12. Peter Needs a Word With Kit
12
Peter Needs a Word With Kit
K ristoff is giving me whiplash, his behavior ping-ponging all over the damn place. Not regarding work—he’s a frustratingly excellent assistant. No, what’s making me dizzy is his mood swings. One second he’s obsequious, then condescending, then caustic, then cringey, then bitchy, then unaffected, then he’s a spoiled child. He’s a million times worse than Veronica with PMS. I wonder if chocolate would fix him and whether Chicago contains enough to do the job.
It's obvious Kit’s trying to provoke me into some kind of response but I’m not in the mood for manipulation. I’ve been ignoring everything he’s thrown at me all day long. It’s run the gamut from outright insults to silent pouting and it’s all irritating as hell, but I’m not losing control again.
Not like I did last week, when I snapped under the weight of Kristoff’s need and ended up fucking his face.
It’s not that face fucking my assistant is unprofessional, because it sure as fuck is. It’s not even that I came down my stepbrother’s throat, which sounds disgusting no matter how you spin it. No, the real problem here is how easily I folded under the black hole of need and want that is Kristoff Minola. He’s a complicated man. Fucked up, definitely. Daddy issues, absolutely. Mommy issues, too, probably.
That’s his own damn fault. We’d have been his family if he’d given us even half a chance. I’d been so excited to get an instant big brother, and I know Mom would’ve loved him like her own kid. She loves so easily. Probably too easily.
But Kristoff rejected us all and it’s his own damn fault he’s such a big bag of need and neuroticism. None of it is my fault or my responsibility. I owe Kristoff Minola exactly nothing. Not one little thing.
Even if I did open a big can of worms last night. That might be a tiny bit my fault. Kristoff didn’t force my cock down his throat, not that he fought me, either. I think I might know what he wants from me, but I’m not positive, and it’s no use asking him directly. He’d never in a million years give me an honest answer. And even if he did, where would that leave us? I’m not this thing he thinks he wants.
That’s what I tell myself all day long after making myself a promise last night that I won’t give Kristoff any more of what he so obviously craves. The more I avoid his obvious, and not so obvious, lures, the faster he cycles through moods, no doubt trying to find the key that’ll open me up.
I never should have gone to his home last night. That might turn out to be the biggest mistake of my life. I know Kristoff is trouble with a huge neon pink flashing T. He’s messy and difficult while I prefer casual and meaningless hookups. Kristoff is the antithesis of casual and meaningless. He has “run away while you still can” plastered all over him.
I need to leave him the fuck alone, while simultaneously angering him sufficiently to make him quit the company that bears his name. It’s a task so monumentally impossible that even Hercules would’ve said, “Nah, man. I’ve got my limits.”
Meanwhile Kristoff has been flirting his ass off at me all day. I’ve managed to ignore him for most of it, but now its late and I’m hanging on by my fingernails, but he won’t fucking go home and leave me in peace. He must know he’s getting to me. He has to know it. He can’t be oblivious to how close I am to cracking.
I desperately don’t want to give in but I’m only human. There’s only so much temptation I have the ability to resist. No matter how hard I try to hold it in and be indifferent to him, I end up laughing at Kristoff, exposing a major fault line in my defenses. The offended outrage at me finding him hilarious pours off Kristoff in amusingly petulant waves. It’s irresistible so I take a picture of his expression, both to needle him and because I want to look at that face again and again when he’s not around, making my life a living hell.
“I don’t appreciate your antics, Mr. Verona,” Kristoff tells me in this prim little voice like he’s someone’s ancient spinster aunt. The broom handle in his ass has become an icicle.
“I’m sure you don’t,” I say, leaning over Kit’s desk until my mouth is near his ear and the intoxicating scent of him fills my nose. “I know what you do appreciate, Kit.” He flinches and it makes me smile because I’m not the only one here making mistake after reckless mistake. “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?” Oh, fuck me. That’s the literal opposite of what I meant to say. What the ever-loving fuck is wrong with me? “Can you be a good boy for me?”
I blame Kristoff’s scent for my runaway mouth. He smells of expensive cologne on top of expensive skin care products, and underneath that, nervous sweat. He reeks of wealth, fear, and anticipation. I want to breathe in great lungfuls of it for hours on end. It makes me feel powerful, and even knowing that feeling is a trap he’s laid for me, I walk right into it anyway.
Kristoff sniffs and sounds sulky. “I am your extremely overqualified assistant, Mr. Verona, not your pet.”
“You are what I say you are, Kit,” I whisper into his ear.
He tries, and fails, to stifle a shiver. “And what’s that?” Kit’s voice has dropped an octave and gone husky. It might be the most stupidly sexy sound I’ve ever heard.
“Mine,” I growl, apparently losing my grip on sanity and rationality entirely. It’s all over now but the shouting. Just like always, Kit is about to get his way.
That doesn’t mean, however, that I have to be gracious in defeat. I grab Kit’s tie and yank hard on it. He fights me, but not hard enough, because he ends up right where I want him—with his knees hitting the floor.
“Be careful, you barbarian,” Kit fusses at me. “That’s Dolce & Gabbana.”
I can’t help but laugh at Kit again. I wonder if he realizes how ridiculous he sounds. I give his tie a thorough inspection. On it are overblown tulips, white against a white background, with hints of coral pink and charcoal. He’s paired it with a gray oxford and he looks every inch as filthy rich as he is.
I lean down over Kit, who kneels at my feet like the good boy he is definitely not, and give the tie another tug. “Don’t fight me and your precious tie won’t get ruined.” I head to my office, the floral tie firmly in my hand, not waiting for Kit to get his bearings. There’s scrambling and scuffling behind me but I don’t look around until I’ve dragged him to the part of my office that’s private. There’s a couch and chairs, a wardrobe, and a bathroom. With the door shut firmly behind us then locked for good measure, I look down at my nemesis.
He's sweating and his face is beet red, although I’m not sure how much is embarrassment and how much near-strangulation. “I should make you wear a collar,” I tell him. “Then I can break you to a leash.”
Kit sucks in a gasp of air, fighting for breath even though I’ve let go of his tulip tie. His cock tents the crotch of his dark charcoal trousers. I wonder if I’d be able to see a wet spot from precum if the fabric was a lighter color.
Feeling like I’m navigating a mine field, I rub my shiny black wingtip against the side of Kit’s erection. “You want to come, Kit?” I ask him.
Kit groans but says nothing. I lean down and grab his jaw between my thumb and forefinger, squeezing to the point of pain. “When I ask you a question, Kit, I expect an answer. I don’t care what a spoiled little prince you are. Here, I’m the only one in charge. I give orders, you obey. Simple. All you have to do if you won’t or can’t obey is leave. I won’t stop you and this ends. All of it.”
Kit gulps, making his Adam’s apple bob visibly, then nods.
“Good,” I say. “Now that we understand each other, let’s try this again. Kit, do you want to come?”
He nods, then lets out a raspy, “Yes, Sir.”
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. That Sir of his is the final straw. If Kristoff stands up this second and walks out of my office, I’ll let him. Probably. But his opportunity to stop this without consequences is quickly dissolving away. “This is your last chance to leave,” I tell him. “Don’t pretend later that you weren’t warned.”
Kristoff’s pale eyes are glassy, and his cheeks flushed with fever. This is either extreme lust or the flu, and either way, we’re going down together.
“Yes, Sir,” Kit rasps, reminding me of how I choked him on my cock last night. “I understand.”
“Good,” I say, not at all convinced it’s good but we’re both strapped into this roller coaster and there’s no escape until the ride’s over and we both get off.
I sit down on the leather couch with my legs spread then I unbuckle my belt and undo my fly. I let my hard, aching cock escape the confines of its cloth prison. “Suck me off, Kit. I know you want my cock in you. Down your throat, in your ass, it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No, Sir,” he whispers, his face burning with embarrassment but his mouth practically drooling for me. He’s got to know all these Sirs are my kryptonite.
“Good boy,” I praise, running my hand through his dark hair. It’s far softer than I would’ve expected. “Now show me what a good boy you are and do what you’re told.”
Kit hesitates for just a second then hoovers me into his mouth. “Fuck!” I let go of Kit’s hair so I can dig my fingers instead into my thighs to keep from coming immediately. His mouth is too hot, too tight, and too talented. It won’t be long before I’m blowing my load into him if he keeps going at this rate.
I throw my head back and try to hold on. I want to come. I want to pump myself into Kit’s throat more than I want to breathe, but I also don’t want this over so soon.
“Enough,” I tell him through gritted teeth but if anything, Kit sucks me even harder, the bastard. I pinch his ear, and he comes off me in a wide-eyed gasp. “Heel,” I say firmly. I push his unresisting ass down with my foot. “Sit.”
Kit glares at me like he’s trying to barbecue my head. “Excuse me? I am not your dog.”
Truer words. If Kit was any sort of animal I think he’d probably be a cat. Stubborn, willful, independent, vicious, sneaky, sly, opportunistic, and completely untrainable. That’s at least half the reason why giving him orders is so damn addictive.
“Behave and I won’t need to treat you like a dog. When you’re given an order, obey.”
Kit narrows his eyes at me. “If you think I’m giving you unquestioning obedience, you’re crazier than my father.”
“You’re killing the mood, but that’s probably just as well. No, I don’t expect you to become some sort of brainwashed zombie. Although that would be convenient. Don’t act stupid because I know you’re not.”
Kristoff’s gaze is speculative. “We need a…” he pauses for several moments in thought then says, “…trigger word. Like a safe word, but the opposite.”
I can’t help but snort even if I can see the logic in it. “I could tell you to heel,” I offer.
“No,” Kristoff says coldly.
“Fine. You tell me your trigger word, then.” I put my now softened cock away and secure my pants, but leave my belt unbuckled. Kristoff follows my movements with disappointed eyes. “What would work for you?”
“Telling me to suck your cock would work,” Kit says, sounding testy. “I had been doing my best.”
“Your best was… a lot. I needed a breather.”
Kit honest to god preens at me in satisfaction. “It’s good to know you think my mouth is talented. Let me show you how much.” He leans forward.
I push him back firmly, but gently, with the sole of my shoe. “Don’t change the subject. What could I say to you that would be one hundred percent safe for work but also let you know that your ass belongs to me?”
Kit’s flushed cheeks darken but he says nothing.
“Fine, leave it to me. I know. I’ll tell you that I’d like a word with you.”
One of Kristoff’s arched eyebrows raises. “What if you want to actually have a word?”
“Then I’ll tell you I need to talk to you. Like a normal person. Kristoff, you are so weird.”
A shuttered look falls over his face. “You have no idea.”
“Actually, if anyone has an idea, it’s definitely me. Are you negative?”
Kit reels back. “Excuse me?”
“I’m negative. I’ve never even had chlamydia. I can get you the paperwork to prove it if you’d like.”
“Talk about conversational whiplash,” Kit grumbles, but he grudgingly adds, “Same.”
“Condoms, yes or no?”
He looks uncomfortable and shrugs. “It’s never come up before.”
I frown at him. “What do you mean it’s never come up?”
Kit’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips. He looks like he’d rather be getting oral surgery than have this conversation, which naturally makes me even more curious.
“I—I’ve only been fucked twice,” he finally admits, not looking at me. “For a lot of reasons. What gets me…”
“Off?” I supply when he stops talking.
He shrugs. “Sure. It’s not normal and—”
“I’ve seen the Internet, Kit. Fairly sure you’re not that kinky in the long run.”
“You say that now,” he mumbles.
“If anything’s actually wrong with you I’ll have you committed. How’s that?”
Kit looks up with eyes blazing and surprises me by giving me the finger. “Fuck you.”
“Put a pin in that for later. Condoms yes or condoms no?”
“I—what if I say yes, I want you to wear a condom?”
I give Kit a puzzled look. “Then I wear one, obviously.”
He gives me a searching look then nods. “Anything else?”
“Probably. But we can burn those bridges when we get there.”
“I don’t understand you,” Kristoff says.
“You don’t need to understand me. Just obey me.”
Kit crosses his arms over his chest. “Only when we’re having a word.”
“As we’ve discussed.”
“And no one can know,” he adds.
“Jesus Christ, no. This is between you and me. Period. You think I want people to know I go around face fucking my stepbrother?”
Kristoff smirks at me and it’s a surprisingly good look on him. “Not any more than I do.”
I stick out my hand for Kristoff to shake. “Is it a deal?”
He takes my hand in a grip that’s firm, but not too firm, and shakes it. “It’s a deal.” As if he hasn’t been kneeling on the floor for at least twenty minutes, Kristoff stands. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns toward the locked door.
I make no move to stand. “Not so fast.”
Kristoff turns back to me. “What?”
“Sit down, Kit,” I say. “I need a word with you.”