A hot jolt of something I don’t want to inspect too closely pumps through my bloodstream. I lean in to close the distance, hoping he’ll be able to taste the sweetness of his release on my tongue still.
Then voices spill down the hallway, loud, drunken, stupid laughter, and Beck jerks like someone tugged on his puppet strings. His face goes sheet-white, even paler than the makeup he used to make his skin look undead.
He scrambles to pull up his pants, hands shaking as he struggles to untangle his foot from one of his pant legs. He’s breathing so hard he’s practically wheezing, no longer lost in the aftermath of a moment I wish we could have kept for so much longer.
He looks at me, and I can see the dam about to break behind his eyes. He’s right on the edge of saying something important. But he doesn’t.
He turns and bolts just as a group of rowdy partygoers lurch around the corner, cackling about something to do with the batboy being too pretty for his own good. Baseball players, then.
I pick up my mask and lean casually against the wall. One of the guys notices me and stops.
He steps away from his group as they continue towards the exit door, someone already lighting up a cigarette. He approachesme with that slow, loose swagger of someone who’s drunk but still in control of it. His costume is a mess of ripped flannel, fake blood, and dirt. He looks like an extra forThe Walking Dead.
“Hey,” he says, voice pitched low enough to be intentional. “I’ve seen you around but haven’t had a chance to introduce myself.”
He has?
He sticks out his hand. “I’m Tripp.”
I accept the handshake, noticing how his grip lingers. Definitely longer than necessary. Damn, he’s bold.
And cute, if I’m being honest. Lean, athletic build, rich brown hair, and what looks to be a smattering of freckles under the smeared gore. He’s a good mix of jock hotness and boy-next-door charm that probably gets him into plenty of trouble.
“Brody,” I say, matching his low tone.
He smiles, and if the slow perusal of my body means anything, he’s definitely flirting. “Good to finally meet you.”
There’s a small part of me that considers taking Tripp up on the unspoken offer, whether it’s just for the night, or maybe something more. He’s good-looking, open, and direct without having to spell it out. I’m sure we’d have a good time, no games or repressed aggression. No waiting for a bomb threat in the form of a panic attack.
I bet he wouldn’t run away from me like he’s been caught at a crime scene. A guy with his charm and confidence would probably stick around to endure the heat. Hell, he might even enjoy it.
It’d be easy. Simple. A hell of a lot less effort than chasing a closeted, uptight, over-privileged control freak who alternates between choking on my cock and choking on his denial.
A huff of laughter escapes me at the warm, syrupy feeling that trickles down my chest and into my stomach at the mere thought of Lincoln Beckett.
My body knows better than my brain does. Because the truth is, I get a hit, a visceral jolt of lightning through my whole self, every time I’m around Beck. Something inside me recognizes him, like I’ve been waiting my entire life for someone with his exact combination of arrogance, panic, and submissive need hiding under a perfectly starched collar.
And Beck wants me. He just doesn’t know how tolethimself want me.
It's why he pretends nothing is happening the second the moment is over and his lust haze breaks. It’s why he pretends he hates me. It’s why he denies me until he’s so desperate he’s out of his mind, shaking and begging me in dark hallways.
Beck knows he isn’t straight, but he won’t say it out loud, and not just because he isn’t ready to come out. He might never be ready, but I don’t care about that. What I care about, what I want him to do, is accept himself for who he is. Every last part of him, down to his submissive need and very sensitive prostate.
I’m okay if he wants to use his submission as an excuse to experiment—for now. But I won’t let him hide behind it forever. Because there is a difference between helping someone explore and letting them lie to themselves until it twists them into knots.
Beck is on a journey. A long-overdue, messy, very necessary, sexy journey. And I’m happy to be the one to guide him throughit, even if I have to whisper commands in his ear or drag him by his hair.
By the time I’m done with him, he’ll accept who he is. And there will be no more running away.
I give Tripp a friendly nod. “It was nice meeting you,” I say, polite but a touch dismissive. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”
His eyes flicker with disappointment and maybe curiosity, but he nods back and returns to his friends.
I pull my mask back on and trudge back to the party, hoping to find the one I really want and reel him into another sexy trap. This time, though, I’ll steer him to somewhere less public.
Because I want him all to myself.
Beck avoids me all weekend.
