Second. Third. I keep a rhythm. Heat spreading under his skin. I watch his muscles clench and release, feel his hip bones sharp against my thigh, my other hand resting on the dip of his lower back.
"You could have been seriously hurt," I say between strikes. He whimpers, quiet, involuntary sounds that do things to me I'm not going to examine right now. He's grinding against my thigh. "Really hurt. You understand that?"
His breathing is ragged. Knuckles white on my ankle.
Then, soft and unexpected: "I'm sorry…"
I grunt. Can't help it.
I keep going. Could go harder. Want to. But I don't want to actually hurt him. I pace myself, pausing between slaps so he can breathe, rubbing his back. His forehead presses against my outer thigh. Damp with sweat or tears. I don't ask.
I keep going until he starts clenching too hard, fighting to get off my lap. Two more. The last one pulls a real cry from him. I stop. Have to. I'm leaking through my briefs, and if I don't stop now, he'll feel exactly how far gone I am.
Both of us start breathing. His ribs expanding against my legs. My palm buzzing with the heat I've left on his skin. Pale to soft red.
I reach into the bottom desk drawer without shifting him. Ointment. It's always there, from previous mentees. I unscrew the cap. Press it to his skin and start spreading it in slow circles.
Liam sighs. Deep, relieved. He shivers under my hand. My thumb traces the line between reddened skin and unmarked, and I feel him lean in instead of pulling away. His grip on my leg loosens. Breathing evens out.
"Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
A pause. His fingers find my leg again, gentle, barely holding on. "I'm sorry for making you worry. You're right, I shouldn't have stayed there."
My hand stops. I don't lift it away. The ointment is warm between us.
"You're not going anywhere without me anymore," I say. "Not to the gym, not to the cafeteria, not to the damn bathroom if I can help it.You're mine.You understand?"
He pushes himself up slowly until he's sitting on my lap, face inches from mine. Split lip, red-rimmed eyes, too bright. Ointment on my fingers. His blood on my shirt.
We don't kiss.
We don't fucking kiss.
He wipes the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. I look away. He gets off my lap. I'm so hard it hurts.
I help him pull his clothes back into place. He winces. I smirk. He frowns, but there's no bite.
"Go back to the dorm. I'll be right there. Go first so no one sees us together." I pause. "Straight there."
"Yes, sir," he says. Without sarcasm.
I should go with him. But I need a minute to compose myself. Or I'm going to cum in my pants.
The next morning is the same. 6 AM buzzer, shuffle of bodies. Roll call. No comment about what happened.
But at breakfast, his tray slides onto the table next to mine instead of across from it. Our elbows touch. Neither of us pulls away. I pass him the salt without being asked. He takes it without thanking me.
We don't talk about the office. We don't talk about anything. No one mentions his bruises. Garrett is bruised too, but hedoesn't comment. He's probably lying if anyone asks. Miles notices something between us. I can tell by the way his eyes track between us during Quiet Time. He doesn't say anything. Miles never says anything. But he sees it. Jack doesn't notice, but that's Jack. Harry doesn't look at me, which I'm grateful for.
After MMA, we're alone cleaning the mats.
Liam wrings out his rag and flicks water at the mat, on his knees. His split lip has scabbed over, and the bruise on his jaw has deepened to a mottled purple. Every time I look at it, something clenches in my chest. That asshole hurt him and is still breathing. Griff took a good look at it earlier but didn't comment. He knows when not to press.
"You know," Liam says, not looking up, "I've cleaned more mats in three days than I've cleaned anything in my entire life. Combined."
"That's not the flex you think it is."
