9. Kristoff Pushes His Luck
9
Kristoff Pushes His Luck
I ’m reading Vinegar Girl by Anne Tyler for the umpteenth time when several loud thumps shatter the silence of my living room. Polonius and Laertes scatter to hide but Falstaff gives zero fucks and remains draped over my feet like the world’s fuzziest hot water bottle.
Either I know this thumping person or everyone at the front desk is dead and I’m living in The Purge . There are only a few people I allow into my apartment and none that I can think of would be here this late, unannounced. One of my neighbors wearing a mask and toting a mace made from barbed wire and a broken chair leg would be more likely.
The pounding switches to someone kicking their foot against the door. “Open up this fucking door, you fucking asshole!”
It’s Peter. Peter is here. Without calling on that hateful work phone and scaring me and the cats half to death. Why is he here? What does he want?
A frisson of fear mixed with hopeful excitement runs through me. I am a fish out of water, gasping for air and my heart beating its way out of my chest. “I’m coming,” I say, but not loud enough because my mouth is so dry.
“If you don’t answer this door, Kristoff, I swear to god I’m kicking it in!” Peter sounds enraged, like he’s spoiling for a fight.
After trying—and presumably failing—to provoke Peter for days, I’m just desperate and masochistic enough that my cock is already growing hard in my sleep pants at the thought of all that fury concentrated on me. He’ll see my erection easily if I open the door and let him in. I should grab a robe to wear, or not open my door to him at all, but do I really have anything to lose here? He can’t know the erection is for him. Not for certain. I have plausible deniability. Maybe I was watching porn before he came huffing and puffing at my door. And inner debate aside, I am going to let him in. This is a forgone conclusion.
When I open my door, Peter stumbles and half-falls into my entryway. He must have been leaning on the door, or maybe he’s startled by my cock trying to puncture a hole in my pants. Either way, he rights himself quickly and glares at me. He’s wearing the same suit he had on at work, only minus the ugly tie and with a few buttons of his shirt undone. I can see the hollow of his throat, his Adam’s apple, and a fine sheen of stubble just starting to show.
“Do you need my assistance with something?” I ask mildly, as if it isn’t late at night and I’m not dressed for bed with a hard-on that could put his eye out.
Peter pushes his way into my home, knocking against me as he does. His hip catches hard on my cock, and I see stars for a few seconds. Pain and pleasure muddle together exquisitely.
“Ow,” I protest for form’s sake. “Watch it. And just make yourself at home already.”
Peter, completely ignoring me, goes right to my freezer and opens it. He pulls out my emergency bottle of Ciroc and twists the cap, then looks up at me. “Glasses?” he asks impatiently.
Too fascinated to do anything but let this play out, I point to the cupboard where I keep my glassware.
He grunts in response, gets a juice glass out, and pours out vodka until it’s three-quarters full. He then downs half of that in one gulp. I’m reluctantly impressed.
“It’s not right,” he says.
“Could you be more specific? Or are you referring to you breaking into my home and stealing my vodka? Because you’re correct. Not one part of that is right.”
Peter scowls at me. “You let me in. There was no breaking involved. And I’m not stealing your vodka. I’m drinking it. There’s a difference.”
“I didn’t offer you any.” Again, I keep my voice polite and calm because I think it’s doing a spectacular job of pissing Peter off more.
“Not my fault you’re a bad host. Offering a beverage to a guest is the polite thing to do. Didn’t you learn that in any of your fancy schools?”
Not really, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I didn’t invite you and I only let you in because I had no other choice.”
“Hmm,” he says, looking me up and down. His gaze snags for a few extra seconds at my crotch. “Were you busy?”
“Is that any of your business?”
Peter picks up his glass and moves toward me in a swagger. “Everything about you is my business.”
I raise my eyebrows at him and cross my arms over my chest. “No. I’m not really your employee, you’re by no stretch really my superior, and after my birthday you will be absolutely irrelevant. I owe you nothing.”
Peter slams down his glass, making vodka jump out and splash on my countertop. “You owe me everything,” he snarls at me. His face has gone dead white in his anger, making his freckles stand out like beacons and his copper hair glow. He looks sharp and mean and dangerous, and I am so hard it’s painful.
Why do I have to be like this? Not that it matters. I am like this, and Peter can’t possibly know how much he’s been turning me on, or that tonight he’s dialed it to eleven.
“How so?” My voice wants to shake from nerves—both good and bad—but I shut that down. My words come out far smoother than the vodka Peter is so carelessly sloshing around.
“You have everything,” Peter bites out. “Every. Single. Thing. You’ve always gotten what you wanted, and the only things left for us were the scraps you didn’t want. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been taking your whole life and giving nothing back. You are a parasite. Some idiot might not believe it but you and I know better and I’m tired of pretending there’s no elephant in the room.”
I’m honestly not sure what he’s going on about. “If anyone’s a parasite it’s you. You’re not even a Minola. You aren’t owed anything.”
Several emotions I can’t decipher flash across Peter’s face. Finally, his face hardens. “I’m your boss. You will show me respect.”
That’s so out of left field that I laugh reflexively. “Make me.”
“Maybe I should,” he growls at me, moving closer.
“Maybe you should,” I agree, not giving any ground.
Peter puts the glass down on the counter. “You shouldn’t push me. Not tonight.”
I’m itching to know why tonight is special, but I have bigger fish to fry. “I’m not afraid of you.” That’s nearly the truth.
He moves closer. “You should be.”
I can smell him. Cologne and sweat. It should be a turn off, but I want to drown in his scent. “Make me,” I say again. It’s not a dare; it’s what I need. What I crave in all the secret parts of me I never let anyone see.
Make me. Use me. Notice me.
Something in his gaze shifts and he’s finally looking at me. Not what he thinks I am, but me, in my pajamas and bare feet and full of a need I don’t completely understand.
“You should kneel before your betters.”
Close, but no cigar. I don’t move but my cock jumps and I know he sees it. I shake my head at him.
Peter reaches out a finger and touches my nipple then pinches it hard, making me involuntarily gasp. “Good boys do what they’re told,” he says, like he’s trying the idea out.
“I never claimed to be good,” I say. “But… I could be. If I’m… properly motivated.”
This is going too far. I don’t think there’s any safe way back to casual enmity.
He seems to realize the same thing. “Is that what it takes? Proper motivation? What kind of motivation do you think is proper?” He gives me a few seconds to retreat and when I don’t, he pushes on. “How do I properly motivate a man like you?” Peter’s voice is light, but his eyes are both hard and wary.
“Make me,” I say, my heart in my throat. This could be the worst decision I’ve ever made. It could ruin me completely. But for once in my life, I want to be seen for what I am and not what I’m supposed to be.
“Excuse me?” Peter says. “I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Make me,” I say louder. In my head I add, please.
“Make you do what?” Peter reaches over and pinches my other nipple, this time digging his nails in. The pain is sharp, almost electric, and I love it. It feels real. I feel real.
“Anything,” I say. It’s almost a whisper but he hears me.
Peter’s hand drops to my over-eager erection. He strokes along the length of it through my pajama pants then reaches lower to cup my balls. He's so gentle that I think I’ve made a huge mistake. I’m about to say something when his hand tightens. At first it’s nice, then uncomfortable, then painful, then absolute agony. The pain ripples through me, making my nipples peak and gooseflesh to breakout on my arms and legs. Meanwhile, I don’t think I’ve ever been thus hard in my entire life. I’m in so much trouble and for once I do not care. Not one little bit.
“Then get on your knees, Kit,” Peter says, his voice like a caress, “and suck my cock.”