11. Kristoff Hates His New Nickname
11
Kristoff Hates His New Nickname
“ A sshole,” I say to the front door as it closes. I don’t know if Peter hears me or not. What the hell kind of game is he playing? He gave me a taste of everything I’ve always wanted then noped out. I would’ve done anything he asked of me. Absolutely anything.
It occurs to me that Peter has actually done me a favor. Absolutely anything is absolutely more than I can afford. I still feel thwarted, however. My endorphins are crashing, and my throat feels like I tried to swallow a bowling ball and succeeded. I imagine what his cock could do to my ass and that feeling of want and dread fills me again. My stupid cock wants more. More it’s not going to get.
Peter’s easy waltz out of my kitchen shows how insignificant the impact I have on him is. Not while I was sucking his cock—he enjoyed that. What man doesn’t? But after, when he was spent, he was also done. Done with sex and more than done with me. He saw that I surrendered and then fucked off, leaving the spoils of war—me—behind without a second glance.
All Peter wanted from me was to win.
He’s not interested in being anything to me but a thorn in my side. Fine, if that’s the way he wants it. I don’t need Peter’s cock in my life or anywhere else. The phantom ache for completion will fade eventually. All I have to do is give it time. That thought doesn’t make my residual disappointment any easier to handle. I want what I want. The likelihood of me getting it has nothing at all to do with it. I can lie to myself all I want, but I’ve always been a terrible liar.
None of this is fine, including me.
Stiffly, I shuffle into my bathroom. The cats pick this time to come out of hiding and race to see who gets there first. There’s a tie between Polonius and Laertes for first place, Falstaff comes in a distant second, and I follow just behind his ungainly scramble, shaking my head when he loses his footing on the marble floor and knocks Polonius over just as Laertes leaps away.
My grandfather never understood my love for cats and Nonna thinks all cats are evil incarnate, but they are small bright spots of joy in my gray life. They don’t expect more from me than food and a clean litterbox. In return, they allow me to love them and in their vague feline way, they love me back.
I know you can’t go around expecting devotion from a cat, but they have done all the things cats do to supposedly show that I’m their human. They touch me with their little noses, rub their chins on me to claim me, and when I’m in the bathroom they do their shaky tail thing at me. I have been assured by my vet that means my cats love me, but I also heard her unsaid but implied, as much as they can.
For me, it’s enough.
Polonius and Laertes leap onto the bathroom counter and receive my scritches. Falstaff’s fat elderly ass can’t jump that high any longer, so he remains on the marble floor, lying on his back with all four paws in the air. I pet him with my foot, and he purrs appreciatively then bites me to show he’s done.
Ritual completed, I turn on my shower and step under the pounding hot water. It sears my skin in the best way and allows my thoughts to drift without conscious direction.
I ponder my next move. Did I get the result I wanted? Should I stay the course or pivot in another, more profitable, direction? My subconscious brain chews on that while my conscience thoughts are full of all the problems our company faces and what steps need to be taken to avoid or mitigate any negative unseen consequences.
Or at least that’s what my conscious thoughts should be thinking about, but instead all I can focus on is that I just had the best orgasm of my entire life while sucking off my stepbrother.
What is wrong with me? I’ve always known something was. My mother left and didn’t take me with her. My father can’t stand the sight of me. The closest things I have to friends are my cats. I’m not a virgin but I’m the next best thing. I crave sex but it’s never satisfying enough for the effort involved in getting it.
Until tonight, that is.
Peter made me feel… something. Low and small, yes, but also desired. Powerless, but safe. Untouched, but well-used. Most of all, Peter made me feel seen. He gave me, without me needing to spell it out in the most uncomfortable and awkward way possible, exactly what I wanted, like a blasphemous combination of Santa Claus, Jesus, and fairy godmother.
I should be ashamed of myself but I’m not. I got what I wanted, if only temporarily, and I made an impact. I think. I need to do more than just endure my time with Peter. I must win, but not at the cost of damaging Minola. I can’t afford to be reactive. I need to be as far ahead of my father and Peter as possible because I have to win. No other outcome is acceptable.
I used to play chess with my grandfather, and I learned early that winning can require you to surrender nearly every piece you have. The queen might be the most powerful piece on the board but even a pawn can checkmate the opponent’s king. I may have been demoted from queen to pawn, but that doesn’t mean I can’t win this game. Not by a longshot.
Moreover, I want to win, and I’ll stop at nothing to get everything I deserve. If that means kneeling in front of my stepbrother and letting him fuck my throat until he comes inside me, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. I’ll make that sacrifice over and over if I have to. However, many times it takes.
I’m startled out of my thoughts by banging on the shower door behind me. I jump, imagining Peter will be there when I turn around. He’ll open the door, letting out a cloud of roiling steam, and push me against cool marble tile. I can feel his hard cock rubbing against my ass, his lips on my neck, and the hand that holds my cock in a tight fist. I’d let him own me but the whole time it’ll be me owning him. Pawn takes queen.
A yowl Is added to the cacophony of banging and my fantasy pops like a soap bubble. Falstaff, Polonius, and Laertes have decided I’ve been in the shower long enough. I turn off the water and the banging stops. Falstaff stares at me as if he can read my thoughts and doesn’t approve so I avoid his gaze as I step out of the shower.
I dry off, put on a clean pair of sleep pants, then follow my furry overlords to my very lonely bed where I drift off to sleep. Tomorrow will be, as they say, another day.
The next morning, I wake to find a message on my phone from Peter.
Your Lord And Master: don’t bother coming in. There’s nothing much for you to do. I’d tell you to enjoy your weekend but you’re YOU. On Monday I want an extra hot peppermint mocha latte made with cashew milk.
Oh, no. That’s not how this goes. If Peter’s a work, so am I, and I won’t leave for the night until he does. He can’t fuck my throat then pretend I don’t exist. I’m going to pull a Sharon Stone and not be ignored.
Peter is less than happy to see me but says nothing. Internally I’m gloating and it fills me with delicious warmth like hot apple cider.
The next week at work I go out of my way to be perfection itself while still being annoying as fuck. I don’t step one toe out of line. I’m not late and I stay in the office well into the evening. Whatever task Peter tries to give me I’ve already done hours previously. At first he seemed to not even notice, but by Wednesday I can tell he’s about ready to commit murder.
I let Nonna know that if I disappear under mysterious circumstances that Peter should be the police’s number one suspect. I think it’s hilarious, but Nonna is not amused. She smacks the side of my head then mutters in Italian. I have no idea what she’s saying, but I go on the assumption it’s not complimentary to her beloved and only grandson.
On Thursday morning I feel unsettled from the moment I open my eyes. I have a tough time defining why. I get up, feed my overlords, eat breakfast, and am dressed for work with more than enough time to pick up Peter’s ridiculous coffee order du jour and still make it to the office by six.
Peter is already there. He’s always here before me and I’m beginning to think that he sleeps in his office. He’s a relentless taskmaster today but I’m just enough ahead of him to be able to produce whatever paperwork he needs—or says he needs—within moments. As the day wears on, it becomes obvious he’s testing me, trying his damnedest to trip me up.
Not today, Satan. Not today.
But being one jump ahead of Peter hasn’t dispelled my feeling of unease. Although unease isn’t the right word. I feel spiritually itchy, emotionally thirsty, and ravenous for something that isn’t food. It isn’t sex, either, but that’s closer to the mark than anything else I can think of. I crave something just out of reach, like Tantalus’ grapes.
This is all Peter. It’s all his fault I’m like this today but I’ll be damned before showing that what we did last Friday has gotten to me. I am cool as an entire grocery store of cucumbers. I am persistently, relentlessly perfect. I can hear Peter clench his teeth every time he looks my way. My presence is as irritating to him as his is to me.
Good. I hope he chokes on how irritatingly efficient I am at this joke of a job.
“You can leave if you want,” I hear Peter say. It’s the first thing he’s said to me since lunch that wasn’t a demand of some sort.
“Early?” I ask. “Are you getting soft on me, Mr. Verona?”
Peter barks out an incredulous laugh. “It’s almost eight.”
I look at the clock on my computer and see that he’s right. Where did the day go? The only useful thing I did today was be an over-qualified assistant. I had thought we’d crossed some sort of Rubicon last Friday, but one skull fuck was apparently all Peter had needed from me. Well, that and endlessly redundant paperwork.
I’ve been fooling myself, that’s obvious now. All I have to show for my campaign of malicious competence is a lingering sore throat and desire I have no idea how to quench. Jacking off in my shower, then again in bed, then a third time in my morning shower has had no lasting effect on me. I know Peter’s not pleased with me, but that’s not new. He hasn’t been pleased with me since my father met his mother.
He wants me to leave here with my tail between my legs like a good little underling, so I resolve to outstay him instead.
“There’s no lack of things unfinished,” I point out. “But if you’re too tired…”
“I never said I was tired,” Peter snaps at me.
“Of course not,” I agree soothingly. “Still, it’s been a long day and I’m sure it’s past your bedtime.”
“Fuck off, Kit,” Peter says, sounding beyond exhausted. “I don’t want to see you until tomorrow morning.”
“I couldn’t possibly go home while you’re still working,” I respond. “That wouldn’t be very assistantly of me.”
Peter rakes a hand through his copper hair, making it stand up in a way I refuse to find boyishly endearing. “Go home. Now.”
“Make me.”
“What did you say?” Peter stares at me like his eyes could burn a hole right through me.
I’m treading on thin ice. He could always call security, but I’m gambling that he won’t.
“Make. Me.”
Peter’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. “Go home, Kristoff. Don’t push me.”
As much as I hate being called Kit, somehow Peter reverting to Kristoff is worse. I don’t want to push Peter. I want to shove him so hard he gets bruises. “Is running a multibillion-dollar business starting to wear on you?” I ask, feigning concern. “Is it all too much for those narrow shoulders of yours to handle? There’s no shame in admitting you can’t hack it. You’re barely old enough to drink.”
Peter continues to stare at me and say nothing. Something about his expression makes me poke at him harder.
“You should be out,” I continue, “having fun with your friends. Bar hopping and trying to pick up college girls still in their teens.”
A muscle tics In Peter’s jaw so I press on. “Run along. You can leave all this to the grown-ups. I’ll finish going through the Padua proposal and have it summarized for you. I’ll make sure to use words of two syllables or less wherever possible.” I smile at Peter both sweetly and insufferably. I hope he chokes on my courtesy. “Or if that’s too much,” I add, definitely pressing my luck, “I can put together a presentation with illustrated slides. I’ll even make you popcorn.”
Peter’s lips quiver. Did I break him? That seems too good to be true, but maybe…
His face splits and he laughs at me. “Do you have any idea what you sound like?”
Now it’s my turn to be silent. Fuck Peter. Fuck him so hard he can’t sit for a week. No, a month. Hell, a year.
“You should see your face,” he gasps. Peter takes his phone from his pocket and takes a picture of me. What the fuck? He flips the phone around to show me. “You look like you sat on a fucking buh-buh-broom handle.”
Great. I’ve reduced Peter to stuttering because he’s laughing so hard at me. Fantastic. Grandfather would be so proud.
“I don’t appreciate your antics, Mr. Verona,” I say as frigidly as possible.
“I’m sure you don’t,” Peter murmurs, leaning over my desk until his mouth is near my ear. “I know what you do appreciate, Kit.” Peter’s voice rubs over my skin like rough silk, making me shiver involuntarily. “That’s right. I know what you’re up to. I know what you need. What you crave. I might even give it to you if you’re good. Are you a good boy, Kitten? Can you be a good boy for me?”
Kitten is the worst nickname he’s come up with so far and I try not to react but it’s hard. “I am your extremely overqualified assistant, Mr. Verona, not your pet.”
“You are what I say you are, Kit.” Warm breath feathers over my ear.
“And what’s that?” I ask, mouth dry, heart pounding, and all my command and bravado gone.
“Mine.”