Chapter 8 - Aleksey #2
I slipped my hand out from under the heavy coat for two seconds—just long enough to spit onto my palm—before shoving it right back into the dark. I pushed down past his waistband, my slick fingers sliding under the elastic of his underwear and wrapping directly around his bare cock.
Karter was already rock hard.
I worked my hand over his dick, keeping the rhythm unforgiving. Being gentle meant taking time we didn’t have.
I was risking my scholarship. My only way out of Detroit. One wrong move and I was done.
But feeling a Johnston lose his perfect, untouched composure brought out something ugly in me. Having Karter at my mercy, making him drop all that easy, old-money confidence for a broke kid from the city, thrilled me.
Especially as I could feel him shaking apart in my fist.
I felt his pre-cum leaking hot over my fingers. I used my thumb to smear the slick wetness over the blunt head, then locked my grip back down tight, pulling a bit harder with every pass.
“Shit,” he gasped, too loudly.
“Keep your voice down,” I warned, leaning in closer. My mouth brushed his ear. “Or I take my hand back and we’re done.”
His jaw snapped shut. The rapid rise and fall of his chest slowed, each breath pulled in and released like he was counting them. Like I’d handed him a command, and he was trying to follow it.
“Good boy,” I whispered.
He nodded quickly, but his body betrayed him. His hips shifted again, pushing into my hand without holding back. “Slower,” he whispered. “Please.”
“No,” I didn’t slow down. If anything, I sped up, keeping my grip tight and the friction rough. It was suffocating under the winter coat, and the heat radiating off our bodies made the cramped seat feel dangerously small.
Karter bit down hard on his lip as a low, choked sound escaped his throat. It was a desperate, broken noise that sent a dark, twisted hit of satisfaction straight down to my groin.
“You’re too damn loud,” I said. My free hand flattened against his chest, feeling the frantic, ragged heave of his ribs. “Bite down on something. I don’t care what, just shut up.”
Karter turned his face toward me. He looked terrified, but he tilted his hips deeper into my grip anyway. “I don’t care,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Just finish it.”
“Impatient,” I said. I twisted my wrist on the next stroke, making him jerk. His eyes squeezed shut as sweat beaded on his forehead, catching the faint glow from a passing streetlight.
He was close to exploding. I could see it in the way he tensed, the way his fingers dug into the seat.
Two rows ahead, a teammate shifted in his sleep. The loud rustle of nylon track pants made my muscles lock up.
Karter didn’t move a muscle.
My grip remained on him.
“Someone’s awake,” Karter breathed against my shoulder.
“Then don’t make a sound.”
The rough rhythm continued without a pause. But Karter didn’t try to push my hand away. Instead, his control just snapped. His hips bucked, jerking hard enough that I felt the tap of his balls flopping upward.
I slammed my free hand over his mouth, trapping his breath before it could turn into a noise. “I said quiet,” I muttered into his ear.
Karter’s jaw locked. He clamped his teeth down into the meat of my palm, biting hard enough that the sharp sting shot straight up my arm. I knew a fight when I felt one, and this wasn’t a plea to back off. It was the complete opposite.
I didn’t give him an inch. The bite just fueled the dark, wired energy buzzing in my chest. I kept my grip tight around his cock and stroked faster.
Eyes locked on mine, Karter went totally rigid.
His teeth sunk deeper into the meat of my palm, biting down hard enough to kill whatever noise was tearing up his throat.
He then bucked once in one short, violent movement, froze completely, and came with a low grunt.
It was a messy finish, spilling hot and thick right into my fist.
He stopped breathing for a long, frozen second. Then the tension just dropped out of him all at once. He slumped back against the stiff plastic seat, his chest heaving with shallow breaths.
I kept my hand clamped over his mouth until I was sure he wasn’t going to make a sound.
When his jaw finally went slack, he opened his mouth with a gasp, his teeth releasing their grip on my palm. I then pulled my hand back from his face, feeling the air cool the burning indentations left in my skin.
He slumped against his seat, drawing in deep breaths. While under the coat, I brought my messy right hand up to his waist. I didn’t ask, and I didn’t look for a tissue. I just grabbed the hem of his expensive cotton t-shirt and wiped his wet white cum off my fingers straight into the fabric.
Karter jerked at the rough tug on his clothes. He blinked at me, his chest still heaving as he processed the blatant disrespect of it.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered.
I watched him, waiting for him to snap. I expected him to get pissed about the ruined shirt, or the rough handling, or the absolute lack of decency. But the anger never came. He just stared back at me, that same infuriating refusal to quit locked right in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”
My own boner was throbbing, pressing tight against the denim of my pants. But I ignored it. I wasn’t going to touch myself. This hadn’t been about getting off.
For days now, I had been running on fumes, sick over the reality that a Johnston could snap his fingers and destroy my scholarship without ever feeling the fallout. His wealth and his name gave him all the power, and that lack of control had been driving me out of my mind.
But this? Forcing Karter to take it rough, making him choke on his own perfect composure while I held all the cards? It put the control exactly where I needed it. It brought the terms back to me.
But the second the point was made, the adrenaline bottomed out, and my common sense slammed back into place.
The drone of the bus engine filled my ears once again. Coach Corby was reading in the front row. Elliot was snoring just a few feet away. The sheer, massive stupidity of what I had just risked hit me like a cross-check to the teeth.
I abruptly yanked the oversized coat off his lap, tossing it over my own chest. Then I shoved my weight toward the aisle, my shoulder hitting the hard plastic of the armrest to put as much physical distance between us as the narrow seat allowed.
I refused to look at Karter. Instead, I just stared down at my raw hand, tracing the deep, red teeth marks in my palm. I was still hard, and my bones still ached with exhaustion, but the golden boy was the one sitting in a cum-splattered mess of his own making.
So I closed my eyes and left him to deal with it.