“You know, I overheard you talking after class,” he says, moving closer as I open my bag.
I’m enjoying the way his eyes move over me, and it’s keeping me from putting on my clothes. Jamie might be the shit starter of our pack, but Beckham pulls it out of me too. Wrapping my hand around my cock, I begin to slowly stroke myself.
“Are you stalking me now?” I ask. “Fight nights aren’t really well known since they’re illegal.”
“It’s another reason why you shouldn’t be doing this,” Beckham says, his cheeks turning bright pink as he attempts to ignore my words. I have a feeling I’m not the only stalker in this equation. “You’re a damn good student. I’m not even sure why you’re in my class.”
“School is Jamie’s deal,” I say, shrugging. “I’m the muscle and the tech guy. I’m only enrolled to keep him safe and allow him to play football. He’s talented, and deserves a chance to enjoy this before we take our places with the mafia.”
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t understand loyalty, because I do,” he says. “You’re selling yourself short.”
“Hmm,” I grunt out. “Why are you here, Professor?”
“Really?” he asks. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly,” I say with a smirk. My hand rolls over the head of my cock, and I groan as my head drops back onto the metallockers. “Fuck, that feels good. There’s nothing quite like a post-fight nut.”
“That’s my cock.” Beckham snarls, surprising me.
“You sure don’t act like it, Professor,” I taunt him. “Are you just going to watch me cum?”
Beckham slaps my hand away, replacing it with his own.
“Fuck, your skin is so hot,” he hisses. “If you’re going to act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one.”
“Are you going to punish me, Daddy?” I ask, gasping as he smacks my cock next. “Fuck, I didn’t know you had that in you.”
“I’m a jealous man,” Beckham says, pulling off his sweatshirt and whatever he’s wearing underneath it. His chest is well toned, and his muscles flex as he tosses his clothes over my bag. “You are mine, Mr. Walsh. I’m not going to be touchy feely when I’m working. My career is important to me.”
“I’m aware. It’s the only time I fucking get to see you without breaking into your room and reminding you of my existence by coming on your clothes,” I say, glaring at him. “How the fuck am I supposed to get you to pay attention to me otherwise?”
“You’re right,” he admits, toeing out of his shoes before glancing toward the door.
“No one is coming inside,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you what I want on my terms,” he says, pulling his jeans down his hips and dropping them on the rest of my shit before he sits on the bench. “Come here. You’re really pissing me off.”
“My previous question still bears answering,” I mutter.
“About punishing you?” Beckham asks. “Maybe. I need to be in control, I can’t function without it. I have a lot of damage, Tatum. I can’t have you hurt while I’m trying to sort my shit out though. This has to stop. No more fighting.”
“Or what?” I ask, my brows raising as my cock bobs in front of me.
It’s very difficult to have a conversation while we’re both naked, but I’m trying my fucking best, okay?
“You want me to fuck you, right? To fill your hole until it’s dripping with my cream?” he asks nonchalantly, all while I gape at him. “I’m a gay man, not a priest, Tatum.”
“I never said you were.” I snort, though he’s straightlaced enough to resemble a priest some days. “So you’re going to fuck me to get me to stop fighting?”
“Don’t be crass,” he says. “Whenever you want to fight, when the feelings of anger are too big to handle, I’ll fuck them out of you until all you crave is my dick.”
“Yes,” I say, unable to think as I stare at him. He’s offering me what I was so angry that I couldn’t have before. “You know I wasn’t just pissed off that you wouldn’t fuck me, right?”
“Come here,” he commands, his hand smearing slick over his shaft. All I can smell is honey and vanilla, and precum is beginning to bead at my slit.
I’m doing as he says before I can tell myself not to, and he has me straddle his lap, our cocks pressed against each other. Keeping my hands on my thighs, I watch him carefully, not wanting to trigger him. His “baggage”, as he calls it, has to be from someone who took away his consent.
The second I find out the details, I’ll be sure to cut off that person’s knot and make him eat it. Beckham is a changed omega because of what happened to him, and I can’t help thinking if he’d be less stringent with his affection if things were different.
