“You want it bad?”
I stroke faster, squeeze a little tighter, feel dizzy and realize I’m holding my breath. “So bad. Please let me.”
“No.”
“You’re such a fucking sadist.”
“And you like it.”
Yes, I really fucking do.
I’m so close to the edge, toes curled in my socks, body rocking as I jerk myself for Miles, trying to be good and hold off for him and—knock, knock, knock.
“Anyone in there?”
I freeze, eyes wide, as if whoever is on the other side of the door can see me, and mute the phone. Miles is laughing, enjoying the hell out of my predicament.
“I’ll be right out,” I say. “Stomach is messing with me.”
I can tell Miles is laughing harder. I switch the call to voice, putting it by my ear.
“What time do you get off?” he asks.
“Three.”
“Come over,” Miles says, and ends the call.
There’s not a chance in hell I’m not going.
15
Miles
When Dax toldme he was in the hospital, I freaked out.
Being in nursing school, it wasn’t a huge stretch that he would have some other reason to be there than being hurt, but when I saw the wordhospital, my mind wouldn’t let me imagine anything else.
It was a relief, not only to know he was working, but getting to torture him on the job. And I do enjoy torturing him.
When we finish our call, I text him my address. Then I finish up a paper for African Art. As I tidy up around my place, I’m smirking, proud of myself for the way I got him all worked up. How obedient he was, always is. But it’s already after three thirty, and he’s not here. It’s grating on my nerves, something I don’t mind letting him know:Where are you?
Dax: Heading to you.
Adrenaline shoots through me.
Me: You shouldn’t be texting and driving.
Dax: Walking up the drive now.
Oh.
Me: Callbox #8441
The tension from thinking he might have been distracted while driving turns to eager anticipation, and I’m impatient as I let him in the main entrance, waiting until there’s a knock at the door. He’s in scrubs, his hair slightly disheveled, like he’s runhis fingers through it a few times. His face is relaxed, his eyelids drooping, like he’s tired from a long day.
Am I a terrible person for enjoying that he looks…vulnerable? Yes, that must make me some kind of monster.
I seize his wrist, urge him in, shove him up against the wall. “I’ve missed that mouth.” My hand gravitates to his throat. “You like when I put my hand there, don’t you?”
