But then?
With Kit’s luck, with the sort of people he knew, he’d probably just end up in the middle of another crime scene. This time playing the victim instead of the witness.
Visions flashed, faded like badly exposed polaroids. Boys with dark hair and green eyes and deep black bruises around their throats.
Fingernail claw marks.
Kit curled up on the couch and downed the rest of the beer, a decision crystallizing in his mind. Staying at Bishop’s house would be better than leaving. But he needed to give Bishop a reason to keep him.
Luckily, Kit knew how to be persuasive.
But Kit’s amazing, foolproof plan hit a slight snag early on: Bishop didn’t handcuff him that night.
Slowly nursing his second beer, Kit waited curled up on the couch until he realized Bishop wasn’t coming back downstairs. The clock ticked past midnight, and Bishop was already in bed.
His head light and floaty, whether from the beer or nervous detachment, Kit drifted through the darkened house.
He had traded sexual favors for things he needed before. A hand job for weed. A blowjob for three weeks at the place he stayed before Uncle Ed’s, until the guy’s girlfriend left town and he started wanting more from Kit. The accommodations weren’t worth the price; the apartment had termites.
This place was nice. No termites. There was something weirdly enthralling about Bishop, too. Kit wouldn’t mind paying a higher price for more of this.
He knew where Bishop’s bedroom was, though he’d never been inside before. Tonight, it was unlocked. The light from the hall revealed Bishop in bed, his back turned to Kit.
Kit didn’t allow himself to hesitate, for fear he would lose his nerve. He avoided an overflowing laundry hamper and a sealed cardboard box near the dresser as he made his way towards Bishop’s bed. Anticipation and nerves warred for his attention. He shoved them both back. This wasn’t about how he felt.
He had a goal. He needed to achieve the goal. That was it.
But he still froze when Bishop rolled over to face him, expression unreadable in the darkness. “Need something?” Bishop rasped.
Kit’s reply stuck in his throat. Swallowing hard, he approached the bed. Touched the edge of the mattress, glad the darkness hid his pallor. He felt cold and kind of nervous, but that would be okay. He would have fun, or pretend well enough. “Nothing much. I’m just a little tired of sleeping alone.”
“What do you mean by that?” Bishop asked, a strange tension in his voice. He half-sat against the pillows, a predator waiting in the shadows for his prey’s next movement.
Kit braced his knee on the edge of the bed. Still not touching Bishop, but the larger man’s warmth permeated the blankets. “Come on,” Kit murmured. “You know what I mean.”
Bishop hadn’t stopped him yet, so Kit crawled all the way onto the bed. He knelt beside Bishop’s reclining form and reached out one hand—then retracted it.
“Can I sleep here tonight?” Kit asked.
Bishop sat up, his bulk looming in the darkness. Shadows dipped and curved over his bare chest and shoulders. Their mingled breaths filled the night, and the shadows grew heavy around Kit’s limbs, holding him in place as Bishop touched his cheek.
His lips.
“You looking to get fucked tonight?” Bishop asked, the growl in his voice vibrating straight through Kit’s baser instincts. Short-circuiting all his fears and plans until all that remained was the buzz of lust.
With that one sentence—yeah. Yeah, Kit was looking to get fucked tonight.
But that affirmation died on his lips. The moment of lust passed, and Kit found himself speechless, shaking slightly under Bishop’s hand.
All the breath fled Kit’s body as the world flipped around him. The bed heaved, and suddenly Kit was on his back, wrists pinned above his head in an iron grip. Bishop hovered over him, his presence overwhelming.
Kit’s pulse spiked as Bishop leaned down. Stubble scraping Kit’s cheek, Bishop whispered in Kit’s ear, “I didn’t think so.”
Kit instinctively struggled, but Bishop held him down with ease. The size difference between them was viscerally clear. Bishop’s hands around his wrists were more restrictive than the handcuffs ever were. Nothing Kit did could move Bishop at all.
“You’re scared,” Bishop said.
There were worse things than being scared. “I’m not.”
