by SE Jakes
“Drink.”
“You’re not drunk at all, are you?”
“Nope.”
Prophet downed the shot and let Tom tug him through the crowded club and into one of the back rooms, where Ray waited. He pointed to the lone chair in the room, and Tom pushed Prophet toward it.
Prophet walked to it as slowly as he could. He could do the act of the petulant child better than anyone when he wanted to. And right now? He wanted to. But he did finally lower himself into the seat.
Ray stood next to the chair while Tommy came over and took Prophet’s shirt off, tossing it aside. Tommy took Prophet’s left nipple in between his thumb and forefinger and squeezed, then flicked the tip with his nail, making Prophet jump.
“Told you that if you were mine, I’d make you pierce it,” Tom murmured as Ray started taking out equipment that looked like . . . piercing equipment.
“This.” Prophet pointed a stabbing finger at each of them. Twice. “This was a setup.”
“And you fell for it,” Tom said calmly.
“I thought you were drunk.”
“You definitely are,” Tom observed.
“And you weren’t hitting on me?” Prophet asked Ray.
“Technically no, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re cute.” Ray smirked, and then gave him a once-over.
“Cute? Cute?” Prophet’s voice rose until Tom pinched his nipple—again—to get his attention.
Prophet stared up at Tommy, in a little bit of a drunken haze, but mostly majorly turned on. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Ray leaving the room.
He must’ve looked relieved, because Tom assured him, “Ray staying was never part of the plan.”
“With Mal, it’s not like this. I mean, shit . . . It’s different. I stay in the room with Mal and whoever his dom is, because Mal doesn’t have all that much trust.” Prophet glanced at the piercing equipment and decided that it was time to distract. “But I did pick up some tricks.”
“Yeah?” Tom looked like he was almost afraid to breathe, then asked, “Is it hard for you to watch?” Prophet frowned and tried to hide a smile until Tom pushed. “Come on—you know what I mean.”
“Sometimes. I mean, I get it, the pain stuff. But it’s not my thing. And he likes it rough.”
“Needs it,” Tom corrected.
“Needs it,” Prophet conceded. “Do I give you what you need?”
Tom smiled easily. “Yeah, Proph. Always. And usually before I know I need it.” He paused. “So Mal and I really aren’t all that much different.”
“Yeah, you are. Completely fucking different in many ways. Mal loves . . . needs pain.”
“What kind of pain?” Tom asked, the interest apparent in his eyes.
Prophet shook his head. “The kinds you have to give me credit for knowing you won’t like.”
Tom nodded. Waited. A little tensely, and hell, they all had way too much tension these days. Prophet was actually surprised Mal hadn’t called in one of these favors more frequently.
Finally, Tom said, “I’d only do it with you. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”
“Yeah, like I’d fucking let that happen,” Prophet growled.
“I know, Proph.” Tom smiled, then turned toward the equipment. He picked up an alcohol pad, but before he swiped it on Prophet’s nipple, he bent, sucked the nipple hard into his mouth, making Prophet give a keening cry. He abused the fucking thing, twisted it until it was hard and angry, and then he wiped it down and reached for forceps.
It was only when he pulled Prophet’s nipple out taut that he said, “I trained to do this.”
Prophet looked up at him. “I trust you, Tommy.”
Tom smiled. Then he picked up the needle and pushed it fast through Prophet’s nipple, and holy mother of fuck, the line between pain and pleasure completely blurred as he saw the long, thin metal pole impaling his nipple.
Tom threaded the ring onto the needle and pulled it through the hole, which caused a whole other set of motherfucking pain that made him curse. Loudly. Tom glanced up at him, looking like he was holding back a laugh—the asshole—and then he released the forceps and set about closing the ring, which seemed like it took forever.
Prophet finally breathed when the forceps came off—how long he’d been holding it, he had no idea, but fuck, everything was reduced to the feeling of the piercing, the burning throb in his nipple, and that made it hard to focus on anything else. A long moment later, the ring was locked firmly in place, and Tommy was sinking to his knees in front of him, unzipping his pants and taking his hard cock down his throat.
Prophet shot immediately—and Tom had to know that would happen. Prophet knew he’d no doubt have come as he was being pierced . . . if he’d had Tom sucking him while Ray did the piercing. But that was interesting as a fantasy only.
Because this wasn’t about sharing. Or payback. This was Tom showing him that he understood. That, no matter what, no matter how pissed they got, how much they fucked up . . . Prophet was his. Which was Tom’s way of assuring that he wasn’t going anywhere.
The music from outside the room suddenly pounded against the walls like it wanted in. It wasn’t late, but this was the time for the club to get crowded.
Tom licked the crown of Prophet’s cock as Prophet tried to catch his breath. “Lesson learned?”
“Definitely not,” Prophet half scoffed, half panted.
Tom leaned in to suck Prophet again—a tease more than anything, but enough to make Prophet moan and shift. Then Tom looked up at him. “Because if you say yes, there’s a chance I won’t do something like this again, and you don’t want that?”
Prophet didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, he pointed at him . . . but his other hand rubbed lightly over his newly pierced nipple.
And Tom had the only answer he ever needed.
He shook his head. “You can keep doing the favors for Mal.”
Prophet glanced down at him. “Don’t you think Cillian should be the one doing that now?”
Tom narrowed his eyes.
“I mean, since they’re still hate-fucking sometimes,” Prophet continued with an eye roll. “Do you think I don’t notice things? Do all of you think I’m already blind?”
“Ah look, another blind joke. That’s going well for you.”
Prophet snorted. “You act like I’m not funny at all.”
“You’re a fucking laugh a minute.”
“I’m not an idiot, Tommy.”
No, and that made it harder to hide things from him. Tommy had figured they’d succeeded, but hell, Prophet might’ve seen through all of them from the start. “It’s not my story.”
“Could it have affected the mission?”
“Potentially. But we both know Mal wouldn’t have allowed that,” Tom reasoned.
“And Mal’s in a good enough state of mind to make that judgment call himself, yes?” Profits voice held only the slightest twinge of sarcasm.
“None of us are in any kind of state of mind to make those kinds of judgment calls.”
“That’s why we run checks on each other,” Prophet told him calmly and pointedly.
Fuck. It really sucked when Prophet was a hundred percent right and calm about it, because it took all the vigor out of Tom’s fight. It was much easier when Prophet was being an ass. “I would never let anything compromise you or this mission.”
Prophet acknowledged that with a nod. “I trust you, Tommy.”
Tom sat back on his heels and pointed at Prophet’s chest. Then smiled, even as he said, “Good. And don’t plan on taking that out.”
Prophet looked down at the ring through his nipple and pretended to scowl . . . even as Tom saw the smile breaking through. “Till when?”
“Till never. Punishment for cheating at Truth or Dare.”
Yeah, Prophet would definitely be making that mistake again. Sometimes, it was too damned easy.
Prophet was still half buzzed, although he was waning when they got back to the a
partment . . . but Tommy was quiet. At first, Prophet thought he might be tired, which would be understandable . . . but it was more than that.
Tommy was restless.
He put his hand on Tommy’s knee, which had been bouncing a hundred miles an hour as he sat on the couch, like he was waiting for . . . something.
“Sorry,” Tommy said sheepishly. “That wound me up more than I realized.”
Prophet slid a hand through his own hair, his nipple throbbing, reminding him of what had happened. Tommy had wanted to claim him—and he had. Maybe now it was Tommy’s turn to be claimed. “That’s not a bad thing—or unexpected, so don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks for letting me know how to feel,” Tom muttered.
God, Tom felt like he was going insane and had no idea why.
Prophet gave him a small smile, and in turn Tom just muttered, “I need to shower.”
He walked away, and Prophet didn’t follow. Tom was both relieved and disappointed. And he had no idea why the hell he was jumping out of his skin right now. Even his teeth were set on edge, so he unclenched them, rubbing the sides of his jawline.
It’d been a great night. Worked out perfectly. Prophet’d loved it.
“So what the fuck’s my problem?” he asked himself under the spray.
His cock gave him the answer. Prophet had been talkative—even teasing at the club—but Tom had seen the tiredness in his eyes. So he’d brought Prophet home, and Prophet had dozed on the couch while Tom made some dinner.
Now, it was midnight, and Tom needed to come. And yeah, that should solve everything. Even if it didn’t, it’d feel good, so who cared?
He palmed his cock and rubbed along the piercings first, pulling them just enough to make him throb. He hissed at the pain and then fought a groan as he imagined Prophet doing this to him . . .
The glass door opened, the steam rushed out, and Prophet stood there, watching. Before Tom could say anything, Prophet ordered, “Don’t stop now—jerk yourself, since you can’t keep your hands off it.”
“Since when do you fucking tell me what to do?” Tom demanded crankily. Of course, he kept on sliding his hand up and down his cock, partly because fuck, it was good—better when ordered, sure—and partly because the look in Prophet’s eyes as he watched Tom doing it was just . . .
Fuck.
Fuck yes.
“Don’t come though,” Prophet told him casually, and look who had a second wind.
“Until when?” Tom gritted his teeth and slowed himself down.
“Until I say. Clear enough?”
Tom glared at him. Then, since glares never worked on Prophet anyway, he leaned his head back under the spray, letting water course over his body as he continued to work himself slowly.
A jolt make his gasp—and he opened his eyes to see Prophet flicking his nipple piercings casually. Twisting them. Smirking.
Fucker. Fucking motherfucking fucker.
Prophet was laughing. Maybe Tom’d said that out loud. He didn’t know anything anymore, couldn’t think, and that was exactly what Prophet was promising. He’d been on the receiving end of Prophet’s orders enough times to know at least that.
He wasn’t about to refuse. Not tonight and, he was pretty damned sure, not ever.
“Out of the shower, T. Right now.” Prophet’s voice was sharp enough to make Tom jump, mainly because he’d been buried in his own head. When he glanced at Prophet, he was pointing.
Tom smirked, because it would only make Prophet go harder on him. “Are you seriously ordering me around?”
“Are you seriously not going to fucking let me?” Prophet’s words were a growl that went straight to Tom’s dick.
“Point taken.”
Prophet’s eyes flashed. “Bed. Now.”
Tom’s gut tightened in anticipation. His nerve endings tingled, almost to the point of pain. There was nothing better than Prophet’s undivided attention.
There was also nothing worse than that, but especially during sex . . . It was the pain-pleasure point most of the time.
Prophet was waiting with a towel outside the shower. Tom turned the water off and Prophet moved forward, patting him dry almost gently. Ignoring his cock, though, so too fucking gentle for Tom’s tastes.
Prophet snorted, like he knew what Tom was thinking . . . not that hard to know, since he was rock hard. And then Prophet let the towel drop and pointed toward the bed. “Face down.”
Tom sighed like he was being totally put out and tried not to run to the bed. He noted the ropes on the nightstand, and he swallowed hard as he stared at them, probably for a beat too long, before he lay down.
Tom was strong—could probably break the bed if he really had to get away—but he couldn’t get out of Prophet’s knots. He’d tried. And he’d tried to learn them well enough to be able to tie Prophet up . . . but so far, Prophet had always escaped.
Prophet loved that, of course.
Now, Prophet stroked Tom’s hair. Tom had put his cheek down on the bed—Prophet had taken the pillows off the bed already—and he was facing away from Prophet. Prophet didn’t ask him to turn to him, so Tom didn’t. Instead, he just listened to Prophet.
“You asked me earlier about the pain,” Prophet started, his voice husky, the way it always got when he was about to fuck Tom. “You also asked about you and Mal being the same, and I wasn’t kidding. I know you like rough, but for you, it’s not about the pain as much as it’s about finally finding someone who can hold you down, hold you back . . . keep you in place when you lose it. But it’s also got to be someone you trust. Not a stranger.”
Tom shuddered at Prophet’s words. No, he’d definitely never let a stranger do this to him. He couldn’t think of anyone he would let besides the man doing so now, and decided that there was no use thinking about it. Wasn’t going to happen.
Prophet had tied him down before—most notably in Etienne’s studio in the bayou, and that had been when Tom had nearly lost it. Being tied had calmed him the fuck down. Prophet had worked on keeping him riled up and the sensations, the push-pull of both, had made the whole thing hotter.
“Look at me, Tommy,” Prophet told him, and Tom did, lifted his head and put it down again so he was staring up him. “Does that make sense to you?”
“Think you better show me . . . just so I can be sure,” Tom urged, loving the slow smile that rolled across Prophet’s face, finally reaching his eyes. Today, they held more blue than gray, thanks to the blue henley he wore, stretched across his chest. It looked good on him. Everything did.
Tom preferred him naked, though. But at least he could see the outline of Prophet’s new piercing through the shirt. He reached out and just touched it lightly. Prophet drew in a quick breath—because yeah, still sore as shit—and smiled.
And yeah, he’d let Prophet do anything that he wanted to him.
The ropes were probably a bigger mind-fuck than anything else Prophet could do to Tommy right now—and they both knew it. Prophet white-knuckled through being tied down—for him, the pleasant torture came from forcing himself to remain still while unbound. But Tommy . . . Tommy needed that sensation, that weight, that presence that let him know that something—someone—stronger than he was at the moment was taking over. Taking it all away. And hell, Prophet could do that for him easily. Wanted to.
Because of that, Prophet took his time, making sure everything was looped and tied perfectly, until Tom was bound and spread to the head and footboards, with some rope tucked around his chest just for good measure. He’d forced Tom to push himself up as best as he could so Prophet could thread the ropes under him—and there was no real rhyme or reason for the way he was tied. The goal was to render Tom immobile and he was, although there was just enough give in the ropes so he could pull Tom onto his knees.
Barely though.
The sight of Tommy tied down to the bed, blindfolded . . . hell, that was now effectively burned into his brain. His dick got harder, which he hadn’t thought possible, an
d a low growl escaped his throat. Or maybe it wasn’t so low, because Tommy shuddered at the sound. Moaned.
And fuck, as much as Prophet loved hearing him, he also wanted to gag Tommy, watch him totally helpless. Mainly because it would turn Tommy the hell on.
But . . . baby steps. The blindfold was new—and hard enough. Harder on Prophet, because he was still learning to trust himself.
Prophet flexed his hands. Tommy would count on him when Prophet couldn’t see well anymore. How would he be able to blindfold Tommy when he couldn’t see well enough to check on him?
Then don’t . . .
But then, Tom would spend more time worrying about Prophet, and Prophet wouldn’t—couldn’t—have that. So he’d have to learn, have to rely on his other senses to deal with this. Every situation would be different.
Deal with shit, one at a time, as it comes up.
The ropes holding him were soft, but the way they’d been tied gave Tommy just enough of that sting his body craved. Especially when he tugged to see how tight everything was, and then it burned, so he tugged again.
Prophet let him test the bonds for a long moment, before pulling his hips off the bed, forcing Tom to his knees. But his upper body was tied so well that he was unable to support himself on his arms. He was trapped, really and truly, with his chest exposed just enough for Prophet to slide a hand under him, pushing the mattress down.
Before Tom could wonder about that, his body jerked as Prophet put a clamp on his nipple—around the barbell—a fierce bite that took his breath away. He swallowed hard as a second one followed. Broad rough hands traced his bare back and he shuddered, more so when Prophet said, “We’re just getting started, Tommy,” then reached under and tweaked his nipple in the clamp.
“Fucker.”
“Always a price for pleasure,” Prophet said seriously. “But you already knew that.”
Tom’s arms were tied out to the sides a bit, making it harder for him to gain any purchase. And he definitely tried.
“Keep struggling,” Prophet urged.
“Because it’s useless?”
“Because it’s fun to watch,” he corrected.
