Chapter 18
Dominic
Brendon Lane has burrowed into my head like a virus I can’t shake, infecting everything with quiet, inconvenient need. It’s not about owning him anymore—that was the door he cracked open when he knelt for me.
Now, it’s more. Worse. Addictive in a way I never planned for.
Obsession never announces itself. It doesn’t kick in the door, like wrath. Doesn’t slash your tires like vengeance or leave claw marks in the backs of your lungs the way guilt does. It settles.
I should be focused on stats, on footage from the away game we just won, or on whatever PR bullshit they’re going to throw at me the moment we get back. But all I can think about is how long it’s been since I touched him.
It’s only been three days, which is nothing.
And also unbearable.
I spent last night in a hotel suite, where a redhead slipped her room key into my palm and whispered that she could “make me forget the game.” I said no, because Brendon wouldn’t have been able to look me in the eye if I’d said yes. He wouldn’t say anything; he’d just go quiet in that way he does.
I don’t like that look on him.
I want to be the only reason his mouth opens or his hands shake.
I want to be the only one who puts color in his cheeks.
I want—
Shit, there it is again—the obsession that eats slowly from the inside out. Nothing ends well when you wrap your fists around something soft and whisper ‘mine.’
But I’m already past whispering.
Before we left for the game, I put a spare key under the planter by the back door. I didn’t tell him to use it outright, just looked him in the eye during one of our sessions and said, “You’re welcome anytime.” I don’t know if he understood what I meant.
The bus hits a pothole and jolts me out of my thoughts. I hate this part: the coming down, and the stillness after the high. But maybe tonight it won’t feel like that.
Maybe he’s there.
By the time we roll back onto campus, it’s just after two in the morning. The guys stumble off the bus like zombies, talking about afterparties and groupies, but I slip to my Charger without a word.
The driveway is dark and quiet when I pull up. I kill the engine and sit there a minute, palms gripping the wheel too tightly.
Don’t get your hopes up. Don’t fucking care.
I grab my bag from the trunk and head inside, the cold night air biting through my hoodie. My shoulder aches from that last tackle, and my legs are sore. Everything about me wants to crash face-first into the mattress and sleep for twelve hours straight.
I close the door behind me and lock it, then I drop my shit by the door and walk around the corner to the living room—but the breath leaves my lungs as soon as the lamp light hits the figure on the floor.
He’s here.
Brendon is kneeling in the center of the living room, hands on his thighs, head bowed and waiting. My pulse spikes so fast I feel lightheaded. The ache behind my eyes disappears, and the noise in my head stops.
He’s fucking here.
I cross the room, every part of me vibrating with something close to hunger. The sight of him like this—submissive, patient, perfect—it hits me harder than anything that happened on the field.
I stop in front of him, and let the silence stretch. “Little Sin,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t look up, but I see the shiver ripple through him. Fuck, he’s in one of my shirts. It swallows him whole, and still the neckline’s tugged low enough to reveal the bruises I left on his collarbone before I left.
When I speak again, I use the cadence that makes him melt. “You used the key, baby?”
“I did,” he says, still not looking at me.
“Hmm, good boy.” I tilt his chin up, and those maddening green eyes meet mine. They’re wide, uncertain, and so fucking open it almost breaks me. “You planning on staying the night?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
That last word shreds the one thread of control I had left. I crouch down, cupping his jaw, and he leans into the touch without hesitation.
“You been here long?”
He nods once. “A few hours. I hid my car around back because I wanted to surprise you.”
I drag my thumb across his bottom lip, feel the tremble in his breath. “Oh, Little Sin, you succeeded.”
His cheeks flush, and I watch the color bloom there like a reward. I’m fucking exhausted—my body is screaming at me to lie down—but all I want is to keep this moment going.
“You hungry?” I ask, my voice softening.
“No.”
“Showered?”
He bites his bottom lip, trying to hide a smile. “Yeah, I used your shampoo. Hope that’s okay.”
“It’s better than okay.” I smile, thumb tracing the curve of his jaw. “I like it when you smell like me.”
I kiss his forehead and stand, walking backward and lowering myself to the couch. I spread my legs and wait. It takes him three seconds to move, crawling forward on shaky hands, eyes still cast down.
When he finally climbs into my lap, I exhale as if I’ve been holding my breath all week. He’s warm.
Real.
Mine.
And not wearing anything under the shirt. Fuck.
He doesn’t say anything as I shift him so he’s straddling my thighs. His cheeks are flushed, his breath shallow, but he’s not panicking; not like the first time. That’s how I know we’ve turned a corner.
He’s not afraid of wanting anymore, just afraid of what it means.
I bury my face in his neck and breathe him in, the scent of my shampoo in his hair, the feel of his skin still freshly clean. Then I pull back, brush his hair away from his face and look at him.
This sweet, innocent boy I’ve corrupted so much in such a short space of time that he’s crawling on the floor for me. Fuck, what is it about him that drives me so goddamn crazy?
“Give me your mouth, baby.”
He kisses like he’s been holding back for hours, and now that my mouth is on his, he’s taking everything he’s been pretending he didn’t want. I know I should keep this slow, but fuck, the second Brendon kisses me with that desperate little sound he tries to swallow, I lose the thread completely.
I grab his hips again, pull him closer until his chest presses flush with mine, and I feel the way his breath stutters. I deepen the kiss, licking into his mouth, tasting him slowly, letting him feel the heat I’ve been holding back since I walked in.
And he lets me take it—lets me tilt his head, lets me lick into the soft corners, lets me suck on his tongue—until he’s panting against me, trembling under my hands like he needs this more than air.
I don’t let go of him, even as the exhaustion drags at my spine, and the dull throbbing in my shoulder reminds me I took three sacks in the third quarter and played through the pain.
Because he’s here. He chose to come to me; he’s wearing my shirt with nothing underneath, kneeling for me, using my key, choosing this over his own upbringing.
So, yeah. I’m sore, wrecked, bruised head to toe, and my body’s screaming for sleep. But none of that matters, because my Little Sin is in my lap, warm and pliant and soft in all the ways that fuck with me.
I hook one arm beneath Brendon’s knees, the other around his back, and stand—slow enough that the muscles in my thighs protest, but steady, so he feels the promise in every inch of lift.
He clutches my shoulders on reflex, eyes wide, lips parted like he’s about to apologize for weighing nothing. I don’t give him the chance.
I carry him through the living room into the kitchen, and set him on the edge of the oak counter, palms sliding down the backs of his thighs to keep him steady.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him, voice rough from the drive and the win and the hours of wanting that came after.
Brendon blinks, then glances at the dark window over the sink like he’s wondering if he should offer to cook. “I can…um…heat something up. There’s leftover—”
“Not that kind of hungry.” I squeeze his thighs once, a warning and a reassurance in the same touch. “Turn around, Little Sin.”
Color rushes up his neck, but he obeys. He pivots on the counter until his chest meets the smooth wood, arms folding under his cheek, back arched just enough that the shirt rides up and bares the curve of his ass.
I savor the way he shivers when the air brushes places only I touch.
I slap his ass, watching that bubble butt jiggle, and a growl slips out of me.
He’s already hard and leaking, hole pulsing when I spread him with both hands, and drag my tongue over that tight ring of muscle.
The sound he makes is nothing short of obscene—high, desperate, grateful.
He writhes, fingers clawing at the countertop, voice breaking as he starts to beg for more. I flatten my tongue and eat him properly, tasting musk, soap, and the salt of his skin until he’s shaking so hard the dishes rattle in the cupboards.
“Daddy… need your cock… Please…”
“You’re gonna take what I give you, and nothing more,” I say, when he grinds back against my mouth.
He whimpers, but he stops trying to grind, stops trying to steal friction that doesn’t belong to him yet. I kiss the curve of one cheek, bite the fleshy swell hard enough to leave teeth marks, and then watch the red bloom beneath my imprint.
“My pathetic little toy. Look at you,” I murmur, licking the sting away. I clamp a hand around the base of his cock and squeeze, a wounded sound catching in his chest.
“I’m ready… I’ll be good, I swear… let me—”
“Not yet,” I murmur against him when his pleas turn frantic, and palm the meat of his ass. “You’ll know when I’m ready to fuck you, Little Sin. You won’t need to beg.”
He shakes his head and makes a crackling, desperate sound, caught between a sob and a moan. “Can take it—”
I laugh, because the little masochist really believes that.
“You think I don’t know that greedy hole?
Your body’s a text I’ve already memorized, baby.
And it’s telling me you’re strung too tight.
One good thrust and you’ll tear.” I bend, spit once more, watch it drip, then lick it away.
“I’m not wasting you on pain that’ll only hurt tomorrow.
I want you aching for me, not limping because I was selfish. ”
He makes another wounded noise, half-melted against the counter, so I soften my grip and let my fingers ghost down the seam of his crease, teasing the rim but never breaching. “Tonight, you get my tongue. So you better be fucking grateful.”
I wrap my hand around his cock again. He’s rock-hard, leaking down my palm, but I don’t stroke; I just hold and squeeze at the base until he whines. I lower my mouth to his sweet hole, tongue relentless—broad laps, pointed flicks, slow circles that tease his rim open without pushing past.
Every time he tries to arch, I tighten my fist around his cock; a silent command to behave.
“Filthy thing,” I whisper. “Got your ass in the air for a murderer. You like knowing the same mouth that ordered disposal is the one eating you out?”
He shudders and gives me a frantic nod, forehead thudding against the wood. I slip a finger inside his hole and start pumping his cock slowly, thumb smearing the head each time he leaks. He sobs and fights to stay still. “Dom—gonna—”
“Hold it.” I practically snarl the words into his skin, finger deliberately seeking out his prostate, and he cries out, every muscle locking. I ease the pressure on his cock, let him hover on the edge, then clamp down again just as he’s about to fall back.
“Let me come, please, Daddy, please—”
I thumb the slit, smear precum down the flushed length, and watch his hole clench. “Turn around.”
He obeys, falling onto his back, and this time I don’t tease.
I swallow his cock and set a ruthless pace: hollowing my cheeks, working my tongue on every retreat, taking him deep with each thrust. His hips jerk, but I hold him in place, hands locked around his thighs, forcing him to feel every slow swallow, every slick pull.
I pull off with a wet pop and fist him, twisting my wrist on the upward stroke. “Let go, Little Sin.”
His hands leave the counter, fingers threading into my hair, head falling back and throat working as he spills across my tongue, body trembling with the intensity. I hold him there, swallowing around each pulse, until he sinks against the wood, boneless and wrecked.
When I finally release him, I press a kiss to the tender skin of his inner thigh. He flinches at the faint contact, oversensitive now, but there’s a dazed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Still functional?” I ask, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb.
He laughs, a thin, shaky sound that goes straight to my chest. “Barely. I’m going to Hell for this.”
I huff out a laugh and pull him up, then grasp his jaw and kiss him, deep and dirty, letting him taste himself on my tongue. He melts into it, all his tension dissolving, hands immediately sliding around my neck.
When I pull away from the kiss, his eyes are heavy, lids drooping, cheeks pink. I press my forehead against his.
“No more begging me to take you,” I remind him. “You come here because you want to. Because you’re mine to spoil.”
He exhales another shaky laugh. “That felt a lot more like ruining than spoiling.”
I smile, brushing my nose against his. “Ruined is my favorite flavor.”
His laugh turns into a breathy hum, content and sated, but still sparking with something hungry beneath. I feel it because it mirrors the burn in my own veins, the ache of my cock, still hard in my jeans and demanding attention.
My kitchen is branded with a new memory now, and a different kind of danger. One that has nothing to do with knives or blood, and everything to do with the trembling, fearless boy licking redemption off my tongue.