It’s not little.I want to say, but I don’t. He laughs in my face because he can read me too well.
“Smaller than mine,” he laughs. My eyes fall to the considerable bulge in the front of his jeans and I swallow dryly. He’s hard, too. Is he going to do something with it? Make me… touch it? Put my mouth on it?
My cock jerks and dribbles pre-cum.
Brody chuckles darkly.
“You’re so weak for me, I bet it wouldn’t take more than one word to make you lose your shit and make a mess all over yourself like the pathetic little man you are.”
A whimper escapes me. A fucking whimper.
“That’s right. I bet you want to come for me. And I bet it wouldn’t take more than a word to make you do it.”
I’m really shaking now, all my veins trembling, limbs weak and wobbly. A tear falls down my cheek. My mind screams with the need to hide, to vanish, to claw out of my own skin. But my body rebels. My abs tighten. My ass clenches. And my cock jerks and weeps and waits for my damnation.
I blink open teary eyes and find myself locked in Brody’s dark glare.
“Come.”
One word. One simple, clipped command given in a low, gravelly voice. And I am undone.
My skin burns with humiliation, but I cry out, hips thrusting into empty air as my cock erupts. Tears splash against my cheeks and my cum splashes on the floor, on my legs, on my underwear and pants piled around my feet. Brody steps aside so it doesn’t land on him, and observes blankly as he watches me fall apart in real time.
He releases me and takes a slow step backwards, eyes never leaving me. I sag against the wall, trembling, skin burning, heart pounding in my throat.
“The next time you or your boys fuck with me, I’ll make you sorry,” he says, his voice low and sharp enough to saw through bone.
Then he turns away without waiting for a response. Without giving me a chance to breathe, or recover, or gather up the pieces of my shredded dignity.
The stairwell door closes behind him.
And I slide down the wall onto my ass, shaking so hard I can barely keep myself upright.
I should hate him. I should be furious. I should want revenge.
But all I can feel is the raging fire in my veins and the horrible, unavoidable truth that I have never in my life felt so fucking calm. Like nothing that was troubling me before Brody Miller pinned me in a stairwell exists. I can’t even bring myself to freak out over what I just let happen.
I just feel… free.
CHAPTER 8
BRODY
I’m a bad person. A bad, terrible, awful human being.
The whole hour-and-a-half drive home is torture. Not because of the traffic, or the fact that I’m exhausted, or because my gas tank is hovering closer to empty than I’d like.
But because of what I did. Because of how I reacted. Because the image of Lincoln Beckett—cornered, flushed, trembling under my hold—keeps replaying in my mind until my grip on the steering wheel goes numb.
I don’t know what possessed me. Honestly, I don’t know where that version of myself even came from. That wasn’t usual behavior for me. I’m really not like that. I’m not violent, I don’t manhandle people, and I certainly don’t hold them down, make them strip, and degrade them in the off chance they might get off on it. That’s not my thing.
Or at least, I didn’t think it was. But the second I touched him, the moment I felt him react like that, something primal and ugly and hungry lit up inside me. A fuse I didn’t know existed sparked and burned straight down a line I never intended on crossing.
I shift in my seat, grimacing, once again cursing the rub of denim over my bare dick. Thank you, Lincoln Beckett, for your very creative hazing traditions.
Maybe there’s a chance the pranks will quiet down now that I’ve put Beckett in his place? I run a hand over my face, exhaling hard.
I can’t even think that way.
