Chapter 1
Miles
Fall Semester
“O h, fuck, yeah…oh…” Tatum calls out as I shove him against the floor-length mirror.
With his hand against the mirror as he pushes that ass back toward me, in the reflection, his eyes roll back the way they usually do when he’s really enjoying himself, which is pretty typical when he’s with me.
Not to brag, but I know what I’m doing with this cock, and the way his body vibrates with each stroke assures me it’s hitting everything it needs to.
With a smudge of purple paint smeared across his cheek, his lips curl into a sexy smirk as I keep drilling away.
We’ve been going for over half an hour.
On the floor by the piece I finished painting.
On my bed.
On the desk.
And now against the mirror.
It’s even better than usual, maybe because neither of us got enough action over the summer. But I can’t fuck all day, even if that feels like a good idea right now. I don’t let up my pace as I say, “As fun as this is, you know I have to be in class.”
Tatum’s eyes crack open, his smirk curling into his dimples like he’s got something wicked on his mind. “Hey, if you have to come, then just come.”
I grunt. “You know I’m not letting you out of here until you blow.”
“Then I guess we might be here all day.” His quirked brow issues a challenge I’m more than up for.
“Oh, we’re playing dirty now, are we?” I reach around and grip his shaft, stroking, while his abs—also lined with drying acrylic paint—contract.
Tatum grips the side of the mirror, moaning, but then chuckling. “You know it’s not gonna be that easy.”
I’m almost offended by how he’s acting like I’m new to this.
And by this , I mean getting him off, which only gives me more reason to remind him who the hell he’s fucking.
Really, that’s probably what he wants, but damned if I don’t fall for it every time.
It’s the fucking sadist in me that enjoys torturing him.
As his body rocks with mine, his ass gripping me firmly, I lean close, tucking my face against his neck. His cock throbs in my grasp. “Fuck, you really are too easy,” I tell him.
“Shut up.”
Although, the way he says it, all breathy, with his eyes sealed shut, I know he doesn’t really want that.
“You need to be fucked hard, but then something real sweet…”
Tatum’s not like me—the fuck-and-go type. He likes a little intimacy. The sort of stuff that makes me retch just thinking about it, but I’m willing to test my limits if it’ll prove I know his weakness. I nestle my nose against his neck, grazing my lips against his smooth skin.
“Isn’t this getting awfully close to kissing?” he asks, since he knows that’s not something I do with him. Not that I’m weird about kissing when I fuck, but he’s my buddy. I don’t know, somehow that feels weirder than having my cock in him.
“You gonna bitch about it? Yeah, that shut you up like a good, obedient boy.”
I open my mouth, taking a gentle bite of flesh, trailing my teeth up toward his ear. When his ass tightens even more, in that way that lets me know right where he’s at, I speed up my movements, gripping his side as I hammer against that prostate.
His climax is familiar—all shivers as he calls out my name. I pull back, placing my hands against his shoulders as I pump to my own satisfaction, my orgasm tearing through me so powerfully that my muscles twitch as I shoot into the condom.
As I recover from the intensity of my release, I open my eyes, seeing a very proud bottom’s reflection watching me in the mirror, a broad-ass grin stretched across his face.
“Such a dork,” I tell him, thrusting a few more times.
“I’d say that’s a good way to start the year,” he jokes, pushing his ass back, fully taking my cock once more. “You sure you don’t want a kiss for how good you fucked me?”
“I want you to apologize for taking up so much time this morning.”
“I was just here to record you making the magic.” He motions to the finished piece on the tarp by the bay window of my apartment.
It’s one of my abstracts, a purple, blue, and white ode to the fucked-up shit in my head earlier—and that’s best represented in the abstract because maybe it’ll be less frightening to people than what I’m really thinking and feeling, this side of me I can never show anyone. Not even my friend.
“Besides, it always turns me on recording you working,” he adds.
I’m not always horny, but today I really needed to rub one out—probably the stress from the start of the semester.
He walks over to the nightstand and grabs the joint we lit up while I was working. He takes a drag before asking, “How much you think we’ll get for this one?”
Tatum’s the one who convinced me to start recording my painting sessions, wearing next to nothing, since apparently it’s trending on TikTok. Then he uploads the videos and sells the paintings for me, gets a commission, and surprisingly, it’s turned into a decent business for us.
“We got five hundred for the last one,” I say. “Why don’t we go for six?”
“Eh, let’s go for eight.”
“Your twenty percent is making you ambitious.”
“I’ve always been ambitious, with money, followers, men… Do I need to show you my OnlyFans account again? Speaking of which…”
“Not happening.” I toss the condom in the trash can beside the tarp.
Tatum’s a hustling moneymaker, especially with his hot twink ass, and as fun as it sounds, it’s not my thing.
I remove the joint from between his lips and take a hit.
“Nothing like weed after painting and fucking.” I hand him back the joint and head over to the kitchen island, where I retrieve the box of donuts he brought from beneath the brushes and paints I piled on it.
I grab one stuffed with chocolate and shove it into my mouth.
“Need some energy after your hard work?”
“Just trying to scarf this down as unromantically as possible so you don’t get the wrong idea and try to date me.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, as if I need all this trouble in my life.”
Tatum knows me better than most, but if he knew half of what goes on in my fucked-up brain, I’m not sure he’d want to get fucked by me. I’m not sure he’d want anything to do with me.
He searches the box before I grab one and hand it to him. “The one stuffed with cream, right?” I ask. “It’s obviously your favorite.”
He offers a pointed look. “I mean, I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Shut the hell up, dork. Now I gotta shower and be out of here in…” I check the time on my oven clock. “Fuck. Like ten minutes ago. I’ll have to wait to shower later.” I scramble for my clothes.
“Are you fucking kidding? You’re gonna go to class covered in paint?”
“It’s Figure Drawing. I don’t think they’ll be shocked to see someone with paint on them.”
“Figure Drawing? Is that like a nude model? They hot?”
“This is the first time I’ll see them, so I’ll let you know.”
As I finish buttoning my pants, he says, “You know, if you came back to Omega Psi, you’d be closer to campus.”
I shoot him a look that must be even more severe than I intended because he raises his hands in surrender.
Last year, I was expelled from the frat for…reasons. But because Dad’s always been generous with donations, I’ve learned they’re more than happy to have me back. Something I haven’t taken them up on. Figure I’m saving them the hassle of having to deal with backlash from the other Peach State frats.
“Just saying,” Tatum adds. “But hey, the broody, loner thing suits you better anyway.”
Anger bubbles up, and there’s a part of me that wants to get into it, but I do what I usually do—shut it down.
“I’ll see you later.” I toss my shirt on as I head for the door.
“Okay, well, I’ll get this uploaded to the Tok this afternoon, and we’ll probably have an order in the next twenty-four hours because it’s a damn good one.”
I glance at the painting again. It’s all right. Nothing special, but it’s the kind of thing my followers are into.
“I’m not gonna give you any more compliments, though,” he says. “Your head’s big enough as it is.”
“You’re clearly attracted to how big it is, so I don’t see why you don’t just spoil me.” I slide on my shoes at the door. “Just sell the shit out of that and let me know how it goes.”
“Sure thing. And let me know when you want to just skip the art and get on my OnlyFans account because we could make a lot more money.”
I don’t bother to acknowledge it because I’ve said no enough times that he should know better than to bring it up.
“Lock up for me,” I say as I head out the door, taking another bite of my donut.
Tatum wasn’t wrong. It was so much easier to get to class late when I was at the frat. Now I gotta haul ass from about three blocks farther away. But this being only the second week, I doubt anyone’s gonna give me grief for being a few minutes late.
Fortunately, when I get to class, Professor Reger’s still sitting at her desk in the art studio. Everyone’s set up at their canvases around the platform where the model will pose, so I take my place in the same spot as last week, catching my breath from rushing to get here.
“Now, everyone,” Professor Reger says, “our model should be here in a few minutes. He’s running a little late.”
Guess I’m not the only one with that problem this morning.
“But please remember the etiquette we discussed last week.”
I can’t imagine anyone being stupid enough or so sex deprived as to be an ass to a model who’s helping us for class, but I assume the reason they have to make those dumb rules is because someone did something shitty. Probably better that she say it than not.
I take a breath, thinking how lucky I got to get here before class really got started.
Kind of been an amazing morning, actually.
Well, as amazing of a morning as it can be for me.
The studio door creaks open, and a guy I assume is the model walks in—
Oh, fuck no.
This isn’t some random-ass model. This is Alpha Theta Mu’s Dax fucking Armstrong.
The ease from the fuck and my joint transforms into a tight knot in my chest.
Ever had someone you just can’t fucking stand? Like their very existence—the way they talk, the way they laugh, the way they move through the world—burns at something primal within you? Or is that just something someone fucked up like me feels?
Dax and I are total opposites. He’s all ease and confidence, makes everyone he interacts with laugh and smile. People light up when they see him. Me? I’m the guy who wants to put that damn light out, make everyone suffer in the dark with me. And for some reason, especially him.
I’ve seen him a few times since school started, but I avoid him the best I can.
So it feels like a messed-up punishment from the universe as he breezes through the room in this relaxed way he has, running his fingers through his thick, dark-brown—nearly black—wavy locks, looking around like he’s totally oblivious to the fact that I’m here.
It would probably be better for him if he didn’t notice me, but given that there are only ten students in this class, that’s not gonna be possible, and it’s only a moment later when his gaze catches mine.
His relaxed expression quickly shifts, his eyes widening, evidently surprised to see me here.
Is he still thinking about that night last spring after the party, wondering why this random guy—who looks at him with disdain at every TaskFrat Challenge, every frat party, even just passing in the hallway—helped him back to his place when he was too drunk?
Or is it just me second-guessing my motives?
I don’t like the guy, but I wasn’t gonna leave him on the side of the road. Anyone would have done the same. But…anyone else wouldn’t have been following him to begin with. Does he know I was following him?
We stare at each other for what feels like for-fucking-ever before Professor Reger greets him. As she introduces him to the class, I avoid looking at him, and when I cave, he’s watching me. He winks, in sharp contrast to my thoughts.
Why were you following him like a psychopath?
My chest is so fucking tight, my breaths constricted as my thoughts scramble in a familiar way, taking me back to the darkest of memories. The ones that are so dark, you do whatever you must to keep them at bay.
I can’t fucking do this!
I grab my bag and rush for the door.
There’s gotta be another time slot for Figure Drawing because I sure as fuck am not drawing his naked ass for the next few months.