My dick throbs like it’s saying hi.
“Color?” he murmurs, hand sliding up my ribs to flatten over my sternum, palm feeling the thud of my heart.
“Green,” I manage. “Super green.”
He hums, pleased with himself. “Neon,” he says. “Good.”
Caleb nuzzles behind my ear through the stupid mask, plastic bumping my skin. “You okay with me touching you,” he adds quietly, “while I’m like this?”
“Yes,” I say, with no hesitation whatsoever. “Fuck, yes.”
His fingers tighten at my chest, pulling me back more fully into him. I can feel his dick—hard, solid, undeniable—pressed against my ass. The rope bridge sways gently beneath us, adding a faint sense of movement to everything.
Don’t freak out, Miggy.
“That’s my good boy,” he breathes.
There’s no rush in the way he’s doing this and I think that’s the biggest part of the mindfuck.
Caleb just… stands there for a second, holding me, breathing with me. Letting my nervous system realize it’s allowed to be turned on and scared and safe at the same time.
It’s crazy how this feels, having the roles reversed. Then his grip shifts, releasing me.
“Run,” he says, voice low and amused. “You’ve got a head start, baby.”
“We’re on a bridge,” I point out. “There’s literally nowhere to?—”
The mask lifts, and he bites my ear. Gentle, but enough to make me jump.
“Run,” he repeats.
So I do.
I bolt forward, the boards rattling under my bare feet, the fairy lights blurring around me. I hit the deck door, wrench it open, and spill into the main room, half-laughing, half-cursing. Instantly, I’m seventeen again, racing him through the house. Except, this time, the stakes are… very different.
Darting behind the couch, I then realize how stupid that was and veer toward the little corner by the kitchen instead. The treehouse isn’t big, but in the dark, with the lights low, every shadow feels like a possible Caleb.
“Terrible choice,” he calls from somewhere behind me, amused and echoing. “Couch is a dead end, babe.”
“Maybe that’s what I want,” I throw back, ducking. “Corner me, and see what happens, little brat.”
A low, delighted sound.
“Oh, so now we’ve resorted to begging for it,” he says.
Floorboards creak around me and I can’t tell from where. The fairy lights flicker as the wind gusts, throwing his shadow or maybe just my imagination, across the walls.
Years of job sites taught me how to listen for footsteps behind drywall, for rodents in ceilings, and for the tiny hum of bad wiring. None of that fucking helps when the thing you’re listening for is your boyfriend in a neon murder mask.
“Caleb,” I warn. “If you jump out and I punch you in the face, that’s on you.”
“Duly noted,” he says. His voice is closer now. “I’ll duck.”
Something tugs at the back of my T-shirt and I let out a pathetic-sounding yelp and spin, swinging on instinct. My hand connects with air, but he’s gone again.
“Missed me,” he sing-songs, laughter threading through the words.
“You are such a menace,” I hiss, adrenaline sizzling.
