Chapter 50 #2
It’s crazy how this feels, having the roles reversed. Then his grip shifts, releasing me.
“Run,” he says, voice low and amused. “You’ve got a head start, baby.”
“We’re on a bridge,” I point out. “There’s literally nowhere to—”
The mask lifts, and he bites my ear. Gentle, but enough to make me jump.
“Run,” he repeats.
So I do.
I bolt forward, the boards rattling under my bare feet, the fairy lights blurring around me.
I hit the deck door, wrench it open, and spill into the main room, half-laughing, half-cursing.
Instantly, I’m seventeen again, racing him through the house.
Except, this time, the stakes are… very different.
Darting behind the couch, I then realize how stupid that was and veer toward the little corner by the kitchen instead. The treehouse isn’t big, but in the dark, with the lights low, every shadow feels like a possible Caleb.
“Terrible choice,” he calls from somewhere behind me, amused and echoing. “Couch is a dead end, babe.”
“Maybe that’s what I want,” I throw back, ducking. “Corner me, and see what happens, little brat.”
A low, delighted sound.
“Oh, so now we’ve resorted to begging for it,” he says.
Floorboards creak around me and I can’t tell from where. The fairy lights flicker as the wind gusts, throwing his shadow or maybe just my imagination, across the walls.
Years of job sites taught me how to listen for footsteps behind drywall, for rodents in ceilings, and for the tiny hum of bad wiring. None of that fucking helps when the thing you’re listening for is your boyfriend in a neon murder mask.
“Caleb,” I warn. “If you jump out and I punch you in the face, that’s on you.”
“Duly noted,” he says. His voice is closer now. “I’ll duck.”
Something tugs at the back of my T-shirt and I let out a pathetic-sounding yelp and spin, swinging on instinct. My hand connects with air, but he’s gone again.
“Missed me,” he sing-songs, laughter threading through the words.
“You are such a menace,” I hiss, adrenaline sizzling.
“To society,” he says. “Color?”
He keeps doing it, the asshole, dropping the word in like a drumbeat. Grounding.
“Verde,” I say, forced to scan my own body for real data. Heart racing, yeah. Chest tight, yeah. But my brain isn’t sliding into that slick, aimless panic. It’s focused.
Here.
Hungry.
Caleb hums in response, and something brushes my ankle and I jerk my foot up.
A second later, hands plant on my hips from the front, and he pushes.
My back hits the wall next to the ladder with a soft thud, the impact knocking a breath out of me.
Caleb is right there, pressed in close, the mask inches from my face.
Up close, it’s obscene—in the best way. Neon yellow, those X stitches over the mouth, and the glow are just creepy enough. The fairy lights throw weird reflections over the surface, rippling.
Behind it, his real eyes gleam. He’s breathing a little hard, cheeks flushed behind the plastic.
“You look like a slasher film reject,” I say, breathless.
“And you look like a snack,” he replies, voice muffled and low through the mask. His hands slam into the wall on either side of my head, caging me in. His thigh wedges between mine, nudging my feet apart.
“How’s the volume in your head?” he asks, tilting his head in a very playful way.
“Seven,” I admit. “But, like… horny seven.”
That makes him laugh. “Scientific scale,” he says. “Mmm, I’m like a horny twelve.”
Then he stops talking.
His masked face dips and he kisses me, or tries to. Plastic bumps my nose instead, and we both huff out a frustrated noise.
“Hold on,” he mutters and shoves the mask up just enough to uncover his mouth, the top half still covering his eyes. It should look stupid. It doesn’t. The edge of the mask cuts across his face, neon and shadow, and if anything, it’s hotter—half-monster, half-very-real-boyfriend.
That’s when he grabs my jaw and crushes his mouth to mine.
Everything goes white around the edges.
This isn’t the careful, measured kissing from earlier. This is messy and wet and wild, teeth clicking, breaths tangling. He licks into my mouth like he’s staking a claim, like he owns the way my lungs work.
He fucking does.
I open for him without thinking. My hands find his hips, fingers digging into the curve hard enough that I’ll probably leave marks. Caleb makes a sound—almost a growl—and presses in closer, thigh sliding up between my legs. Pressure lands right where I need it, sudden and perfect.
“Oh, fuck,” I gasp against his lips.
“You okay?” he pants.
“Yes,” I groan. “And don’t you dare fucking stop.”
He doesn’t.
Rolling his hips, grinding his thigh up and forward, my dick rubs against the rough cotton of my sweats, a hot, delicious friction that makes my knees threaten to give out.
I’m half pinned to the wall, half holding myself up by the handfuls of his ass I’ve grabbed.
Caleb chases my mouth like he’s starving, biting my lower lip, sucking it into his mouth and letting it go again.
“Been thinking about this all day,” he mumbles against my jaw. “About you, pinned. About you letting me pin you.”
“Yeah?” I manage, trying not to whine as he rocks us together, the drag of his cock against my hip making my head spin. “You like seeing me like this?”
“Love it,” he says. “Love you ridiculous and messy and not in control for once.”
Heat flushes down my spine as his hand slides up under my T-shirt, fingers skating over my ribs, nails scratching just enough to sting. I suck in a breath, arching into it.
He feels it.
“Like that,” he murmurs. “Like when you twitch. When you can’t help it.” He trails down my neck, teeth dragging. Finding that spot where shoulder meets throat and bites, not enough to bruise, but just enough to make my toes curl.
I grind down on his thigh, helpless, chasing friction. Sweat beads at the back of my neck and my breaths come short and sharp.
“Fuck,” I rasp. “I’m gonna—”
That makes him rip his mouth away from my skin. “Nope,” he says. “Not yet.”
Motherfucker!
Caleb steps back, leaving me flushed and panting and one good grind away from coming all over myself. He shoves the mask back down over his face and looks at me from behind the stitched eyes, chest rising and falling.
“Upstairs,” he says, voice rough through the plastic. “Now.”
“Fucking tease,” I say weakly.
He taps my cheek with two fingers. “You love me,” he taunts. “Climb, Miguel.”
I do.
Look at me, being submissive. Who’d have thought?
My legs feel a little unsteady as I go up the ladder, every rung sparking low in my spine.
The loft is dim, fairy lights along the railing and the faint glow from the skylight painting the bed in soft shadow.
I barely make it to the mattress before he’s on me again.
Caleb shoves me gently, so I land on my back with a soft oof.
The mask appears over the edge of the loft a second later, then his body, the hoodie’s hem riding up to flash a strip of skin above his waistband as he swings himself up.
“Hands,” he says, pointing to the headboard.
We talked about this and negotiated. Rope, knots, where, how, and words that will make it all stop. At the time, it felt hypothetical.
Now it’s very fucking real.
I reach up anyway, fingers wrapping around the wooden slats at the top of the headboard.
Kneeling beside me, with the mask tilted and rope in hand. It’s the same kind of rope we used on Halloween night—soft cotton, the kind that doesn’t bite too hard. He must’ve packed it at the bottom of his bag and that makes my cheeks go hot at the thought of him planning this.
Planning to ruin me with some rope play.
“You okay?” he asks, voice muffled but intent. “Last chance to tell me this is too much. We can switch to cuddles and a cheesy rom-com on the laptop, no questions.”
I inhale, doing a little welfare check.
Yeah, I’m buzzing and my brain is half convinced a raccoon is gonna jump through the skylight just to fuck with me. But underneath all that… I want this. I want him like this.
“Green means go,” I say. “Tie me up, pretty boy.”
His breath catches behind the mask.
“Oh, how I’m going to enjoy every second of this,” he says softly.
It starts with my right wrist, a loop of rope sliding around my skin, snug but not harsh.
The fibers drag over the hairs on my wrists and pull in the most delicious way.
He winds the rope around and around, a neat coil that pins me to the headboard slat.
His fingers are sure, moving like he’s done this a hundred times in his head.
Every so often, he tugs, checking for a pinch.
“Too tight?” he asks.
I flex my hand, and the knot holds, but I can wiggle my fingers. The tug sinks straight to my dick.
“Perfect,” I say, voice gone low.
Caleb nods, then does the same with my left. When he’s done, my arms are stretched above my head, my chest is a little more exposed, and my shoulders are tugging pleasantly at the joints.
He kneels back for a second to look at me.
The mask tilts, and he climbs between my legs and leans down, palm flat on my chest. The weight is a comfort and a command.
“This time,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to do anything.”
I swallow. “Not exactly mad about that,” I say.
His laugh is strained. “We’ll see how you feel in ten minutes,” he says.
Caleb tugs my shirt up, leaving it bunched at my bound hands, baring my chest to the cool air. His fingertips follow down my sternum, tracing the ridges of my muscles, over tattoo ink and over the faint mark his teeth left at my throat earlier.
Then he takes his time.
He touches everywhere but where I want it.
Throat, collarbones, shoulders, sternum.
Nails scraping lightly down my sides, making me arch and curse.
His mouth follows, kissing, sucking, leaving wet heat in his wake.
The mask rides up and down, sometimes covering his eyes, sometimes his mouth, always in the periphery, like a neon reminder of who’s in control.