by Ker Dukey
This is a personal question.
Swigging his drink, Joshua shakes his head. “No, it’s not something we offer here, or something I’m looking to introduce, but I have a client who came to me asking about this stuff.”
“What do you want to know, Joshua?”
“If a role-play happened as realistically as possible, can it backfire on the aggressor?”
“Get a contract in place, iron-clad—and don’t do anything that’s not consented in the contract,” I warn him.
“So, who is it?” Ren grins, leaning more forward, like a fucking teenage girl desperate for gossip.
“Fuck off.” Joshua smirks back at him. “You know I keep everything confidential.”
“That’s why we play here,” I say, clinking his bottle with the one he brought over for me.
“Who are you going to recommend for her?” Ren pushes, knowing full well Joshua wouldn’t outsource something this delicate. He’s always been focused on providing a safe place for people to live out their fantasies and fetishes. Safety is a high priority for him, and role-play is where he gets his kicks.
“For fuck’s sake, this guy is paranoid,” Ren scoffs, getting distracted by something on his phone.
The interruption gives Joshua a reprieve. “You wanting your room tonight?” he asks, but Ren is getting agitated as fuck with whoever the hell is texting him and my interest is piqued, so I just shake my head no.
“What’s going on, Ren?” I ask, picking at the label on the bottle.
Putting his phone down, he notices something across the bar and his entire demeanor changes. A smile that reaches his eyes lights up his face, and then he’s standing.
“Xavi is having a meltdown or some shit. You may need to go sort his ass out. As for me, my woman just arrived. I have a night of depravity planned for her.” He winks, abandoning me with yet another rescue mission.
Time to text the boy…
Pulling up at the address Xavi gave me, I find him on the curb playing with a lighter.
He looks beautiful under the hue of the moon.
Haunted.
Lost.
A shadow wanting to surrender to the night.
Getting out of the truck, I walk over to him, kicking the tip of his boot. It’s then I see the burns on his hand. “Get the fuck up. We need to get that looked at before it gets infected.”
Sighing, he looks up at me, narrowing those troubled brown eyes. “It’ll be fine, and you’re not my fucking dad,” he snaps, stumbling as he tries to stand.
“You’re drunk, so I’ll let that slide. But I warned you about this shit before I got here, so don’t try my patience, boy.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m pissed off. Some prick cornered me in the bathroom.” He sounds truly distressed.
My back straightens. My fists curl. “Did he fucking hurt you?”
Maybe there was more to this incident.
“What? No, he tried to kiss me,” he grinds out, waltzing toward an alleyway, kicking an empty beer bottle.
I follow, making him jerk in response to my closeness.
“Why does that get you so rattled?” I ask, my tone sincere, seemingly penetrating his armor.
He turns to face me, toe to toe. When he talks, I can taste his breath. We’re so close, it makes me want to inhale him.
“Because he’s gay, and he thought I was too.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I scoff.
“I’m not gay!” he growls, poking his finger into my chest with brass balls.
I grab his jaw and back him up against the brick wall. His pupils dilate. His breath quickens. His pink tongue swipes out to wet his lips. I lean in, pressing my hand more firmly against his jaw, relishing the moment he stiffens, but doesn’t fucking fight it. His hands are by his sides, free to push me away or hit me. There’s a flush to his cheeks, and I know if I rested my palm to his chest, I’d feel the rushing of his blood and pounding of his heart.
I see through his façade. I could give him what he secretly craves right now, in this alley. Take everything from him.
“Maybe you gave him the impression you wanted to be kissed,” I tell him.
“I do…I didn’t…I mean, I didn’t.” His chest rises and falls as his eyes roam my face, dipping to my lips unabashedly.
Does he know how obvious his need is?
“And now? What if I were to kiss you? Would you want it? Or would you want to fight me? Would you fight me?”
“No.”
“No to which question?” I lean in slightly so he can feel my stiff cock against his and inhale his scent, making him shiver. “No you wouldn’t want it, or no you wouldn’t fight it?”
It’s wicked to tease his desire this way, but fuck, he makes me feel shit I shouldn’t be feeling. I want to wreck him. Dismantle all this self-hate and pain and show him it’s okay to be who he is. Feel what he feels. I want to draw out his pleasure by creating his pain in a way that will enlighten him, free him. Give him the pain he needs to help him heal from whatever it is that fucked his head up so bad.
“Well?”
Gulping, he asks on a shaky breath, “Are you going to kiss me?”
Fuck, I want to so bad. Instead, I rub his bottom lip with the pad of my thumb and whisper in his ear, “You’re not ready for me yet, boy. But soon.”
With that, I pull away and go to my truck. It takes two minutes before the passenger door opens and he slips inside.
“Where are you taking me?”
“My place.”
Flicking the light on and chucking the keys on the counter, I point to the couch. “Sit.”
He doesn’t argue. He looks like a wounded animal, tail between his legs as he slinks out of his leather jacket and collapses onto the seat. I grab the first aid kit and sit opposite him on the coffee table, thankful it’s solid wood and can handle my weight.
“You know this is fucked up, right?” I admonish with a raised a brow, grabbing his wrist to inspect his wounds. It’s just superficial and will heal.
Tipping alcohol over the sores carelessly to grab his attention makes him gasp and moan in pain. I keep eye contact with him as I do it again. This time, he exhales a shaky breath, his eyes hooded as he watches me.
“You like pain?” It’s a question, but stated.
“I like to feel,” he replies.
“You need an outlet for all the shit you keep bottled up inside, but burning to this degree isn’t healthy,” I tell him, applying cream and wrapping his hand and wrist. “There are other ways.” Our eyes hold each other, communicating without words. The intensity is palpable in the air thickening around us. The room has a pulse. It’s loud and undeniable.
Thud, thud, thud.
He’s not going to self-destruct. I won’t allow him to implode. He’s going to enter my world. It’s going to be a rough, a wild game of survival—of healing—of learning. I’m going to give him a fucking awakening. Change him forever…
If he makes it through it.
“What are thinking about?” he asks, desperately aching. The need in his voice nearly undoes me.
“I’m thinking Ronan is going to give you some time off and I’m going to take you somewhere for a little while.”
I wait for him to pull back, to allow his mask to slip back into place, but it doesn’t. Xavi is a lost boy who needs me to find him. He simply nods his confirmation. He fucking agrees and my lungs release the air I was holding. I want to strip him bare, right here and now, and show him all the ways I can make him feel better—show him he doesn’t have to be afraid of who he is. No one has ever gotten under my skin quite like he does. I’m not sure if it’s a weakness or a gift. But I need to get out of this room before I lose all self-control and push him too far and too quick.
“You can crash here,” I tell him. “On the couch.”
Marching from the room, I slam into my bedroom, the door banging off the wall. Ripping off my clothes, I go straight to the shower.
The spray is coo
l, but does nothing to soothe the fire raging inside me.
Resting a palm on the tile wall, I grip my hard, throbbing cock, tugging roughly. Flashes of Xa’s tongue licking over his fat fucking lips makes the veins pulse and the mushroom tip bulge in anger. The ache is torturous—a beautiful fucking torture. Knowing he’s in the other room is a sick kind of agony. I want nothing more than to go in there, force him to his knees, and ram my fat cock into that lush fucking mouth of his. I want him to choke on my length, stretch his lips with the girth, grab a handful of that sexy hair and wring my release into him, making him swallow every drop. Instead, I tug and pull my cock with intense ferocity, milking myself for him. I catch a glimpse of his silhouette in my peripheral, but he’s gone by the time my head turns.
Ronan said he owed me, and I’m cashing in that check. I need to get away, just us two. Find out what’s behind all his inner turmoil and see what the hell this thing is between us—because there’s no fucking denying it. No matter how much he wants to tell himself he’s not gay, he’s got a hard-on for me and my cock, and I want to explore every inch of him with it.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I poke my head into the living room and find him lying on the couch in only his jeans, the button open, and the tip of his hard cock on display, begging to be touched, licked, sucked, fucked.
Soon, boy. Soon, I’ll have it all, and you’ll take it all. Everything I fucking give you—until I push all your limits. We’re going exploring. I’m the hunter, and you’re the hunted who has nowhere left to hide.
My heart is nearly beating out of my chest. It makes me wonder what the fuck I took from the bartender. The gay bartender who thought I was gay.
I’m not.
So why the fuck did I follow Blaine into his bedroom like a lovesick puppy? What was I thinking? That he was waiting for me to come to my senses so we could have sex?
A tiny thrill shoots down my spine at the image running inside my head. Naked. Sweaty. Blaine pressed against me, his mouth fused to mine. My dick is aching and hard as a rock, desperately trying to escape the confines of my jeans.
When I made it to his room, he was already in the shower. I once again misread the situation. He wasn’t waiting on me. No, Blaine was taking care of things himself. I was too much of a chicken shit to stay and watch, though I wanted to. Even with the steam from the shower, I could see the curves of his broad shoulders and tapered waist. Thick, muscular thighs. Masculine as can be. And there he was, one hand pressed to the wall as he expertly jerked at his dick.
I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the need to touch myself.
Hard. So fucking hard.
I don’t understand what’s going through my head lately. With Devon, I was pissed and hated that he assumed I was gay. But with Blaine? I sort of hope he thinks I am so he’ll make the first move—unbutton the rest of my jeans and take me into his hand.
My eyes pop open, and I listen in the dark. His bed creaks as he shifts, getting comfortable. The urge to get up and walk in there is maddening.
Then what?
Crawl into bed beside him and beg him to force the things on me I secretly crave?
I don’t crave shit. That’s the drugs.
I think. I fucking hope.
When the urge is too intense, I take matters into my own hand. I undo the remaining buttons on my jeans. Cool air kisses my hot, throbbing cock, and a bead of pre-cum dots the tip.
This is fucked up.
I’m in some cop’s house about to jerk off to thoughts of him.
Under normal circumstances, this sounds like exactly the kind of shit that gets you arrested. But right now? I think I’m safe from that. Safe from the prying eyes of the world. Safe from the judgmental stares and words of people who don’t understand just what the fuck is screwing with my head.
Blaine seems to see something inside me I can’t see myself. And rather than exploiting it, it’s as though he has a plan. I just wish I was in on said plan.
My hand wraps around my cock, making me hiss in pleasure. In the dark, with Blaine’s masculine and powerful scent permeating every inch of his home, it’s easy to pretend it’s his hand. But his hand is bigger and stronger. I bet he’d jerk me hard. I yank to the point of pain, squeezing my eyes shut as I chase this fantasy of him.
Harder. Harder. Harder.
I’m breathing heavily, groaning quietly as my body tingles with pleasure. The need to come is overwhelming. I crave more than my hand, but it’s all I have. No filthy fan girl to sink my dick into…
My dick softens slightly.
Jesus!
Blaine. Blaine. Blaine.
His growly voice. His dark, penetrating stare. His full pink lips that look like they would feel good pressed against mine. His thick cock rubbing against mine as he pins me to the wall.
Fuck!
A spurt of hot cum shoots out of me, splattering my chest. The room spins, dizzying me. Heat rushes through my veins like I’ve taken a hit of something super addictive—something that’ll get me killed like Lex.
Goddammit, what the hell am I doing?
I peek my eyes open to inspect the mess I made. My lean, tattooed chest glistens in the moonlight. The tip of my cock still drips from my release. I’m still aroused and eager for more, despite the fact that I just whacked off like some confused freak in a cop’s living room.
If we were together, would he lick the cum right off my chest?
Would he gather it with his thumb and shove it into my mouth, forcing me to taste myself?
When my dick twitches, impatient to yield to his demands, I let out a heavy sigh.
Fuck this.
Fuck Blaine.
And fuck my stupid dick.
Shame is a powerful emotion. For me, it’s a muse killer and a mood destroyer. It also makes me paranoid as fuck. Ever since last night at Blaine’s, I’ve been spinning.
I cleaned up my “mess” and snuck out of the cop’s house like some sort of bad ass teenager getting away from his overbearing dad. But in my case, I was escaping my overwhelming desire to be with the cop. Whether the feeling is mutual or not is beside the point.
I don’t want him.
I don’t want any man.
Thank fuck I can always count on the band to remind me how to be a man. I’d woken up really fucking late this afternoon in Seth’s guest bed. I don’t know how the hell I got here, though my text messages leave a trail of me begging him to come get me. Now, a party is in full force downstairs. Loud as shit too.
After a quick shower where I forbade myself to think about Blaine’s shower, I dress in some black, holey jeans I find in Seth’s closet, one of his tight-ass white shirts, and pull back on my boots. He’s such a girl, so his bathroom is stocked full of hair styling shit. Once I do a style that has my dark, overgrown hair looking messy but hot as fuck, I steal an unused toothbrush and take care of the taste in my mouth that reminds me of bad decisions from the night before.
As soon as I head downstairs, I can hear a familiar guitar riff. Owen’s showing off—alone, from the sound of it. I saunter down the stairs and scan the growing crowd. Several scantily dressed women let out squeals when they see me. I’m not an asshole, so I nod and flash them a killer smile before finding Owen.
He’s sitting on the hearth of the fireplace, shirtless, a Gibson Dove acoustic in his lap and a cigarette dangling from his lips as he plays something familiar. It’s not wise to try new songs with guests, so we tend to stick with what they already know. We learned that the hard way when we had an impromptu jam session one time during a party. That YouTube video still gets more “free” hits than anything we’ve ever produced in a studio or played onstage.
I walk over to him and fuck with his hair as he strums away on “Heartache from Below,” the first power ballad we ever did.
“And then his hot best friend walks in and asks where the fucking pizza is,” I croon in my voice that makes girls lose their panties in a flash. It’s not the words to the song, but if you
didn’t know any better, you’d fall for it.
He laughs and kicks his foot out at me. I grin at him before heading into the kitchen to see what I can scrounge up. Once in Seth’s massive kitchen, I find a girl sitting on the counter looking like a fucking treat.
Tiny as hell.
Long brown hair.
Fat red lips.
Her tits are spilling out of her dress, and the hem barely covers her cunt. She has short legs, but they’re nice and shapely. They’d look great wrapped around me. As she types away on her phone, the glow illuminating her face, I lean against the fridge and watch her.
She’s exactly what I need.
A fucking distraction.
A reminder that whatever confusing shit has been going on, is just that: confusing. I like what I see with this girl. She’s my type.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, ignoring the missed calls from Blaine I received this morning. Flipping over to Twitter, I look to see what I’m missing out on. Lots of Owen shit—pictures of his shirtless body strumming his guitar from moments before. Even one of me messing with his hair. Fuck, these people are quick. The picture of the two of us already has over forty thousand likes. I snap a picture of the girl, a close up of just her mouth, and type: “Where can a guy find a pretty mouth like this to kiss?”
As soon as I submit the tweet, I watch the girl. She stares intently at the screen. Then she frowns, pulling the phone closer. When she determines it’s her, her mouth parts as she mouths “Oh my God.” Her blue eyes lift to mine.
“There’s one,” I say, like I just found the answer to my question, as I pocket my phone. “Question is, does that pretty mouth want to be kissed?”
I saunter over to her and grip both her knees, pulling her thighs apart so I can stand between them. With how short her dress is, she’s probably flashing anyone in the near vicinity. I slide my hand into her hair and kiss her hard. My lips and tongue dominate hers, and she rewards me with sweet mewls.
My stomach grumbles, making her giggle.
