Page 5 of Crave

And fuck, yeah, I did it. I closed my lips over a stranger’s cock I knew nothing about except how much I wanted it. Him. This man. I didn’t even care what the punishment would be. If I died from this, it would be a death worth taking. Because the roughness of his palm made my pulse shudder. And I gave in. Not halfway. Not polite. I let everything pour out of me. Humiliation. Anger. Need. Every bit funnelled into the salacious act I’d perfected on expensive sheets and was now giving to a stranger while crouched in the gutter.

The man groaned, low and unrestrained, rawer than anything I’d ever pulled from Ollie’s lips. His hips shifted, breath harsh, smoke and night and sweat rolling off him. He was unpolished. Unashamed. Nothing like the glossy boys I’d grown up around. Every sound he made pinned me tighter, telling me I was exactly where he wanted me to be.

Then he sagged back against the wall, trainers sliding on whatever filth coated the concrete among the takeaway boxes, broken glass, and, Christ, a used syringe glinting in the lamplight. I kept my eyes up. Focused on him. Took him deeper, rolling my tongue around the hot girth, watching his head knock against the bricks as he pushed his cock down my throat to make me gag.

“Fuck…” He screwed his eyes shut, hissing through his teeth, tightening his fist in my hair and suddenly I was grateful for it to be long enough for him to grip, to claim. “Shit…” He jerked his hips, uneven, desperate. “Whoa, whoa—fuck.”

Then he came. Not like he’d meant to. As if he’d tried to drag himself back, pull free before it hit, but couldn’t. Heat flooded my throat, too much, spilling past my lips as he groaned through the tremors, body shaking, voice guttural and ruined. Then he slipped free, cock twitching, a final spatter catching the air before he glanced down at me. Our eyes locked. His were confused, narrowed, assessing. Mine were shame burning hot, but beneath it, the savage thrill of having undone this Hackney brute. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and somehow, God knows how or even why, I smirked.

“Britain’s got talent,” man said, the East End thick in his throat, unlit cigarette bobbing between his lips. It should’ve grated. Instead, it rolled over me like a purr. “Risk taker, eh?”

“Guess you owe me, then?” I shot back, laughter rough and jagged, trying for brazen because if I didn’t, I’d fold in on myself. I pushed up, chest brushing his, daring, or pretending to.

He snorted. Amused. Then tucked himself away with one hand, zipping, buttoning, brisk and unapologetic, and flicked his lighter with the other. Flame sparked, cigarette caught, and smoke curled out, wrapping around us in a haze, as if we’d stepped into some private, filthy confessional. Then he dipped his hand into his pocket, pulled out a fat roll of notes, peeled off two twenties, and held them out.

“Forty, right?”

What?

No, really—what?

I blinked. Probably blinked again. Then stood there like a fucking idiot while he held the notes out.

“You want it or not?” Man waggled the cash.

Did I want it? No. Not the money. What I wanted was tit for tat, his hand around my cock, not this filthy exchange. Though honestly, the second the transaction entered the air, the heat in me faltered, and my cock shrank under the shame of it anyway.

“Fuck.” He took a drag, pulled the cigarette from his lips, exhaled smoke into the space between us. Then peeled off another tenner using the hand he clutched his cigarette in. “Fair play, you were better than the last one.”

He stepped in close, so close I could smell the tobacco on his skin, and slid the fifty into my back pocket, giving my arse a squeeze and my cheek a kiss. I stood frozen. Dumbfounded. Stupid. Too stupid to protest. Too stupid not to realise what he thought I was.

And said nothing.

“Might see ya again, pretty boy,” he called, smoke curling from his mouth, drifting ghostlike through the alley.

Then he was gone, the glow of his cigarette bobbing once, twice, before the darkness of East London swallowed him whole.

I should’ve felt filthy. Humiliated. Fifty quid heavier and dignity infinitely lighter. But all I could think about was him. The danger. The brutality. And the way he hadn’t cared who I was.

It should have scared me.

But it didn’t. It turned me on.

And worse—I already knew I’d crave it.

Chapter two

Razor

The alley stuck to me even after I yanked my hood up.

Piss in my nose. Smoke on my tongue. Heat clinging from a mouth too eager for a stranger. Fuck, he was different. Clean. Bit soft. Usually, they had hard edges and a desperation tasting bitter. Not him. He was almost…shiny.

I dragged hard on my fag, keeping my head down, trainers slapping in puddles, heart thudding as if I’d nicked something worth dying for. I tried hard not to look back. Not when I wasn’t sure if I’d just had a lucky night…or made a body-bag mistake.

Stupid move in the first fucking place, doing that so close to my patch. But I had a weakness for pretty boys, and there ain’t many who still look pretty after dark standing in that alley. And he’d been good. Too good for a gutter quickie. I’d had my share, more than enough to know when one stood out. And that one rattled me. I knew rent boys. Knew the type. Jittery, hollow-eyed, hungry for coin or their next fix. Him? He had polish. Worked me as if he’d learnt it between clean sheets, not on his knees on cracked concrete.

And when he looked up… fuck, that smirk. Got me right in the feels.