The Trouble with Trevor (Off Limits Book 1)

by Cin Forrester

  His voice is low. “I left some soup in the microwave too.”

  “Well, at least that wasn’t on fire.” I want to lift his chin so he’s looking at me, but keep my hands off him. “I don’t know what to do.” It’s not easy to admit. “Maybe it’s—maybe this isn’t going to work.”

  “But—I—I swear I won’t do it again. I’ll pay attention. I haven’t been late since. Not once.” He swallows, and then he meets my eyes. “It hurt a lot more than I wanted it to, but it was a good reminder. I didn’t want go through it again.”

  My muscles are tight, snapped to an inward attention. “Well, you just pointed out I didn’t give you a choice about it this time.”

  “I know.” He looks back at the floor.

  I don’t want to send him home any more than he wants to go. And it’s not just letting Frank down. It’s thinking of how empty the house would seem then.

  I grab the bath brush and hand it to him.

  “I left the back door open to air out the kitchen. I’m going down to shut it. You think for a few minutes. When I come back, either you hand me that brush and know you’re going to be a hell of a lot sorer and sorrier, or you hang the brush back up.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. No other consequence. It’s not an ultimatum. It’s your choice.” I walk out.

  There’s a little drift of snow from the back door. I sweep it over the threshold and wipe up the moisture. The smell has faded but still hangs in the air like a decision I’ve been putting off.

  I stand on the back steps for a few minutes. I have no idea what the fuck I think I’m doing. I know goddamned well Trevor gets turned on over my knee, but I also know after a dozen swings of that brush, he’ll be in more pain than he’ll like. Being sore may help him focus on not being careless for awhile. But any claim that I’m doing this just for him is bullshit.

  I hope I find him holding the brush because I might not be able to fuck him, but I can have this. My principles are bent all to hell, but I can’t see my way to putting my dick in a seventeen-year-old. On the books, Massachusetts sets the age of consent at sixteen, but that doesn’t work for me. Eighteen is my goddamned line in the sand.

  The devil in my boxers reminds me Trevor’s birthday isn’t that far away. I’ll deal with that when it happens.

  Right now it’s time to see what he decided.

  I knock on the bathroom door.

  “Uh—yeah. Come in.”

  My eyes go to the hook first. Can’t say I’m surprised to see it empty. He’s still naked, but his clothes aren’t strewn over the floor, and the curtain is mostly restored.

  “You might need a new shower curtain. I can pay for that too.”

  I step closer to him. He’s shifting around, hands tight on the handle of the brush. At last, he looks me in the eyes.

  “I’ll add it in.” My voice is firm but soft. “Are you ready?”

  He nods.

  “Tell me, Trevor.”

  “Yes, sir.” His dick gives a jerk.

  “Okay.” I hold out my hand.

  His tongue runs over his lower lip as he hands off the brush. God, I want that mouth. I want to make him cry from pain as I smack his ass and then kiss it all better.

  I feel the tremble in him as he lowers himself across my lap. This isn’t like the other times, and we both know it.

  I rub the brush over his still-red cheeks, and he flinches. After hitching him up closer, I lock his legs under my right one.

  “Give me your hands.”

  He puts them at the small of his back, and I pin them there.

  “What if I...?”

  “Cry?” I say it gently. “You probably will. It’s okay.”

  He shakes his head. I can barely hear him get out, “What if I come?”

  I tap the crown of one cheek with the brush. He jerks. I test the weight with a blow to my palm, and he shifts at the sound.

  I lean down, whispering back, “I think that would be a bad idea.”

  “Oh.” His body clenches.

  I turn the brush so the bristles rub over his ass. He sighs and relaxes.

  “Good boy.”

  I smack down the brush. He hisses. I swing again. His gasp is pure sex. I know that sound from him. Heard it through his bedroom door.

  I shift, trying to keep his dick off my thigh, as much to keep me from going full wood as to help him not come. I start spanking him, steady slaps of the back of the brush, not too hard, just enough to leave red circles as I move around his ass. He moans loudest when I hit the bottom slopes, but when I go for the crease, he pants and fights me.

  “Don’t tense.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There is another reason he’s here though. I stop and rub the brush over him.

  “You almost burned the house down, brat. I think your butt needs to be pretty hot to make sure you remember to pay attention.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It takes a couple of tries, but I find the right stroke to snap my wrist and let the brush thud into him. I set a pace and force to leave him gasping.

  The lower halves of his cheeks are darkening past red. As I keep smacking, some white appears on the top layer of his skin. I stop to feel it. It’s like the chap of windburn, nothing lethal. He’s not begging me to quit, but he’s jerking with every smack. I need to get him to that point where he gives in soon. I’m not sure how long I can keep things from spilling over until this has nothing to do with discipline.

  “I’m sorry.” He snaps it out.

  “I know.” I hit him in the same spot five times, burning his skin, the weight of the brush driving his breath out of him.

  His legs shake under mine.

  I do the same thing on the other side.

  “I’m so sorry.” It’s a helpless sound with a hitch in his voice. “Please, Grady.”

  He’d begged me like that with his dick in his hand, me listening on the other side of the door. And just like then, I’m suddenly, painfully hard.

  I tighten my grip on his hands, pinning him close, and let the brush fall in biting strokes, fast as rain hitting the ground.

  His sounds are all pain now, and horribly, that makes me even harder. The tip of my dick leaking, my pulse as fast as the crack of the wood on his skin. I want him, I want him crying and desperate. I want the sound of that sob that just caught in his throat. My manipulative little brat.

  Jesus. I can’t. I’m going to lose it. Going to break him and fuck him and do it over and over again.

  I can’t.

  I drop the brush. As gently as I can manage, I shift him off, and do what I’ve never in my life done before. I quit and walk away.

  I’m sweating. I strip off my shirt as soon as I get into my room, unbutton my fly.

  The door opens behind me. I square my shoulders, but I don’t turn.

  “Out.”

  “No.”

  “Get out, Trevor.” I’m going to put him out. It can snow five feet, but I’m going out tomorrow and buying a lock for my bedroom door. I turn to see him lean against the closed door.

  “Tell me why,” he insists.

  “Why I stopped playing that game?”

  He flushes. He’s still naked, but his dick isn’t hard now. “Is that what it is?”

  “Go. Your butt’s sore enough for a week of jerking off.”

  “No. You can’t tell me it doesn’t turn you on just as much. I felt you get hard.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Friction is friction, kid. You were doing plenty of squirming.”

  He blinks, lashes spiky. Don’t do it, Trevor. Please, God. “Are you gay?” His voice shakes a little.

  I have to get him out of here. Now. I cross and put my hands against the door on either side of his head, twisting my mouth into a sneer. “If you’re asking if I fuck men, I do. But I don’t fuck children.”

  A tear slips. “I’m seventeen. I’ve had sex. With other men.”

  My hands curl into fists. I know he’s baiting
me. Whoever owns that yellow scarf is no more a man than Trevor is. He’s not talking about some older man doing...exactly what I want to do to him.

  I dig in hard. Find that place inside me that got me through the last twenty years of my life. Bombs, blood, death and pain. Nothing can break me if I don’t let it. I’m stronger than any of it.

  And faced with my hard-won strength, Trevor shrugs his bratty shoulders and opens his persistent little mouth. “Tell me you don’t want to have sex with me.”

  It could be as easy as that. All I have to do is spin a lie, send him off to cry and jerk himself off, and maybe we can get back some of the peace we were enjoying last week.

  I open my mouth to do it and kiss him instead.

  It’s not gentle. It’s not affectionate. I take his mouth like I’ve wanted to do for days, bite that lip for him, drive my tongue into him. His arms go around me, hands latch on to my shoulder blades, rough, ragged nails digging in.

  I fuck his mouth with my tongue, and he takes it, his breath choking in his throat. Yeah. Yellowscarf kiss you like this, brat? Don’t think so.

  I don’t let him catch his breath because I can’t let any space between us. Any pause and I’m likely to remember why I can’t do this, why I can’t drown in his eager hunger. I grab his ass, loving the pained sound he groans into my mouth. His tongue is just as busy as mine, thrusting back against me, always pushing.

  I squeeze, tip my hips and lift him off his feet to bring our dicks in line. He groans and shakes, legs wrapping around my thighs, grinding against me.

  It’s still the same kiss, rough, lips pressed against teeth, and I taste a little blood, a little salt from a tear. It should act like cold water, but it only makes me harder. Needier.

  A strangled whimper vibrates against my mouth and he jerks, soaking my belly and jeans as he comes.

  My seventeen-year-old godson’s spunk on me, the smell sharp and bleachy between us.

  I raise my head and put him on his feet.

  “God, Grady, God.” He’s panting. “I love you.”

  I step back, almost lose my balance, and then I remember how my left foot works now and manage another step.

  “Can I suck you? Please.”

  “No.” It comes out harsh.

  His eyes stay open, but his brow ripples, lips tightening with hurt.

  His lips. His mouth. It’s swollen, wet, lips as dark as the bruises I put on his ass. And the thought brings me so close to the edge I have to grab my dick.

  His tongue shows between his teeth, licks his fat bottom lip. He comes toward me.

  “No. Back against the door.”

  He drops back with a wince as his ass makes contact with the wood. I sit on my bed. I’ve already lost. But there’s that one tiny shred I’m holding on to.

  “Don’t move. Not one inch.” I don’t recognize my voice. Hoarse and broken but still clinging to control.

  He nods. I open my come-soaked jeans and pull my dick through the slit in my boxers. I stroke and watch his face. His gaze never leaves my cock, his lips parted, lashes dipping.

  I’m so hard there’s barely any slide. It hurts as much as it’s a relief to finally start the motion that will put me out of my misery. The way I’m lined up with my chin down, I can see my dick and his face. Despite the four feet between us I can imagine my come landing on those lips. His hair. God, why hadn’t I grabbed his hair when I’d had the chance?

  My hips jerk, and I speed up. I want it now, but I want to take my time. Because this is it. Just this once. And I’ll figure something out. Locks on the doors. Rules. Better rules.

  And no more pulling him over my knee.

  Jesus. The spark starts low, but I can’t fight it, can’t hold it back anymore. It rushes through me, the satisfaction a sweet ride to Hell as I shoot, watching the fascination on Trevor’s face.

  I hang my head as the last jolt shudders out of me. A few seconds of contentment overrun with guilt.

  When I get my breath back, I say without looking at him, “Go. Get dressed. Meet me in the kitchen. We’re going to talk about some rules.”

  I’m not looking at him, but I can feel it. His hope, the pull of his interest. And I can’t let that get under my skin again.

  “Not the kind you like breaking. This…” I gesture between us, “…is not happening again.”

  I hope to God it’s a promise I can keep.

  Coming soon

  The Problem with Grady

  The next part of Trevor and Grady’s story

  Read on for a sneak peek!

  Thank you for reading this independently published work of fiction. If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll take a moment to leave a review.

  About the Author

  Cin loves writing books that crank up the heat and the kink. Her stories are erotic with a big helping of romance. She writes about characters on erotic journeys, characters with forbidden passions. If you don’t like a lot of sex in your stories, her books are not for you. If you like your romance to get down and dirty, try one of Cin's.

  Cin loves to hear from readers. Contact her at

  cin@cinforrester.com

  www.cinforrester.com

  A sneak peek at The Problem with Grady

  Off Limits, Book 2

  Coming in January

  Chapter 1

  Trevor

  My hands shake as I open the door behind me. The only way I can stop staring at Grady and go is if I close my eyes, so I do. I stumble across the hall into my room and shut the door, leaning my forehead against it. It’s freezing. I’m freezing.

  I throw on the first sweatshirt I can find. The edge skims my ass. My sore bruised ass. With my head twisted around, hands pulling up my cheeks a little, I can see dark bruises on the bottom half. The sight makes my balls shift, heat flashing through me to take away the chill, despite the snow I can see piling up on the window frame. A closer look shows me the stones in the cemetery are covered with more than an inch of snow, black tree branches webbed with it, all of it glowing blue white from the street and house lights, and fat flakes still falling in sheets.

  The idea shivers through me. Snowed in. With Grady.

  My throat is tight because my pulse is beating hard in it. I shut my eyes, feel his gaze on me, focused on me as he stroked his dick. I’ll never forget how he looked when he came, the almost soundless gasp, the way his strong features went soft, vulnerable.

  For me.

  Blood fills my dick again, so fast and hard I have to sit on my bed. The pain pumping from my ass only makes me stiffer. Grady kissed me. The shock of sensation from his tongue in my mouth, the hard press on my lips, his taste drowning me. All of that was as far away from kissing Cael as my grandmother’s fried chicken was to something left in the KFC’s warmer all day.

  And I knew, knew, it was the same for Grady. He could say we weren’t going to do it again, but we were.

  My briefs don’t much to protect my ass. My jeans feel like sandpaper rubbing on my cheeks as I go downstairs to the kitchen. It still smells like the burned noodles that had started everything, and I fight gagging.

  Grady sits at the table, studying his hands which are palm down on the varnished wood, fingers splayed. His hands. Ones that held me and made my ass hot and bruised. Hands that lifted me against him until I came from the grind against his jean-covered dick.

  He glances at me then back down at his hands. “Sit.”

  I eye the wooden seat of the chair. Grady’s tone doesn’t leave any room for argument. I try not to flinch when my ass hits the hard surface, but damn it hurts. It’s a steady throb of pain, but leaving me at the edge of turned on but not so far that I really need to do something about it.

  “I shouldn’t have put my hands on you when I was angry.” Grady doesn’t look up. “I shouldn’t have put my hands on you at all.”

  Yeah, it scared me when he slammed into the bathroom. It hurt like hell when he started spanking my wet ass, but then things changed. It was like he got it�
��got me—when he handed off the brush and gave me time to decide. We both already knew spanking turned me on, but in that moment, I’d thought he understood it was more than that. I needed more pain than was fun. Needed him to make me sorry. I needed to let go in a way I couldn’t anywhere but over his knee.

  And giving that to me turned him on too. I felt that.

  “It’s okay. I wanted—”

  “I’m talking. You’re listening.”

  And we were back to him treating me like I was a child. Me storming off wouldn’t do much to change his opinion so I sat and shut my mouth, folding my arms over my chest.

  “You need to be more responsible,” he says, flat and solid as a wall.

  “Maybe if you didn’t treat me like a child.” I heard him in my head, I don’t fuck children.

  “Because you act like one. Christ, you almost burned the house down.”

  “I got distracted after I went outside to put the salt on the front walk like you told me.” That wasn’t entirely it. I was way more distracted by the naked pictures my not-boyfriend Cael was sending. But I didn’t want to tell Grady that.

  “So you leaving food to burn on the stove is my fault.” He raises his hands in exasperation. “How is blaming me acting responsible?”

  “No. I mean, it was my fault.” Worse, I didn’t know how to make up for it, how to prove I wasn’t an irresponsible kid. “I’m sorry.” I shift on the chair, making sure that more of my bruises are in contact with the hard seat. Because I am sorry to have done something that stupid.

  “Just don’t do something like that again.”

  “I won’t.” I hope. It wasn’t like I’d done it on purpose.

  “All right.” He spreads his hands palm down on the table again. Like he needs the reminder to keep them there.

  I wait, arms still folded. He’s the one who called me down here for another round of rules. If it was up to me, I’d already be touching him, begging him to touch me. To do the things he said couldn’t happen again.

  Finally he says, “You’re a minor.” His tone is hard and angry, like my age is something I did to deliberately piss him off.