Page 31 of Stroke Rate

Last night River had been like a man possessed. A dominant creature had emerged—one full of confidence and authority—traits River had never had in the bedroom. He was filthy. The things that came out of his mouth made his cheeks heat with embarrassment and his already hard cock stiffen to the point of pain just thinking about what he had said. What the fuck had that been?

Chris had been on his back, begging River for more, so River had pressed the tip of a finger harder and harder into Chris’ slit, his hole spreading and opening for him. River had never done that to anyone, fucked someone's cock with his finger, an act he loved to do to himself. Something new Chris seemed to enjoy. River was positive Chris would love a rod down his cock. River whimpered at the mere thought of it. Fuck, he wanted that. He wanted complete control over Chris, while he let a sounding rod slowly drop into his urethra. He wanted to hear his moans and pleas for more. He wanted to praise Chris and pet him as they watched cum shoot from his cock from the stimulation of River pulling the lead from his slit. Fuck, River’s dick pulsed precum onto his belly, the fantasy mixing with the reality of last night. The memory played like a movie, and was so vivid and raw in his mind's eye. Chris coming on River’s fingers, his release covering his chest as River held him down, a soft hand around Chris’ throat.

“I'm going to use this,” River said as he used two fingers to scoop the cum from Chris’ chest, holding it out for him to see. “To make myself come all over that pretty mouth, now open like the good boy you are and drink every drop I give you.” River had shimmied up Chris’ body, caging his arms and chest with his legs and stroked himself to completion all over Chris’ waiting tongue and face. Then he cleaned it all up with his own tongue and spat it back into Chris’ open mouth.

“Fuck,” River groaned, rolling over, pulling Chris’ back to his chest, grinding his cock into the crease of Chris’ ass. He wasn't supposed to be doing this. They had agreed to one more night, and then they would take things slowly. No more sex. They need to figure out their training dynamic and get to know one another, but having Chris here, his warm body nestled in the curve of River’s groin, River couldn't help himself. He needed him again. He needed him just as he had last night: pliant, needy, and open.

River jolted as he heard a door slam and a woman’s voice yelling “Chris,” from somewhere in the house. What the fuck? Why was there a woman calling for Chris? Why was there someone in the house? The female voice became louder and more alarmed with every minute that passed without an answer. The last scream of Chris' name the woman sounded as if she had just found a murder scene—raw and shrill—making River want to cover his head with a pillow to mute the irritating sound.

River nudged Chris, “Hey baby, someone's here.” Chris moaned and stretched, eyes still closed, as he leaned back, looking for River’s mouth with his own. A soft, slow tangle of lips, a whisper of their tongues followed. Chris was still soft from sleep, his light lashes splayed across his rosy cheeks, his greedy hands roaming the muscles of River’s thigh as he ground his ass against River’s thick length. River melted into the touch, after years of nothing and no one, feeling wanted was too much to deny.

“Chris,” the shrill voice called, threateningly close to the bedroom door.

“Mmm, what is that?” Chris growled the words into River’s mouth, twisting and throwing his leg over River's waist, pulling him closer while his hips gave a sleepy roll, his hard cock dragging against River’s rock-hard erection.

“Someone's here?” River whispered into Chris’ mouth. “There, uh, i-i-is a woman calling your name?” His horny brain fog and the stress of a stranger in the house made River's voice falter, surprising him that he could even get a word out. Chris’ eyes flew open, looking equal parts alarmed and annoyed.

The person shouted another deafening, “Chris,” followed by, “I know you are here. Your car is out there, along with another car I don’t recognize. It’s weird. Where are you?” Chris’ phone buzzed just as the woman screamed, “I'm calling your phone.”‌ Jesus Christ, what is happening?

“Fucking shit, that’s my. That’s Laura,” Chris grumbled, eyes rolling, scratching at his very light morning stubble. “Fuck my life.”

A sharp pang of jealousy wracked through River. Who the fuck is Laura?

“Laura is my mom. Don’t ask,” he said with an exasperated huff as he jumped out of‌ bed, cracking the door open, and telling River to stay, as if he were a well-trained puppy. “Jesus Christ Laura, I was asleep,” Chris yelled.

“Don’t call me Laura, you little shit. I’ve worked very hard for the title of mom!” Her voice was grating and angry. Chris sighed and mumbled under his breath as if he were tired. Like he had heard all of this before, as if it had happened so many times it was almost normal, albeit annoying. River watched as the life drained from Chris, as he folded in on himself like a wet cardboard box.

“Yeah, okay, Laura. Well, you can chew on that. I’m locking my door and taking a shower. I’ll be out in a bit,” Chris said as he slammed the door, flopping back on the bed, taking deep breaths. Chris’ lips twisted, a bitter sneer of a smile River had never witnessed on his usually sweet face. River propped himself up on an elbow, cupping Chris' cheek, rubbing his thumb over his plump bottom lip. Hoping his touch would soothe him, ease that twisted smile off his face, trying to convey his sympathy for the weird situation.

“Why is she here? Did she message to say she was stopping by?” River asked, confused why his mother would show up uninvited. River continued stroking Chris’ lip, unsure if he was soothing Chris or himself—the repetitive movement itching some weird place in his brain. Chris pushed harder into River's fingers. Does he need my touch as much as I need to touch him? “Does this happen a lot?”

Chris shrugged and transformed the bitter sneer into a plastic smile, tension rippling through every bit of his body. The uncomfortable energy seeping from him was so thick River thought he might choke on it.

River reached for Chris’ wrist as he tried to turn and leave the bed. “Hey.”

“Don’t. Please don’t grab me by my wrists. Ever.” Chris growled, baring his teeth. "Sorry, I just..." He left it at that, eyes down-turned, shoulders pulled in, as he walked to the bathroom and closed the door.

River listened to the sound of the toilet flushing, the shower turning on, and the curtain closing. He sat on the corner of the bed, jiggling his knee, thinking about what the hell was going on with Chris. And what the hell was going on with his mother. He waited and waited and waited. Every minute that passed amped up his already frayed nerves. Everything felt wrong. "Are you okay in there?"

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Chris’ voice sounded weak, almost lethargic, and hearing it set River’s teeth on edge.

The need to set eyes on Chris and make sure he was okay clawed at his chest. The look in Chris’ eyes as he left the bed was more than annoyance; Chris looked defeated in a way that River felt in his core. He recognized that vacant, unseeing gaze, and seeing it on Chris’ face sent a chill down River’s spine. Just as he was about to knock again, the door opened, and River wanted to cry at what he saw.

Chapter twenty-seven

Chris

Fucking Laura, he wanted to scream as the icy cold water of the shower pelted his back. Chris tried and failed to sink into a place of nothingness, needing to escape the chaos his nervous system had inflicted on him—the chaos that had begun as soon as Laura’s voice registered in his brain. A potent mix of anger, sadness, and fear washed over Chris all at the same moment. His fight-or-flight response immediately warred within him at the sound of her shrill shriek in his house. I’m not safe. I’m not brave. Then River had grabbed his wrist, and he almost broke, not sure in the moment if he wanted to sob and curl into River’s chest or punch him in the face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grunted as he pulled his hair, the pain doing nothing but aggravating him more.

Fuck. The situation was proving too much to bear. The cold shower he often found solace in was doing nothing to settle his nerves. After twenty-three years, Chris still hadn’t figured out what started it all. Why Laura had turned into the monster she was. She wasn’t always like this. Was she? Laura hadn't always been a nasty drunk. She didn’t always look at him like he was defective. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong, but she always directed her hatred at him–not Harrison, and certainly not golden child Flynn. Chris was the constant target of her abuse. Because you are worthless, the voice said. It seemed he could do nothing right. Maybe it was the stress of having three boys? Something in the family dynamic shifted after Flynn's birth. The house was more tense. Emmett was around less, Laura was more distant, and Chris…Chris had tried so hard to make things easier. For her. Always for her.

He had held baby Flynn, listening to his distressed cries and feeling his tiny body squirm with colic. Chris had woken up and fed him in the middle of the night, watching as his baby brother clenched his fists as he patted his back. Chris, a child himself, learned to make bottles and feed his grunting baby brother so his mother wouldn’t have to. Hoping she would wake refreshed and happy, and maybe, just maybe, she would take them to the park instead of ignoring them and sending the boys to the playroom. He tried so hard to shoulder the burden she seemed to carry. Wanting to stop her constant anger, Chris took on managing Harrison and Flynn’s every waking move. He cooked the meals. He bathed them in the evenings, read them bedtime stories, and cuddled them to sleep. Chris made certain that they all got to school on time and made sure that they kept their grades up. Later as a teen, Chris himself woke early for practice, kept good grades, and won swimming medals to prove his worth, but nothing was ever enough. Laura still hated him.

The only place he had ever found solace as a small child—the only place he had ever been alone growing up—was the shower, which was where he currently found himself trying to escape every memory that scratched against his skull with the echo of Laura’s voice. Shivering and cold, the icy pellets from the faucet felt like little pinpricks down the length of his back, burning and stinging, and he ‌welcomed the pain. The pain he could focus on, the pain allowed him to not think about Laura's nails in his skin, and how scared he had been that she was there in his house again.

The shame of being abused, ugly and clawing, swamped his body as his lungs shriveled. His chest tight, making him gasp in sharp breath after sharp breath with the lifetime of memories. A punch here and there, a handful of hair to yank him back as he tried to elude her, a grabbing of wrists, a slice of fingernails into the soft underside of an arm. It happened often enough that Chris had fingernail scars up and down his forearms. Little shiny white and pink crescents that adorned his tan skin, small enough to hide and not cause people to ask questions. A constant reminder of who was in control. News flash, it wasn't him.