17. Kristoff Is Ruined
17
Kristoff Is Ruined
I ’ve always been a light sleeper, and I stir almost to consciousness when Falstaff steps over me then thuds to the floor. My brain, somewhere between dreaming and awake, notes that it must be time for his nightly rounds. I’m so used to his routine that my small blip toward consciousness pops and I sink back into my dream.
I’m in a dormitory. It’s every school I’d ever lived at and none of them. I’m tired and someone is chasing me, and I can’t find my room. Every door handle I turn is locked. Whatever’s behind me is getting closer and I need to hide, but there’s nowhere. Just hallway after hallway. I start pounding on doors, begging to be let in, but no one answers. Door after door and I can feel panic setting in—
I wake as a paw with barely sheathed claws prods my bare arm. After momentary disorientation, I register that I’m safe in my own bed. No one is chasing me.
The silence is shattered by rhythmic thumping. It takes me a few seconds to place it then I realize it’s Falstaff and he’s probably banging on the guest room door.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Stupid cat.” I fling myself out of bed then try to move both quickly and silently to intercept my noisy cat before he wakes Peter up.
I see I’m too late as I skid to a stop and see Peter standing in the doorway of the guest suite holding a madly purring Falstaff.
My eyes meet Peter’s and there’s a jolt of awareness that runs between and through both of us.
“Your cat wouldn’t leave me alone,” he says. He makes no move to hand him back.
“He’ll probably sleep with you if you leave the door open,” I say. “Sorry he woke you up. He’s got bad manners because no one taught him any better. He was a stray kitten I found outside the building. He was starving and I was sure he’d die, but as you can see, he survived. He never learned how to cat, though, and he’s only got the one brain cell. Sorry.”
Peter blinks then stares as if he’s only now just seeing me. “What do I have to do to get you into my bed, Kitten?”
I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. Did he really just say that to me? Am I still dreaming? I say the only clear thought in my head. “Stop calling me Kitten.”
“Make me,” he says, smirking at me.
Falstaff starts the feline struggle that means he’s had enough of being held and wants down. There are only three possible outcomes: hold the cat tighter and hope for the best, don’t alter your grip and let him shred you like lettuce until letting go is the only option, or let the cat go and be grateful you got off easy. I’m curious which one he’ll choose, although holding Falstaff tighter would be in character. Luckily for Peter I have a fully stocked first aid kit.
Peter, to my surprise, not only chooses the third option but he bends down and puts Falstaff gently on the floor then pats his head.
Some part of me unclenches as Falstaff pads away to continue his nightly rounds. This man, dressed only in his navy briefs, has said more than once that he means to break me. He wants me so miserable that I walk away from my inheritance to get away from the torment. He’s done his best to be a shitty boss, giving me unreasonable demands and holding me to what he thinks are impossible standards. I’m fairly certain it hasn’t occurred to him that I’ve worked under my father ever since my grandfather retired. He’s been making my life miserable since the day I started working at Minola. Hell, he’s been making my life miserable for as long as I can remember. Peter has nothing on Father when it comes to being a terrible boss.
Peter scares me, but it’s because every time he looks at me it’s a queasy mixture of revulsion and desire. It’s a look I know far too well, and it never ends well for me. I saw it on the face of every school bully I had to endure as he hurt me, one way or another.
Lately, though, I feel like there’s more desire than revulsion in Peter’s gaze, but it’s hard for me to trust my judgement. There’s a part of me that will always expect cruelty over kindness, which doesn’t trust in the sanctity of safe words, and waits for the rug to be pulled out from under my feet at any time. But I’ve read that the way a man treats animals is a good reflection of his character. I need this to be true.
I tell Peter the absolute truth. “I can’t make you do anything.”
He tilts his head to the side, considering me, then asks, “What will it take for you to let me in your bed?”
It’s impossible for me to take the question seriously. “You could stop trying to get me to quit my job and give up my inheritance.”
Peter shakes his head. “Forget about Minola. Forget I’m your boss—”
“ Temporary boss.”
“Forget that you’re Kristoff Minola and I’m Peter Verona, at least for tonight. Tell me what it’ll take. I want inside you, Kit, as deep as I can go. Do I have to make you, or can I just ask?”
That thing inside me that had earlier unclenched now cracks. I knew from the night Peter came storming over here that he’d end up fucking me sooner or later. It never occurred to me, though, that he’d bother to ask first.
The few men I’ve had sex with flicker through my mind. Voices ordering me to get on my knees or on my back. Hands pushing me into their desired position. Sometimes I was fucked hard and sometimes it was slow, lazy strokes. All of them telling me what they wanted to do to me but not one of them asking.
Needing to know his answer, I ask, “And if I say no? The time is ridiculously late. Or early.”
Peter shrugs. “I guess I’ll go mope and rub one out. Probably in the shower. That’s a really fucking nice shower. Then I’ll prowl around in your kitchen looking for a way to make coffee and I’ll eat cold pizza for breakfast while I wait for you to finish up your beauty sleep.”
It's obvious he’s serious. This is literally what he’ll do if I say no. He won’t make me because I haven’t asked for it. This is absolutely my decision and my choice, and Peter will respect whatever I decide. Something like fear and hope swells up inside my chest. “Okay. Follow me.” Then I turn and walk back to my room.
“Hey, wait a second.” Hands grip me from behind. First lips then teeth graze my neck. “Don’t take off without me. What if I got lost?”
Even though he can’t see me I roll my eyes. “No one’s sense of direction is that bad.”
“You said I could fuck you. I’m not losing out on an opportunity like that just because I make a wrong turn and end up in Narnia or something. What if my stars never align again?”
I take Peter’s hand and pull him after me. Within moments we’re at my bedroom. I turn on the light, meaning to shoo out the other cats, but they’ve already taken off. Once Peter is inside the room I close the door and go to turn off the light.
Peter stops me. “Can we keep it on? I want to see what I’m doing. Especially if this is my only chance.”
“Do a good job and it won’t be your only chance.”
“Ugh. The pressure!” But under his groan I can hear Peter laughing. He sounds happy so I turn to look at him and he looks happy too. His erection stretches out the fabric of his briefs.
I stand beside my bed, unsure what I should do next. “Um. How do you want me?”
“In every way possible,” he says, walking toward me until the backs of my knees touch the bed.
“I meant right now, not for all time.”
“Yes,” Peter replies happily. “Yes to all of it. Whatever you want first. I’m easy. But if you want me to pick, lie on your stomach. And take these off.” He pulls my sleep pants down to mid-thigh.
Perversely thankful that Peter is letting me decide to not decide, I pull my pants off entirely then crawl onto my bed on my hands and knees. I kick the covers out of the way then lay down on my stomach, my arms folded under my head.
I feel Peter’s fingers trace lightly down my back from my shoulders to my ass. When he reaches my hips, he pulls my legs apart so I’m spread wide.
“Fuck, Kitten. You’re so beautiful.” His voice is hushed and reverent. He pulls my ass cheeks apart then touches the skin there lightly. He’s close enough that I can feel his breath on me.
“Don’t call me Kitten,” I say, although at the moment he can call me any damn thing he wants to as long as he keeps touching me like that.
“Don’t hold your breath. No, I mean it. If you don’t breathe you’ll pass out.”
“What?” I ask.
He just hums in satisfaction then shows me.
The first touch of his tongue is… actually, I’m not sure because I’m fairly certain several key brain cells overheat then short out. If the perfect word to describe the feeling of Peter’s hot tongue on the most taboo part of my body exists, I’ve never heard or read it. I can come close, though, with luxurious, erotic, mortifying, and intense.
I tend to be quiet during sex, mostly out of habit. My first orgasm was secretive, stolen in the darkest part of the night when the boys I roomed with were deeply asleep. I learned to come moving slowly, cautiously, and overall, quietly.
My ability to keep my mouth shut during sex might have been my main appeal to my first boyfriend, but that’s not a thought I need right now. I forcibly shove everything out of my head and the only parts I let operate are the ones responsible for touch and sound.
The wet heat feels exquisite. A large part of the appeal is probably how profoundly uncomfortable having Peter’s tongue lap at my pucker makes me feel. I think I might be able to come like this. I’ll probably find out soon because when I try to grab my aching cock and tug on it, Peter knocks my hand aside and stops the torturous pleasure.
“The only one getting you off tonight is me,” Peter growls at me, the dangerous edge to his voice making my heart swoop in excitement and dread. “And when you get off is up to me, too. Come before I say you can, and I’ll have to punish you like you’re a naughty little boy.
“Fuck!” comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, but Peter doesn’t seem to mind.
He licks me again, this time going from the base of my balls, which feel like they’re made of hot lead, to the top of my crack. “I love the little noises you make, Kitten, but before we’re done, I’m gonna make you fucking roar.” Then he blows on my saliva-damp skin, making shivers run through my body. “And it’ll be my name you scream out. I don’t care if it takes me all night, you will come with my name on your lips.” He punctuates his sentence with a hard bite to one of my butt cheeks.
The pain is exquisite, and he pairs it with his hand wrapped around my cock. He smears my precum on his palm then jerks me with slow, deliberate pulls that end with his hand gliding over the wet, enlarged head and playing with my foreskin. Meanwhile that bite goes on while he sucks on my skin to leave a bruise. It’s nothing at all like any sex I’ve ever had. It’s overwhelming.
“Breathe, Kitten,” Peter tells me. “In and out. Then tell me how much you like this.” After which he bites another part of my ass hard enough that I might need a tetanus shot after he’s done with me. Peter lifts his mouth away and then his tongue is back on my hole, this time trying to work its way in. He pairs the unspeakable pleasure with a hard pinch to the tip of my cock.
“Jesus Christ.” This is the most intelligent thing I can think to say while my body copes with the conflicting sensations. It occurs to me, in a moment of lucidity, that Peter has ruined me for any future sex. Nothing could possibly compare to how he’s using my body to play music that’s only in his head. I am a helpless instrument in his hands as he plucks my strings and makes me sing.
Peter’s hand moves to cup my achy sac while his tongue penetrates me. How—why—is he doing this to me? When he’s tongue fucking me for all he’s worth, Peter’s hand slowly squeezes my balls until the pain is nearly overwhelming. I continue to sing for him, but more loudly. I have to keep reminding myself that no one but Peter can hear me cry and curse and beg for both mercy and release.
“Not yet,” he says, thankfully letting go of my balls, which throb painfully along with the beat of my heart. He licks and kisses up my spine until he gets to my neck, where he sucks a mark everyone will be able to see tomorrow.
I want him to stop. I want him to never stop. “Please,” I beg, and I don’t even know what I’m asking for.
“Do you want my cock, Kitten? Raw, just saliva for lube?”
I have no way to truthfully answer that question. “Yes” and “no” are both the truth and lies at the same time. The paradox is too difficult to pick apart.
“Trick question, Kit,” Peter says cheerfully. “You’ll get what I give you.
He rolls my trembling body over and I gratefully lie on my back, trying to get my muscles to unclench. I wonder if I’ll get the Lady or the Tiger.
“You’re just too fucking beautiful, Kitten.” He flicks one of my nipples and pinches the other. “Nipples all tight and hard and ready to bite. All this smooth, gorgeous golden skin. And that cock. You’re packing so much more than I expected. Makes me glad I live over here on the top side, because that makes you my bottom bitch. I’m gonna fill you up, baby. Breed you over and over. And then I’m gonna eat my cum out of your pretty hole.” Peter pushes his thumb against my hole, but doesn’t push inside. “You’re so tight right now. It’ll be like I’m fucking a virgin. But by the time I’m done, your little hole will gape open like the hungry thing I know it is. And you know what, Kit?”
“What?” I breathe, every cell in my body terrified and exhilarated at once.
“I’m going to ruin you. Take you apart and then leave you like that. Shatter your whole fucking world and I’ll enjoy every single second of your destruction. Are you ready?”
I’m incapable of making any kind of intelligent noise. The only thing that comes out of me is a squeak of alarm and anticipation.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Peter says. “Let’s get started, shall we? But first things first. I need lube and if you want them, condoms.”
My brain has not fully followed events. Something about lube and condoms. “What?”
“It’s up to you, Kitten. Well, not the lube. I don’t care how masochistic you are, we’re using lube. And you mentioned you wanted to use condoms, didn’t you? So where are they? You don’t get to come until you fork over the goods.”
This conversation is harshing my sexual buzz. “I don’t have any condoms,” I say. Why would I have condoms? And what was the other thing? Oh, lube. “I’ve got lotion in my bedside table.”
Peter tilts his head slightly as he looks down at me, tsking. “Such an unprepared boy. No anal merit badge for you. At least not tonight.”
Disappointment crashes through me. My sexual frustration makes my eyes prickle with angry tears. “What are you even good for, then?” I demand bitterly.
Peter tsks some more. “That remark will get you a punishment, Kit, but later.” He reaches over me, opens up the drawer on the table by my bed, then holds his prize up for me to admire: a half-full bottle of Auteur serum. “For now, this’ll have to do. Any port in a storm, right?”
“Um, sure.” I’m tempted to tell him that the port he’s holding cost me over a thousand dollars and might end up being the most expensive lube in the universe. I decide I’ll spring that on him later.
He moves to straddle my legs and brings our cocks together. Mine is longer but his is thicker. He’s cut and I’m not. My cock is darker than his even though I’ve just about lost my erection, but he hasn’t.
“Sorry, I’m not…” I gesture to my flagging erection.
“I’ve got the cure for that.” He squirts out approximately two-hundred dollars worth of cream into his hand then covers both our cocks in it. If nothing else, we will have extremely well-moisturized penises by morning. He tightens his grip on us then begins to jack us both.
He’s right about having the cure. I get what the big deal is about frotting now. It’s not as earth shattering as being rimmed, but I also have a much higher chance of coming. My cock hardens within two strokes. Before Peter gets to a half-dozen, I’m on the edge of coming but I don’t know if that’s allowed.
“I need… please… I need…”
“What do you need, Kitten? Tell me.”
“C-come,” I stammer out. “I need to…”
“Ah ah ah,” Peter scolds. “You haven’t said the magic word.”
I frown. Didn’t I already say please?
“Say my name, Kitten. You can come, but you have to tell the world who’s responsible.”
“Oh fuck oh fuck. I’m coming. I… please… I…”
Peter does something with his hand and I’m about to fly right over the edge and into the first orgasm I’ve gotten from a person who wasn’t me in far too long.
“Say it,” he commands. “Say my fucking name as you come all over my hand. Say it.”
“Peter! Oh god I… fuck… Peter, I—”
“Now thank me.”
My world explodes and the words pour out of me as cum spurts out of my cock. “Thank you, Peter, fuck… I… fuck, Peter. Thank you thank you thank you.” The words burst from me as I ride out the ecstasy. Peter’s right. I am ruined.
Dimly I hear him groan loudly as his orgasm joins mine. Peter keeps stroking us until the pleasure is too intense then thankfully he lets go. He leaves the bed, and I can hear water running in the bathroom. He returns to wipe me off with something. Probably a towel. Then he slides into my bed beside me and snuggles against me, his arm draped over my chest. He makes a grunting noise of contentment then falls instantly asleep, snoring, although not loud enough to be irritating. Snores or not, I won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.
I think of the mark Peter left on my neck, and my ass, and how he told me when and how to come and I did exactly what he ordered. I ponder the unbearably intense orgasm that crashed out of me. Physically I’m sated but my mind already wants more.
He's won. That son of a bitch has won. Oh, I’m not quitting my job. I’m sure as fuck not giving up my inheritance to my so-called father. But that’s just money and the company. Peter has won me, whether he realizes it or not.
I am fucked, absolutely and completely. I’m ruined, through and through. There’s no going back to how things were before. My only consolation is that Peter is fucked just as hard and thoroughly as me.