote, and turned on the TV. “Let’s see what we can find to watch.”
After a few minutes of scrolling and ignoring Valentine, he walked into his room. A short while later, I heard the shower and then I got a message that the pizza was here. I left his door ajar, and when I put the two pizzas on his coffee table, Valentine walked out.
He wore track pants and a T-shirt, his hair was washed and still wet. He looked cleaner and fresh, and his face still looked sore as hell.
“Oh, wow,” I said. “Is that a new eyeshadow colour? I hear mangled plum is all the rage this season.”
He sat down next to me. “Funny.”
“Still got a headache?”
He made a hm sound that told me yes, of course he still had a headache.
“Eat up,” I said, separating the pizza boxes.
He chose the tandoori chicken to start with and almost inhaled his first slice. The idiot needed to eat more.
“It’s good,” he said, taking another slice.
I spoke with my mouth full of meat lovers. “I shoulda ordered some Coke.”
He stared at me, disgusted. “Charming.”
I grinned at him. I didn’t need to mind my manners around him; he already didn’t like me. There was no reason to be on my best behaviour.
“Your Netflix selections are lame,” I added, then bit into more pizza. “You can tell a lot about someone by their recently watched list.” I nodded to the thumbnails on his massive TV. “What the fuck is this shit?”
He chewed and swallowed before speaking. “I don’t watch a great deal of television.”
“I’m not surprised, because what you watch is shit.” I scrolled down to the action movies and found the first Expendables movie. “This is where the good stuff is at.”
“Don’t click on—”
Too late.
“Now I’m going to have them recommend me more of this.” He waved his hand at the screen. “Dear god, what even is this?”
“This is good,” I said, again with my mouth full. I pointed my half-eaten slice at the TV. “It’s got all the old-school action actors in it.”
He sighed. I didn’t know why, but annoying him made me happy.
He watched the first two minutes. “Have you ever considered watching something educational?”
“This is educational. If I ever need to know how to beat the shit outta someone, or blow shit up, or drive in a car chase, or fly a plane while getting shot at, I’ll know how to do it.”
“You do know how to beat the shit out of people,” he said flatly. “I’ve seen you play rugby.”
I chuckled and picked up another slice of pizza. “I don’t hit people without good reason.”
“You’ve tried to take my head off a few times.”
“Yeah. Like I said. Not without good reason.”
He smirked.
Arsehole.
Enzo came sniffing at the pizza boxes. “Enzo, get down,” Valentine said.
I picked a piece of Italian sausage off my pizza and gave it to the cat, and when Valentine glared at me, I smiled at him.
“Pissing you off is my favourite thing to do,” I said.
He did that growling thing again, but he sat back on the couch, clearly having eaten enough. I think he’d had two pieces.
“You need to eat more,” I told him.
“You need to mind your own business.”
I snorted and tried his tandoori pizza and spoke to him with my mouth full, for no other reason than he didn’t like it. “Hm, this is good.”
He stared at the TV. “Thank you for ordering it. I need to put a grocery order in. I usually do that on Sundays.”
“That might explain why you have no food here,” I said. “And why you went to work the other day without eating. Does that happen often?”
He shot me a glare. “You’re awfully concerned about something that’s none of your business.”
“But it kinda is my business. If I’m gonna come here and rail you twice a week as hard as you like it, I need to know you can handle it.”
He turned his glare to the television instead, but his nostrils flared. “I can handle it just fine.”
It really did make me feel so much better to have him pissed at me.
I laughed. “Hm, yes, yes you can handle it.”
He sighed, his voice flat. “You can leave whenever you’re ready. I don’t need you to stay.”
“Oh, I’m staying. For no other reason than to piss you off.”
“You’ve far exceeded my expectations in that regard.”
I snorted again. “I far exceed your expectations in all regards. Otherwise you wouldn’t have propositioned me to be your EWB.”
“EWB?”
“Enemies with Benefits.”
He sighed loudly. “Right.”
“And you wouldn’t have asked me to dick you twice a week if I didn’t exceed your expectations.”
“Are you done?”
“Not even close.”
“But you refused tonight, so my expectations are not exceeded.”
I gave the pizza crust to Enzo, earning another glare from Valentine. Then, to piss him right off, I patted him on the head. Valentine, not the cat. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll suck your dick before I leave tomorrow.”
He seethed. “I hate you.”
“I hate you more. But that’s what I’m doing here, right?” I stood and picked up the pizza boxes. “It’s what makes being your EWB so much fun.”
I shoved the pizzas into the fridge and, after searching a few cupboards for a glass, I poured myself some tap water.
“Want another water?” I asked.
Valentine stood up. “No, thank you. I’m going to bed.”
“Take some more pills,” I said, collecting the headache pills from the table and offering them to him with my glass of water.
“No, thank you. I have . . . I have something stronger.” He turned and walked to his bedroom door and paused. “I can’t offer you a spare bed because I don’t have one. I don’t even have a spare blanket. If you get cold . . .”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “If you start to feel sick or dizzy, let me know.”
He frowned at the floor and gave a nod. “Good night.”
He left his door slightly ajar, and a few moments later, I heard the toilet flush, and his light went out. I watched the rest of the movie with Enzo, hearing nothing but silence from Valentine’s room.
I probably didn’t need to stay. I was sure he’d be fine. But he’d had a pretty decent knock to the head, and by rights, someone should check on him. He’d said he was going to take something stronger than headache pills, so I was pretty sure he’d be out of it. I opened his door as quietly as I could, and he was on his side, sleeping on the not-banged-up side of his face. His mouth was slightly open, his chest rising and falling.
He didn’t stir.
Leaving him alone, I found the main bathroom and took a piss, then decided to have a little sticky beak around his apartment. He’d said he didn’t have a spare bed but there was definitely another door. I wondered if it was going to be some kinky sex room and was disappointed to find his spare room was set up with a treadmill and weights and a yoga mat.
A yoga mat?
Of course, he did yoga.
Then again, it probably explained his incredible core strength. I could bend him in some pretty impressive positions while I fucked him, and he managed them all. Plus, he had great abs and obliques . . .
I considered getting myself a yoga mat and closed the door.
His apartment was gorgeous, no two ways about it. And expensive. Like holy shit. I didn’t know anyone that could afford a place like this. Except him, of course. His furniture was all designer stuff and I’d seen his bed enough times to know it was the super-expensive kind.
But his apartment was decidedly empty. There was very little of him on display. No personal touches, nothing to make me say, yes, Valentine Tye lived here.
Maybe that was the real Valentine Tye.
Private, closed off, nothing personal, just showroom-vibes only.
It kinda tracked.
Having seen enough, I fell back onto the couch and decided to fuck up his recently watched list a bit more by clicking on the worst action movies I could find, and when I was bored with that, I checked on Valentine again.
He was now on his back, snoring softly.
So typical that he was even gorgeous when he slept with a banged-up face.
But then he mumbled and flinched in his sleep, immediately wincing at the pain and groaning. He didn’t wake up though, so I went in and sat beside him. I touched his forehead with the back of my hand. He didn’t feel hot, but the touch made him stir. His good eye cracked open.
“Just checking on you,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
Hmm. Maybe I should keep a closer eye on him.
With that in mind, I peeled off my sweater and socks and, leaving my jeans on, I climbed into bed with him. I was on the other side of the bed, the side closest to the door, but it made him stir again.
“What are you doing?” he mumbled.
“Keeping an eye on you,” I hissed back at him. “So shut the fuck up and go to sleep.”
Even in the dark room, I could have sworn he smiled.
Arsehole.
I woke up before the sun to find Valentine using my arm as a pillow, tucked into my side with his head on my chest. He was sound asleep.
What the hell?
I was still wearing jeans and a shirt, which wasn’t overly comfortable. But his bed . . . holy hell, it was the most comfortable bed I’d ever been in.
And him in my arms. His body heat, his weight.
It made for real deep sleeping.
Which I tried not to think about. I couldn’t get my head around the fact it was Valentine freaking Tye.
I was tempted to shove him off, but I remembered his black eye, so I let him lie on me for a bit longer . . .
Not thinking about how good it felt. How comfortable it was, how he fit against me so well. How I wouldn’t mind waking up like this with him more often.
I tried not to think about that the most.
Until I needed to pee.
I peeled him off me as gently as I could, rolling him back over to his side, and I got out of bed. His ensuite door was open so I went in and relieved myself. His ensuite bathroom was all charcoal grey tiles, black sink, cabinets, and tapware.
Expensive as fuck.
The mirror above his vanity was one of those fancy backlit ones and even his hand soap was some expensive crap with a minimalist label. Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I cracked open his cabinet, surprised by what I saw.
Not the skin care retinols and sunscreen shit, or even his brand of deodorant or stupidly expensive cologne that I loved the smell of.
But the three orange prescription bottles with his name on them.
I didn’t recognise the drug names, not that I expected to. Not that I cared. Because it wasn’t any of my business.
But damn.
I was surprised to see it, but at the same time, I wasn’t surprised he had them. He had issues, as I was all too aware. We had an agreement for me to hate-fuck him twice a week and he liked it when I told him he was a piece of shit and a whore.
So yeah, he had more issues than Reader’s Digest.
And I remembered all too clearly when his father had turned up at work the other day. Valentine had been fine—he was always frosty and reserved, that was nothing unusual. Well, he’d been unwell and even thankful for the tea and crackers I’d given him. He’d even smiled.
But when he saw his father, I swear a wall of ice went up around him.
An ice wall as real as me standing next to him in the breakroom.
Now, if I hated Valentine with the power of a burning sun, then I hated his father infinitely more—with the power of every sun in the universes. I despised that man. Loathed him in ways I couldn’t even begin to explain.
And I got the distinct impression that Valentine did too.
Hated him or feared him, I wasn’t sure which. But his reaction, that visceral recoil, cold as ice, was a reaction of a truth untold. Valentine hadn’t expected to see his father; that much had been very clear. Because I’d have thought he’d be better at hiding his reaction than that if he’d been prepared. And maybe if I hadn’t spent time with Valentine over these last few weeks, I wouldn’t have even noticed.
But notice I did.
I told myself it wasn’t my business because I did not care.
I did not care about Valentine fucking Tye.
I closed the cabinet door and left his bathroom. He was still asleep and I could see the discoloured blotch around his eye.
I should have just left. I should have grabbed all my shit, called an Uber, and took my arse home, but something—and I don’t know fucking what—but something made me stay.
I couldn’t make him breakfast because he had no damn food in the house, but I could make coffee and heat up some leftover pizza.
Enzo met me in the kitchen. He sat there with his tail wrapped around his little front paws and gave me a judgemental up and down. Pretty sure he knew what I did to his owner twice a week, and he was not impressed.
“Good morning to you too,” I mumbled.
I opened cupboards, looking for the coffee. Valentine used the pod kind in his two-thousand-dollar Italian machine. A far cry from my instant kind of supermarket coffee. But whatever.
As soon as I opened the pantry, Enzo weaved between my legs and meowed loudly.
“Oh, you wanna talk to me now,” I replied.
He meowed again and again, seriously yelling at me, and then I spotted some small tins of fancy cat food on the side shelf. I picked one up and showed it to him.
“This? Do you get this for breakfast?”
He meowed again and did a figure eight around my feet, rubbing against me, which I took for a yes.
I picked up his dish and tipped the leftover biscuits into the bin, and as soon as I opened the tin, he jumped up onto the counter next to me.
“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed up there,” I said, spooning the disgusting sardine gruel into his dish. “But I won’t tell your dad if you don’t.”
“Tell me what?”
Both Enzo and I looked up to find Valentine standing near the wall.
“Nothing,” I answered. “Right, Enzo?”
He stayed silent.
I grinned at Valentine. “See? I’m his favourite.”
I put his bowl back down on the little mat and Enzo jumped down and began scarfing his food.
“Why did you feed him?”
“Because he told me he has one of those cans for breakfast.”
“He told you?”
“Yes. Right after he told me I was his favourite.”
Valentine scoffed at me. “Okay, Dr Doolittle.”
Ignoring his attitude, I got a better look at his eye. The swelling had gone down a little and his eyeball was visible now at least, but it was very black and purple, and the cut at the end of his eyebrow had bled a little during the night.
“Your eye looks better,” I said.
“Hm.”
“How’s your headache?”
He looked annoyed, but he eventually shrugged. “It’s fine.”
“I think I turned your coffee machine on,” I said. “Does it need to heat up or something?”
He shuffled over to it and pressed a button, then took two coffee cups out of a cupboard.
I took the pizzas out of the fridge. “Plates?”
Valentine went to another cupboard and pulled out a plate and put it on the counter. “So, are you just not a morning person?” I asked. “Or does your head hurt and you just don’t wanna say? Or are you pissed because I’m still here?”
He turned around, leaned against the counter, and crossed his arms. “Yes.”
I snorted and threw some slices of meat lovers on the plate, then threw them into the microwave. But of course I didn’t know how to get it to work because his microwave was fancy and stupid.
He gave an annoyed sigh and did it for me. Then I found the coffee pods and went to put one in the machine, but that annoyed Valentine too, because he sighed and nudged me out of the way so he could do it.
By the time the pizza was reheated and the coffees were made, he was well and truly annoyed. Of course that made me happy.
He took his cup to the dining table and sat down, and I took my coffee and the pizza. I picked up a slice and pushed the plate to him. He turned up his nose. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
I managed to chew and swallow before I spoke this time. “You should. I saw what happened to you the other day when you didn’t eat.”
He glowered at me.
I pushed the plate closer to him. “Eat up.”
“No, thank you.”
“Eat,” I said.
“No. I’m . . . I’m having lunch with my sister.” He shook his head as if it annoyed him that he’d told me that.
“I didn’t know you had a sister.”
He glowered, divulging no more details.
“You’re allowed to eat more than once a day,” I added. “In fact, three meals a day has been popular for a while now. They call them breakfast, lunch, and dinner, though there are regional variations of course. And in-between-meal snacks are a thing. And given you play and train for a contact sport—”
“Are you done?”
“Annoying you? No. I could do it all day.”
Annoying him aside, he still hadn’t eaten anything, and this was clearly going to turn into a game of who could be more stubborn, so I played dirty. “Eat half a piece of pizza, or I don’t suck your dick before I leave.”
He stared at me, then looked out the wall of glass to the morning sun and let out a sigh. “You should get a job as a police negotiator.”
I snorted, but then I looked at his still-uneaten pizza and sighed dramatically. “Such a shame. I really wanted to eat your dick. I mean, you’ve had mine twice and I haven’t had yours even once. How is that fair?”
His gaze cut to mine and . . . was he trying not to smile? “Fine,” he relented, snatching up a slice of pizza. “Christ.”
I bit into my last piece and grinned as I chewed.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re so gross.”
But he did eat three bites of pizza, so technically I won. But I kept looking at his eye . . . it looked sore.
“Now you can take some ibuprofen,” I said. “It helps with swelling. And you should get some aloe vera. Direct from the plant if you can. Slather it all around your eye. It helps with bruising.”
“Are you finished telling me what to do?” he asked flatly.
Sore eye or not, I really did want some dick before I left.
“Nope. Telling you what to do makes me horny.” I pushed the plate away and my empty coffee cup, making room on the table in front of me. “Get your arse over here and give me your dick.”
His nostrils flared, but he put his coffee cup down and stood up. I pulled him into place, right between my knees, and pushed him so his arse was on the table. I spread his legs apart with my knees and pulled his trackpants down.
He was going commando, so I had easy access and he was already half hard. I wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one who could suck dick like a pro. Why I wanted him to know this, I couldn’t begin to say. I just wanted him to know that I could ruin him, leave him a shattered, sated mess, no matter which way I decided to take him.
I wanted him to be such a whore for me, to beg for it.
So I sucked him to within an inch of his life. I did him so good he had one foot off the floor and had his head back, his body arched, groaning like the whore he was.
I played his body like a finely tuned instrument, and I drank every drop he gave me.
When he was done, he all but collapsed on the table, lying back with his legs spread, panting and twitching.
He was so fucking hot.
And I hated that he turned me on so much. I hated that every little thing he did sang to me in ways no one else ever had. My dick wanted him 24/7, wanted to be buried inside him every minute of every goddamn day.
And with him lyin’ out on the table in front of me like a damn feast . . . I could have so easily taken him. No lube, no prep; just lift his arse and sink all the way into him. He’d have screamed and he’d have loved every second of it.
I could have. So easily.
I got to my feet, unzipped my jeans, and pulled my cock out.
I was so tempted . . . he was laid out before me, his pants down to his thighs, his arse was right there.
He tried to sit up so I pushed him back down, my hand pressed to his chest. “Stay the fuck there,” I said, gripping my shaft and pumping. “I should fuck you right now,” I bit out. “I should make it hurt.”
He opened his legs wider.
Daring me.
Tempting me.
Like the whore he was.
“You need to learn your place,” I hissed at him, jerking myself.
So close already. So fucking close.
“And your place is beneath me, taking everything I give you.”
He moaned, and I leaned over him, my balls on his junk. With my hand still on his chest, I held him down, and I shot my load, painting stripes of come across his belly and his chest.
God, it felt so good.
Like I’d just marked my territory, like I owned him. Like he was mine to do with whatever I wanted, and the more I treated him like shit, the more he liked it.
Because he knew his place.
I tucked myself back into my jeans and lightly tapped the uninjured side of his face. “Such a good whore.” His dick twitched, so yeah, he fucking liked it. I spread his legs wider and pulled his arse onto my crotch. “You better have your arse ready for me on Wednesday night. Because I won’t be so patient.”
He smirked and arched his back, like my words struck something inside him.
Jesus.
I left him, still lying on his dining table with his trackpants around his thighs, covered in my come, and I walked out.
