Chapter 19
Brendon
I’ve never hated myself more than I do now, staring at my own bathroom floor.
The bathroom is still full of steam, the mirror fogged and the tiles damp under my bare feet. My skin feels too clean, scrubbed on the inside and out. That’s the part that really makes me want to press my head against the wall and die.
This is stupid. I say that every time I pull the little bottle out from under the sink, and go through the ritual exactly the way all those anonymous internet guides said to do it. I tell myself it’s just about hygiene and feeling prepared… just in case.
I’ve been thinking “just in case” for a full month now and not admitting what the case is.
Normal people don’t schedule their bodily functions around the possibility that a six-foot-four homicidal quarterback might decide tonight’s the night he wants to put it in them.
Normal people buy groceries, go to class, and watch Netflix; they don’t douche “just in case” every time the guy they’re definitely not dating is coming over to study constitutional law.
There’s a tightness low in my belly that has nothing to do with the process and everything to do with the fact that my brain keeps replaying his voice from three nights ago.
“You’ll know when I’m ready to fuck you, Little Sin. You won’t need to beg.”
So I’m not guessing. I’m just… preparing. Completely different thing. Obviously.
“Congratulations,” I mutter at my reflection as I towel off. “You’ve become the guy who preps for sex that hasn’t even been scheduled.”
Jericho sits in the doorway, tail flicking, eyes narrowed like he’s been watching the whole production and is personally offended by all of it.
“Don’t,” I tell him, scrubbing at my skin a little too hard. “I don’t need commentary.”
He blinks at me slowly, which is basically his version of a sermon.
I step into my bedroom, air cooler now on my overheated skin, and cross to my dresser. The top drawer slides open with a familiar creak. Socks, folded shirts—a neat, innocent layer of fabric that definitely doesn’t hide anything incriminating underneath.
Before I can stop myself, I pull it open the rest of the way.
The plug sits there in the middle of the drawer, black silicone against white plastic, right next to a bottle of lube.
I bought it on a night I was half delirious from the way Dominic had left me hanging, body buzzing and mind fried.
Two clicks, one discreet package, and now it lives in my drawer like a homing beacon.
My face goes nuclear.
“Absolutely not,” I tell the plug, slamming the drawer shut so fast I almost catch my fingers and lean my forehead against the wood.
I’ve been using it, at least enough times to get my body used to the idea of more. Enough that the thought of him finally deciding he wants to be inside me doesn’t send my muscles clenching in panic anymore, but in anticipation.
“This is fine,” I tell myself, grabbing clean underwear, sweats, and a plain navy T-shirt.
“He’s coming over to study. That’s all. We’re going to talk about administrative law and evidentiary burdens, not the fact that you just douched like a porn star because your brain’s decided Daddy might want more. ”
I say the last part under my breath. It’s gotten easier to say when Dominic’s hand is on my throat and his voice is in my ear. Alone in my room, with my cat and my ridiculous self-care routine, it feels… raw.
It still hits me sometimes how easily I’ve fallen into this; how the idea of being with a man started to feel less like a sin and more like an inevitability. Dominic has gradually helped me come to terms with the fact that I am gay, and I’m strangely... okay with that.
I towel-dry my hair, run my fingers through it until it falls the way I can live with, then I go to scrub my teeth so hard my gums sting.
The thing is, it’s not even like he’s pressured me. We’ve done… a lot. More than I thought I’d ever do with anyone, let alone with a man.
My knees have seen more of his hardwood than my bed lately, and I’ve gotten far too comfortable with the way he uses my mouth, how he handles me, and with the way he talks to me when I let go.
But he hasn’t pushed for more. The closest he’s come is a lazy murmur of, “One day, I’m gonna be inside you, Little Sin,” said against my throat when we were lying on his couch and I was half-asleep on his chest. It wasn’t a demand, it was a promise.
My whole body responded like he’d flipped a switch.
I went home that night and typed “how to bottom without dying” into my incognito search bar like a coward.
Now, here I am—douching on weeknights, stretching slowly when I’m alone, and biting down on my fist because there’s no one here to tell me I’m doing well when it burns. He doesn’t know I’m doing this, either. He can’t know. If he knew, he’d say something filthy and smug, and my brain would implode.
I glance at the clock. Half an hour.
Okay. Focus. I shove the whole mental drawer labeled “things I do so maybe sex won’t kill me” into a back corner of my mind, and head for the kitchen.
I clean my already clean apartment for ten minutes, just to move and not think—stack my textbooks neatly on the small dining table, straighten the throw blanket on the back of the couch.
Jericho tracks me from room to room, occasionally darting out to bat at my ankles like he’s trying to trip me on purpose.
“You’re not helping,” I inform him, picking up a stray sock and stuffing it into the hamper.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I grab it.
Dominic: Leaving now. You better have coffee.
I roll my eyes, even as my stomach does that stupid swoop, and put on a pot of coffee. Jericho hops onto the counter, tail flicking dangerously close to the filter.
“Get down,” I tell him. “You’re going to knock everything over.”
He stares at me, then very deliberately knocks a teaspoon off the counter with one paw.
“Cool,” I say. “Love the support.”
I’m rinsing two mugs in the sink, getting everything ready because, I’m apparently hosting a study date and not a walking red flag, when the knock finally comes. My pulse jumps. Jericho’s ears perk, and he hops onto the arm of the couch, watching the door.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel, cross the small living room, then I unlock the deadbolt and open the door.
Dominic fills the hallway, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, with his hair pulled back high. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder, and leans lazily against the frame.
His eyes sweep over me once, head tilted, and that slow, filthy grin curls his mouth. “Hey, Little Sin.”
“Hi, Daddy,” I say, trying for flat and landing somewhere around breathless.
“Hmm, I’ll never fucking get over you calling me that,” he says, stepping past me into the apartment without waiting for an invite. “You look relaxed. Been up to something?”
My ears burn. “Studying?” I lie.
He chuckles as I shut the door. “Yeah, we’re gonna do some of that. After.”
“Dominic,” I warn, already feeling the blush creeping up my neck.
“What?” He drops his bag by the table and turns, feigning innocence. “I meant after I force you to make me coffee and you pretend not to like my jokes. Get your head out of the gutter, church boy.”
“I really hate you,” I mutter, moving to the kitchen to grab his mug.
“You really don’t,” he says, following, leaning against the counter. His hand brushes mine as I reach for the sugar, and my stupid body reacts like he dropped a hand down my back. I keep my eyes on the coffee machine; if he looks at my face too long, he’ll see everything.
Jericho trots over with a meow, and Dominic bends to scratch behind his ears, voice dropping into that stupid soft register he only uses with the cat—and occasionally with me when he thinks I’m not paying attention.
“Hey, menace. You judging your dad for his life choices again?”
Jericho purrs and head-butts his hand, little traitor that he is.
“He likes you more than me, since you started feeding him those wet food sachets when I’m not looking,” I mutter.
“Obviously,” Dominic says. “He doesn’t like those dry little misery pebbles all the time.”
“They’re vet-approved,” I protest.
“And condoms are physician-approved. Doesn’t mean they’re fun.”
My face flares as I walk over to the dining room table with our coffees. “If you’re done bonding with my cat and being yourself,” I say, ignoring how my chest warms at the sight of him with Jericho, “administrative law awaits.”
“Bossy,” Dominic mutters, but he drops into a chair at the table and pulls out his casebook. “Relax, Little Sin. Get your books. Show me how fucked I am for this midterm.”
For a little while, it’s fine. Normal, even. We sit at the tiny dining table instead of the couch, because he knows if we sit side by side on soft furniture, there will be less studying and more of his hand sliding up my thigh.
We settle into a rhythm that’s become familiar over the last two months. He sprawls in the chair while I sit upright, pen in hand, running through hypotheticals and spotting issues out loud.
He’s more intelligent than people give him credit for. Once he gets the framework, he catches nuances quickly—tossing out answers with that lazy confidence that makes half the campus melt and the other half want to punch him.
“Stop staring at me,” I say, after the third time I catch him doing it.
“You’re pretty when you’re in teacher mode,” he says, completely unbothered. “Makes me want to be an even worse student.”
“You’re already a terrible student,” I remind him.
“I’m a great student,” he says. “I just have an unconventional reward system.”
I’m about to tell him to shut up when there’s another knock on the door.
“What, did you order food?” he asks.
“No,” I say, standing up. “I didn’t.”
“Maybe campus security finally tracked the signal of the serial killer,” he says, smirking. “If I make a run for it, you distract them and hide the knives. Deal?”
“Not funny,” I mutter, and he shrugs, going back to underlining, trusting me to deal with it.