Chapter 15
Dominic
The brutality is that I know exactly what happens to boys like him when they come back to themselves with nothing underneath. I’ve already seen how good he is at slicing himself open with shame.
If I let him walk out of this room with nothing but the memory of what he just did with his mouth, he’ll go home and rip himself apart with it.
He’ll lie there in the dark, replaying every second and telling himself he’s filth, a disappointment, and an abomination.
It’ll land ten times heavier because I didn’t bother to catch him on the way down.
I won’t do that again.
I cup his jaw, thumb stroking along the curve of his lower lip, gentle where I was rough before. His eyes refocus on me, a little startled.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “You with me?”
He swallows, throat protesting after what I just put him through, and nods. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I’m… here.”
“Color?” I ask again, because I meant that question earlier, and I mean it now.
His mouth quirks, but the bravado’s thinner this time. “Still green,” he says, voice quiet and trashed. Then he laughs; a tiny, breathy sound that’s almost a hiccup. “You’re… such a nerd.”
I raise a brow. “You’re calling me a nerd after I just fucked your mouth?”
He nods and lets out a dreamy hum. “Your system. Color codes. That’s… nerdy.”
I can’t help but grin. “Brat,” I murmur, then lean in and softly press my mouth to his, sealing something rather than tearing more open.
It’s a lazy kiss, a grounding one, tongue barely there—just lips and breath and the reminder that I’m not done with him now that I’ve gotten mine.
He sighs against my mouth, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders like someone cut a wire, and I can feel the exact moment his head stops spinning quite so fast.
I pull back slowly, letting my forehead rest against his for a beat.
“You did good,” I say again. “You hear me?”
His eyes flutter, confusion flickering there. “I… yeah,” he says, but it sounds automatically polite, not convinced.
Not good enough.
I let my hand drop from his jaw to his hip, fingers squeezing once, and then I step back. My brain’s still buzzing, my muscles loose and heavy, but the restless edge that drove me out into the city earlier is gone.
I’m not vibrating with the need to hurt someone anymore. I’m just exhausted and wired and very aware of the boy in front of me who’s starting to shiver now that the adrenaline’s leaking out of his system.
“Come on,” I say, sliding my arm around his waist. “Kitchen.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Kitchen,” I repeat. “You’re not walking out of here on jelly legs and an empty stomach. I’m not having you pass out at the wheel so I have to explain to Keller why my GPA miracle-worker died in a ditch.”
He makes a noise that might be a laugh or a protest, but he doesn’t fight me when I turn us toward the kitchen. His body follows mine without hesitation, and I know I’ve rewired his instincts already.
I slip my hand around his waist when his legs look like they wanna give out.
“Jesus,” he mutters, grabbing at my shoulders. “I can walk.”
“Sure,” I say. “You’re doing a great job so far.”
Then, instead of waiting, I just pick him up. It’s not hard, since he’s all narrow hips and wiry muscle; he’s light compared to the guys I plow through on the field.
I hook one arm under his thighs, the other around his back, and lift. His arms snap around my neck automatically, clinging to me. He tucks his face into my shoulder, nose pressed to my throat, breath hot against my skin. Then I feel his embarrassment spike, his body going stiff.
“Don’t you dare comment,” he mutters.
“On what?” I ask. “The way you fit in my arms? The way you went boneless the second I picked you up? The way you’re about two seconds from purring because you’re smelling me again?”
“Fuck you,” he croaks, but there’s no heat in it.
“Oh, look at you. One taste of cock and you’re suddenly saying fuck without blushing,” I say, and carry him toward the kitchen while he grumbles some more.
The counter’s already clear, because I keep this place ready for… other uses. Tonight, it gets a new one. I set him down carefully on the edge, one hand still firm on his hip until I’m sure he isn’t about to tip.
Up close, I can see the change happening in his face in real time.
The floaty, hazy look from a minute ago is fading, replaced by the first hints of what I know is coming.
There’s gonna be a pinch of his brow, the flicker of panic around his eyes as his brain starts rebooting and tries to replay everything we just did in high definition.
Nope. Not letting that get a foothold.
“Stay there,” I tell him, giving his knee a light tap. “Don’t move unless I tell you to. You fall off this fucking counter because you’re being stubborn, I’m gonna be pissed.”
He huffs weakly. “You’re always pissed,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I just came, so right now, you get the calm version. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
His mouth twitches, and I turn away to grab water from the fridge before I talk myself into saying something human and disgusting. The bottle’s cold in my hand, condensation already gathering where my fingers wrap around it. I twist the cap off and turn back to him.
“Here,” I say, pressing it into his hand. “Small sips, since my bars probably scraped your throat raw. You chug and puke, I’m making you clean it.”
He scowls but takes it, and I watch the tremor in his fingers.
It’s small, but it’s there. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and drinks like I told him—slow, careful, throat working with each swallow.
His eyes are on my throat while he does it, like staring at me anchors him more than looking at the room.
“Good,” I say. “Again.”
While he drinks, I pull open the fridge again and grab the container of leftover chicken pasta I shoved in there last night.
I dump a decent portion into a pan and crank the burner on, letting the gas catch with a soft whoosh.
The smell of tomato and herbs rises as it heats, familiar and grounding in a way that has nothing to do with taste and everything to do with routine.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a little steadier now.
“Feeding you,” I say, looking over my shoulder. “Water, food, warmth. Basic patch job.”
“You don’t… have to.” He stares down at the bottle, thumb worrying at the plastic label. “I can eat at home.”
“Yeah, you can,” I say. “Later. Right now, you’re going to sit on that counter and let me take care of the mess I just made of your nervous system.”
His cheeks flush, but not for the reason they did ten minutes ago. Worry’s starting to creep in around the edges. I can see it by the way his shoulders creep up and his eyes dart to the door.
“Don’t,” I say immediately.
“Don’t what?” he asks, trying for defensive and not quite getting there.
“Don’t climb back into your own head yet,” I say as I stir the pasta, glancing over my shoulder at him again. “You’re not ready for that.”
“But—”
“Brendon.” I make his name a warning. “Legs on the counter, brain on pause. That’s the deal.”
He swallows and clamps his mouth shut, which I’m going to file away and use against him later.
He shifts his weight, repositioning himself so both heels rest against the cabinet.
His gaze tracks me as I move, not quite suspicious, more…
searching. As if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and doesn’t know which direction it’s coming from.
I plate the pasta when it’s hot, grab a fork, then step back into his space, one hand sliding back to his hip, squeezing once to center him.
“Open for me.”
He automatically parts his lips, but realization hits half a second later, and a blush blooms high on his cheekbones. “I can feed myself,” he grumbles.
“I know,” I say. “But I want to do it. You can say no if your ego can’t handle it.”
He hesitates, but doesn’t say no. I lift the fork to his mouth again and he takes the bite, chewing slowly. His shoulders drop a notch, and everything about him screams exhausted.
“Good boy,” I murmur. “Again.”
He swallows, and licks a spot of sauce from his lower lip. The movement is automatic and innocent now, but my dick reacts anyway because my body is a traitor. I ignore it, and keep my focus on how his hands are shaking less with each bite and his breathing’s starting to even out.
“You’re quiet,” he says, after studying my face. “That’s not normal for you.”
“I just had you kneeling for me,” I say, watching as he takes another sip of water. “I figured giving your ears a break was the polite thing to do after fucking your mouth.”
He chokes on a laugh, almost dropping the water bottle. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re so vile.”
“There he is,” I say, relief sliding through me at the spark. “There’s my brat.”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, catching the trap. His eyes flicker down, then up again. “I’m not your anything.”
The words are there, but they’re thin; habit, not conviction, and we both know it.
“Mhm, sure,” I say, letting it slide for now. “We’ll revisit that when you’re not high and crashed at the same time.”
He goes quiet again, more thoughtful than spiraling now, but the shift comes fast. I see it hit him like a cold wind—like he’s suddenly remembering every piece of his upbringing in one shot.
“Hey,” I say, stepping between his knees in one smooth move so he has to deal with me instead of staring holes into the floor. “Eyes up.”
He drags his gaze upward, reluctantly, and the look on his face kills the asshole in me somewhat. It’s that particular mix of pleasure-lag and horror I’ve seen before. The “I just did something that felt incredible and now every programmed voice in my head is telling me I’m a monster for it” look.
If I were a different man, if I didn’t care about keeping him in one piece, I’d let him stew, let that guilt sink its claws in and tighten. It’d make him easier to manipulate later. I could weaponize it.