The Trouble with Trevor (Off Limits Book 1)

by Cin Forrester

After his feet are on my leg, I put my hand over his socked toes and rub.

  “Did you play?” he asks as intermission winds down.

  “As a kid.” I hadn’t liked football, too short for basketball. Hockey was fast and all about contact. “Until I was twelve,” I add, because to me, the twenty-year-old LeBeau looks like a kid.

  Again I find myself waiting for questions that don’t come and relax back into rubbing. As we go back to the arena, he says softly, “Can you still skate?”

  Other than my everyday foot, I’d wanted the blade so I could run. I wasn’t ever going back to being the wasted shell I’d seen in the PT mirrors. I needed cardio. Skating hadn’t been on my mind. Maybe there was something out there with the kind of ankle that would make decent skating possible. Of course, it would probably cost more than the house.

  “Haven’t tried.”

  He drifts off toward the end of the second period, flopped sideways against the cushions, lips slack. I turn down the volume so the blare of the commercials doesn’t startle him. My thumb makes gentle sweeps along his instep.

  *

  Every night isn’t like that. By Wednesday, my patience is as frayed as an emergency brake cable on Beacon Hill. I don’t know what’s going on with his social life, but he starts to push again in small ways. I come home to find some printed pages spread across the coffee table, empty orange juice container on the counter. There’s a sullen I’ll get to it when I mention it to him.

  I go down to wash some jeans and find the laundry he told me he did on Monday reeking of mold. I spin the machine on again with an extra dose of soap and stomp back up.

  “Trevor.” It feels good to snap it out, better to hear him come running. But when the anticipation in his eyes makes my dick fill and my throat work, I know what can’t happen.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  He looks down.

  “Thought you were going to talk to me if you—before things got out of hand.”

  He shrugs, still looking down. “Didn’t think things were out of hand. I forgot some stuff. Sorry.”

  I grab his chin faster than I can squash the reflex. Now that I’ve got him, I hang on, tight. “Bull.”

  He jerks a little, and his mouth opens when he doesn’t get free. He licks his lips, pupils darkening his eyes. Jesus.

  Heat flares under my skin, dries my mouth. I want to kiss him until his lips are fat and swollen, haul him over my lap right there in the kitchen and give him much more than he’s looking for, because it would end with my dick up his ass. Knowing that’s the step too far lets me get control of myself.

  I keep my hand on his chin but lean back. “You need consequences.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I release him. “Fifteen pushups, right now, then eight chin-ups. Tomorrow at six a.m., two miles, outside if it’s still clear.”

  He gapes.

  “Looking to add on to that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I said right now, Trevor.”

  He eyes the kitchen floor. I kick a chair out of his way.

  “I thought—what happened to choosing to—?”

  “Now.”

  He folds and drops to the faded linoleum.

  This is supposed to be safer. Hands off. But watching Trevor’s ass flex as he lowers himself to the floor, it doesn’t feel safe at all.

  Chapter 14

  Trevor

  “HOPE you like turkey. Got cold or hot.” Cael slings himself into a chair across from me in the dining hall.

  “Either’s good.”

  He puts the plate with the cold turkey sandwich in front of me. The meat is stacked thick in the middle.

  I’m hunched, waiting for a hand on my shoulder because I’m not supposed to be here. No meal plan, no dining halls.

  Mouth full of turkey and gravy, Cael points with his fork at the juice bottles on his tray. I shake my head and pull my water bottle out of my backpack. Last night he sent me a text asking me to meet him here for lunch. I still don’t know if this is a date or Cael is telling me to fuck off in person. I sent him one text since we had sex on Sunday. I wasn’t asking him to marry me, only sent Hi, and got, Hi. Talk later? in answer.

  Did I suck—or more likely not suck right? Am I just not hot?

  He smiles. “The food’s pretty good. Costs enough.”

  I pick up the sandwich, realize I still have my gloves on and peel them off. The width of the sandwich feels like it’s a comment on how much trouble I had taking Cael’s dick in my mouth. I manage a bite. It is good, soft fresh bread and shredded turkey.

  He must have been waiting for me to have my mouth full because he says, “Sorry I didn’t text sooner.”

  It’s Thursday, I’d sent the text Tuesday morning. I shrug, then swallow hard.

  Cael dips his loaded fork back in the gravy and swirls it.

  “I don’t want to be a dick, so I’m just going to be honest. I like you. You being a vir—inexperienced—threw me.”

  Fuck off, Trevor it is then. So the fact that I didn’t know any other gay boys in Jackson, Ohio is my fault? I open a bag of chips and scatter them on the plate for something to do. Is he waiting for me to argue? It’s not like I’ve got anything that could change his mind.

  Into the silence I say, “That bad, huh?”

  “No,” he says right away. I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s lying. I know what his dick tastes like, what he sounds like when he comes, but not whether he can hold eye contact and lie. “You were great. But I worried you might read too much into us hooking up.”

  I stiffen my shoulders. “I wasn’t planning on stalking you or anything.” I hadn’t even looked him up on Facebook or Snapchat. Mostly because I didn’t want to see all the cool people he hung out with who weren’t me.

  “Yeah. Actually, I’ve kind of, uh…” he tilts his head, “…gotten over myself.” When I don’t answer he says, “Like thinking I was so awesome you imprinted on me.”

  It’s not you, it’s me. I’m a hick from Ohio, but I didn’t live in a cave. And other than my stupid crush on my godfather, I’m capable of not obsessing over a guy who doesn’t want me. “Then I probably shouldn’t tell you I registered us at Target.”

  He laughs, and I know he means it because his eyes crinkle, and that makes them look more green. “Okay. So what I’m trying to say is that I like you and I’d like to hook up again. But I’m not into anything serious right now.”

  I guess it’s better he’s honest instead of being a dick and telling me he’s thinking about me all the time. I grab a chip. Like I wasn’t wishing Grady had decided on something other than an extra workout as a consequence last night.

  The salt scrapes my tongue, chip shards poking the roof of my mouth. “In other words, if some male version of a ski bunny hits on you over the weekend, you say yes, guilt free.”

  His cheeks flush under his freckles. “Well, yeah.”

  “So it’s just sex.” After I say it, I realize I’m asking about more than between us. Was that all there was to it for him? For most guys? It’s not like I was expecting us to get married, but I didn’t think dating was too much to ask for.

  “Just sex?” He smiles. “I’ll have to see if I can improve your opinion.”

  I’ve got more questions about this. About me, about being gay and having sex. But I’m not so sure I want Cael to be the one to answer them.

  I stand and shove my water bottle back in its pocket. “You can try.” I shrug. “Text if you want.”

  *

  The professor of my last class on Tuesday is one of the people freaking out and acting like the Tunguska Meteor is on its way instead of a snowstorm. He cancels. I cut through the yard toward the T, through people milling around like they’re waiting on an apocalypse. I roll my eyes, even while some kind of atavistic tribal perception makes anticipation pump my blood full of adrenaline. It’s the same on the T, people scurrying home ahead of the storm. The forecasters have been up and down for days, e
ight to twelve inches, then three to six, now back to eight to twelve.

  We had snow in Ohio. We just didn’t name the storms like they do these nor’easters now. But it’s hard to not to get caught up with everyone tweeting with the storm name #hera. By the time I get back to Grady’s house, flakes are swirling down and I’m craving soup and macaroni and cheese.

  I can handle that much cooking, pouring a can of soup into a bowl to microwave and getting a pot of water boiling on the stove. I’m throwing in salt when my text alert goes off.

  Cael. He sent me updates over the weekend about his ski meet, but if he hooked up with anyone, he left that part out. Classes might get canceled tomorrow.

  It would be nice to sleep in, but Grady will probably have me helping him shovel out the driveway at 6 a.m.

  Maybe we could meet up, he adds.

  I still haven’t decided if I want to do this with him. I’m not expecting him to fall in love with me, but I’m not super thrilled by the idea of being one of a bunch of guys he’s doing. Of course, that leaves me free to do the same, though men aren’t exactly lining up at my door for the privilege.

  If it’s bad enough to cancel classes, might be hard to get there, I send.

  Funny you should say hard. That’s not his only answer. He sends me a picture.

  Obviously the dick is the first thing I see. A dick I’ve sucked. And Cael’s hand around it. His boxer briefs are down to his thighs, shirt off. My mouth waters. My jeans are too tight around my dick. I press a palm against the base of my cock. I could answer him like that. There’s that full-length mirror on the back of the closet door in my room.

  I’m staring at my phone when Grady’s name flashes up. I fumble with the phone. It feels like he can see what I was just looking at, but the embarrassment only makes me harder.

  My “Hi” comes out all thick, and I clear my throat. There’s a weird silence. “Grady?”

  “Yeah.” His voice is extra deep. Almost quiet. Then a breath. “Heard they were cancelling evening classes. You home?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Stay there.”

  God, him too?

  “Go outside and throw some salt on the walk so I don’t break my neck. I had an appointment, and it’s running late.”

  “Okay.”

  I don’t really think about not doing it. He’s obviously not going to spank me again after what happened last time, and I don’t like the chin-ups or the early-a.m. runs. It’s humiliating to fall that far behind a guy with one foot who isn’t even breathing hard. I’ve thought about breaking curfew, but I’m scared to know his final answer. Afraid I’m always going to be cut off from what I need just when I’ve figured it out.

  I throw the noodles in the boiling water. A drop splashes out on my hand. It’s not the fun kind of pain, and that takes care of my hard-on. Might as well go scatter rock salt.

  I shove on my boots but don’t bother with a coat. I’d swear it was too cold to snow, despite the sheets of flakes that are blowing through. I start at the sidewalk. It’s not really rock salt, it’s some kind of tiny white pellet. I throw it down in arcs springing from the cup. So soon after Cael’s pic, I can’t help but think of jizz, sprays of white across the dark brown blocks.

  I don’t know if that makes me pathetic or perverted. Maybe I should try to go see Cael if classes are canceled. As I move toward the house, I picture myself straddling him, shooting across his face, his beard, his neck. Oh yeah. As soon as I’m back inside I’ve got my hand on my dick over my jeans.

  I’m cold now, and I really want to jerk off. I’m thinking of running upstairs to grab a heavy sweatshirt when Cael texts again.

  This time it’s a pic of his ass. Him looking over his shoulder into the mirror. His ass. Muscles and curves and the dark hair spilling from his crack. Damn. I remember my finger there, wonder what it would feel like to put it in him. Screw that. What it would feel like to put my dick in him. Or his dick in me, because that’s what I want. I want to get fucked. Hard.

  My dick aches as I climb the stairs, but as soon as I’m in the bathroom I peel down my jeans, and that’s so much better.

  I text back. Nice view.

  Want to do more than look?

  I know from porn that lots of guys go both ways, some times in the same scene, but I’ve never had a chance to ask anyone about it in real life.

  I guess I’m going to try to get over to Cambridge tomorrow. The T will run, right? It’s people who drive who won’t be able to make it in.

  I look out at the snow through the bathroom window. It’s four in the afternoon, but it’s almost like night. Behind the cemetery, in the darkest part of the sky, there’s a cloudy, gray wall of something headed toward me. Anticipation vibrates under my skin.

  Yeah. I’ll text tomorrow and let you know when.

  But I don’t have to wait. I open my music to play my jerk-off playlist and step into the shower, hand already working my dick.

  Chapter 15

  Grady

  I DRIVE home dodging assholes panicked by a half inch of snow. I’m already steamed, and I so do not need this shit. Some thumbdick at the VA waited until four thirty to tell me the ortho I was supposed to see at three had already left.

  Glad my time is so important to them, along with my service.

  At least I don’t have to worry about Trevor being in danger with all these dickheads on the streets. When I pull onto the street, I can see he threw down enough pellets to keep the walk clear. He can follow directions now and then. I take a minute to catch my breath before I open the door.

  And step into a reek of burning food. I run toward the kitchen. Smoke is pouring off a pot on the stove. Just as I fling the pot into the sink, the smoke alarm blares.

  I spin off the burner, then grab a broom to silence the shriek. After flinging open the back door to let out the smoke, I stare at the pot in the sink. The blackened stuff on the bottom might have once been elbow macaroni. I run water over it to be sure nothing’s still smoking.

  “Trevor!” How the hell did he not hear the smoke alarm?

  As I stand next to the sink, the rush of water from the upstairs pipes tells me how.

  He started cooking and then took a shower? More likely started jerking off. Irresponsible, reckless, goddamned lucky brat.

  I stomp upstairs. Club music blares out of the bathroom. I slam the door open.

  “Shit,” Trevor shrieks. Then voice shaky, “Jesus Christ.” He peeks around the curtain. “Grady?” He shuts off the water and reaches to tap at his phone on the back of the toilet.

  I step forward and yank the curtain all the way open, tearing it free of some of the hooks. Mad—scared—as I am, I can’t help noticing the jut of his dick, red and shining.

  I grab his arm. “What the fuck? Are you trying to burn the house down?”

  He blinks. “Oh shit. The macaroni. I forgot. I—”

  I snap. It’s the sharp separation I used to get under fire. My body doing stuff by instinct while a part of my brain coolly watches it and makes adjustments. I drop the lid, sit on the toilet and throw him over my knee. His fingers clutch the tub as my hand swings down on the bare wet skin of his ass.

  “Ow. Wait.”

  Again. Fast solid smacks. Not full strength, that icy spot in my brain says. Want to do this for awhile. Don’t break him yet.

  It stings my palm, but that’s not going to slow me down.

  “Please, Grady.” His legs kick, and I trap them. “Wait. It really stings wet.”

  He definitely doesn’t understand what punishment is for. How fucking scared I am when I let myself think of what almost happened. How much I’m holding back even now.

  “Don’t even tell me this was another one of your set ups.” I stop only long enough for him to hear and answer.

  “No.”

  I keep spanking, going harder. His cheeks are already dark pink, but his stiff cock still rubs against my jeans-covered thigh.

  “No.” He yelps it. “I swe
ar. I didn’t.”

  “So you weren’t planning to burn yourself alive?”

  “It was a mistake.” He’s hissing and wincing with every thud of my palm now. His hand flails off the tub, reaching back, and I trap it. “I’m sorry.”

  The motion makes my gaze fall on a long-handled bath brush hanging off a cabinet. Maybe. I’m not stopping to get it now. His cheeks are red, and his breathing sounds like it does when he drags past the first mile of a run.

  Trevor’s breathing. Smoke snaking up the stairs, dropping down from the ceiling, his music and the water drowning out the screech from the smoke detector. Smoke filling his lungs until he wasn’t breathing anymore.

  I don’t know why, but this feels right. Feels like the only way I can chase away the fear, blistering his ass until he remembers this for days.

  His groans sound a little wet. I land a particularly sharp slap at the crease of his thigh.

  “Ow. I can’t— Wait. Wait. You said I could choose.”

  I jerk him up off my lap and stand staring into his face, grip squeezing his shoulders. His eyes are watering, but he’s not sobbing. I can’t tell if the wide pupils and tight lips mean he’s scared because he’s thinking about what he’s done or scared of what I’m going to do.

  I release him.

  “You’re right. But when I said that, I didn’t realize you were planning on setting the place on fire some day.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. I don’t like that I lost my temper like that. I’m not his father. God, I’m not. So I don’t have any right to force contact on him. I don’t know what’s worse. That I’d forgotten my promise to give him a choice or that I liked hitting him because I’ve been wanting to do something else to his ass for the past ten days.

  “Please, Grady. I never meant— Is the kitchen—the house okay?”

  “Might have to throw out the pan you were using.”

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  “It’s not about the fucking pan, Trevor. Do you understand that?”

  He bites his lip, gaze dropping.

  “How can I make sure you’re safe when you can’t even be trusted to turn off the stove?”