Chapter 7. Ethan #2
"You could have been seriously hurt," I say between strikes. He whimpers, quiet, involuntary sounds that do things to me I'm not going to examine right now. He's grinding against my thigh. "Really hurt. You understand that?"
His breathing is ragged. Knuckles white on my ankle.
Then, soft and unexpected: "I'm sorry…"
I grunt. Can't help it.
I keep going. Could go harder. Want to. But I don't want to actually hurt him. I pace myself, pausing between slaps so he can breathe, rubbing his back. His forehead presses against my outer thigh. Damp with sweat or tears. I don't ask.
I keep going until he starts clenching too hard, fighting to get off my lap. Two more. The last one pulls a real cry from him. I stop. Have to. I'm leaking through my briefs, and if I don't stop now, he'll feel exactly how far gone I am.
Both of us start breathing. His ribs expanding against my legs. My palm buzzing with the heat I've left on his skin. Pale to soft red.
I reach into the bottom desk drawer without shifting him. Ointment. It's always there, from previous mentees. I unscrew the cap. Press it to his skin and start spreading it in slow circles.
Liam sighs. Deep, relieved. He shivers under my hand. My thumb traces the line between reddened skin and unmarked, and I feel him lean in instead of pulling away. His grip on my leg loosens. Breathing evens out.
"Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
A pause. His fingers find my leg again, gentle, barely holding on. "I'm sorry for making you worry. You're right, I shouldn't have stayed there."
My hand stops. I don't lift it away. The ointment is warm between us.
"You're not going anywhere without me anymore," I say. "Not to the gym, not to the cafeteria, not to the damn bathroom if I can help it. You're mine. You understand?"
He pushes himself up slowly until he's sitting on my lap, face inches from mine. Split lip, red-rimmed eyes, too bright. Ointment on my fingers. His blood on my shirt.
We don't kiss.
We don't fucking kiss.
He wipes the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. I look away. He gets off my lap. I'm so hard it hurts.
I help him pull his clothes back into place. He winces. I smirk. He frowns, but there's no bite.
"Go back to the dorm. I'll be right there. Go first so no one sees us together." I pause. "Straight there."
"Yes, sir," he says. Without sarcasm.
I should go with him. But I need a minute to compose myself. Or I'm going to cum in my pants.
The next morning is the same. 6 AM buzzer, shuffle of bodies. Roll call. No comment about what happened.
But at breakfast, his tray slides onto the table next to mine instead of across from it. Our elbows touch. Neither of us pulls away. I pass him the salt without being asked. He takes it without thanking me.
We don't talk about the office. We don't talk about anything.
No one mentions his bruises. Garrett is bruised too, but he doesn't comment.
He's probably lying if anyone asks. Miles notices something between us.
I can tell by the way his eyes track between us during Quiet Time.
He doesn't say anything. Miles never says anything.
But he sees it. Jack doesn't notice, but that's Jack.
Harry doesn't look at me, which I'm grateful for.
After MMA, we're alone cleaning the mats.
Liam wrings out his rag and flicks water at the mat, on his knees.
His split lip has scabbed over, and the bruise on his jaw has deepened to a mottled purple.
Every time I look at it, something clenches in my chest. That asshole hurt him and is still breathing.
Griff took a good look at it earlier but didn't comment. He knows when not to press.
"You know," Liam says, not looking up, "I've cleaned more mats in three days than I've cleaned anything in my entire life. Combined."
"That's not the flex you think it is."
"I'm not flexing. I'm mourning. My hands are gonna be permanently wrinkled." He holds one up, inspecting his fingers with mock horror. "I'll never play the guitar again."
"You don't play the guitar."
"You don't know that."
"Do you?"
"No. But I could have. I could be a rockstar. And now I never will, because of these mats."
I try not to laugh. I fail. I press my rag into the corner he's been avoiding, the same corner he always avoids, and scrub it properly. "You keep missing this spot."
"I'm saving it for you.” He winks. “It's called teamwork."
Another chuckle escapes me. He grins, and the scab on his lip stretches. A tiny bead of blood appears, bright red. He touches it with his tongue without thinking. My eyes track the movement. I force them back to the mat.
"So," he says, and his voice shifts. "About last night."
My hand stalls. Mouth goes dry. "What about it?"
"Nothing. Just…" One shoulder shrug. Keeps scrubbing. "Thanks. For showing up and helping me."
"Don't thank me for that."
"I'm not thanking you for hitting him. I mean, that was fucking amazing, and I definitely am thanking you for that.
I'm thanking you for… I don't know." He stops.
Scrubbing slows. He's staring at the mat.
"For giving a shit about me, I guess. Not for spanking me.
Well, though, I can't even lie, I kinda like it. "
"I know you do."
"Pervert," he jokes.
"Asshole."
We go back to scrubbing. Yeah. There's no coming back from that.