“Shower!” he announces brightly, just as I start thinking I’m on the home stretch. Something clenches low in my body. I’m tired. So tired. I’ve been trying so hard to be good about not looking at him all day but I’m exhausted now, and I’m frazzled as fuck. I don’t know if I have what it takes to not watch him in the shower.
I stand in the doorway, as far away as possible from him. He eyes me with a mix of suspicion and disgust as he reaches down and worries the drawstring of his sweatpants. My mouth feels dry, and I have to make a conscious effort to breathe.
“I knew I felt you looking.”
“I wasn’t looking,” I lie.
He rolls his eyes at me and then blinks slowly. When he opens his eyes, he fixes his gaze on me. His face is angelic but there’s something dark and ancient in his eyes. Not wisdom exactly, but something surprisingly like it. He tugs sharply at the drawstring. It comes undone. His sweatpants loosen and start to slide down his narrow hips. His abs clench as he does it, sending the faintest hint of an indented v flowing down near his hip bones.
“Still not looking, gay boy?”
“No,” I say, turning my head sharply toward the living room.
He showers for ages. Fucking ages. At one point, the strain of not looking is so profound my legs start feeling weak. They feel even weaker than they felt years ago during drills in the first few weeks after I enlisted. I lean back against the cool tile and let myself slide down it. I sit down heavily on the bathroom floor.
“Towel,” he says at last, stretching his arm out to me as if I’m the hired help. He dries himself off, rubbing his hair hard with the towel. I hand him a pair of fresh sweatpants. “We really need to have a little talk about your sense of style, Asshole. Have you ever heard ofvariety? It’s a wonderful concept. Instead of wearing the same hideous outfit every day, you switch it up. Ring a bell?”
I ignore him and say, “Bedtime.” He sails past me and plonks himself down on the sofa. “Bedtime,” I say a little more loudly.
He looks up at me sweetly. “No.”
No?
What the fuck?
A mark has never blatantly refused to do something I’ve said. Every other person I’ve taken has had the good sense to fear me. Not so with this little prick. It’s a little weird, to be honest. Aside from the first few minutes after I pulled off his hood, he’s shown absolutely no fear. If he wasn’t the single biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met, I might find myself impressed.
“I’m not tired,” he says, as I wrack my brain trying to decide how best to handle this situation. “I had a long nap this afternoon. I’m going to watch a movie. I’m thinkingBeauty and the Beast.”
“Fine.”
I put on the movie without any argument. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want him to feel like he has the upper hand but really, it’s because this late in the day, I honestly don’t think I could be held accountable for my actions if I were forced to manhandle him to the bed. Every schema I’ve ever used to make sense of life is currently hanging on by a thread. I know instinctively that that thread will go up in flames if I touch any part of his body.
“Oooh, it’s aged badly, hasn’t it?” he trills.
“What?”
“The movie, dumb dumb. I haven’t seen it for ages, and I think it’s aged super badly.”
“Mmm.” I think the exact opposite, but I’m determined not to get into it with him.
“Oooh, look, it’s Belle and her books and her Provincial little life. You must be getting worked up into a lather.”
I take three deep breaths. When that does nothing to calm me, I take ten.
“Why’d you like the library so much anyway, Asshole?”
“I like books, that’s why,” I say plainly.
He cocks his head, tilting it to the side and raking his hair out of his face roughly. He looks at me as if I’m not just a fool, but a fool who doesn’t know his own mind. He doesn’t stop there. He keeps on talking. He prattles on and on and on. To my disappointment, I find myself preoccupied by a single thought. One thought only. Only one solitary thing – he was so quiet when he had my dick in his mouth. He was gloriously quiet. Magnificently quiet. Beautifully quiet. The only sounds he made were soft sighs when I pulled my dick out of his mouth and little groans when I thrust deep. It was the most blessedly, mercifully, quiet he’s been since I met him.
I’ve always been an Atheist, but the fact that this little prick has the body of a rock legend, and moves like a cat, and sucks cock like a fiend, has really cemented the fact that God doesn’t exist for me. There’s no God in his right mind who could bless such a terrible, terrible boy the way Damon Alexander Beckett has been blessed. No way at all. If only he wasn’t so attractive. If only he didn’t carry himself with such a dreadful sense of certainty. If only those luscious lips didn’t look so good wrapped around my cock. If only he was a lackluster little cocksucker.
If only.
If only.
Then I might still have some hope of salvaging the mess I’ve made.
