Chapter 15 #2
My hand darts out to catch his arm, but he’s quick and dodges it with ease.
My jaw ticks, and I follow him. He’s fast, slipping through the crowd of students like smoke, but I know exactly where he’s going.
A creature of habit is meu le?ozinho1, he doesn’t run—he simply retreats.
And it’s always to the same places. A field or a room that can shut off the noise.
As expected, I follow him right into the locker room.
I quietly creep inside, and the sounds of dry-heaving echo throughout the cold room.
He’s hunched over the sink, shirt half off, breathing like he’s been underwater too long.
And I wonder what set him off this way. Zayden’s fingers twitch against the porcelain, his reflection a storm—eyes red, jaw tight, and chest heaving.
Curiosity is one hell of a drug, and I need a fix.
I step inside, and despite my slow and careful steps, he notices, our eyes clashing against the mirror.
I don’t speak.
Neither does he.
There’s a silence that settles comfortably between us.
A silent understanding that we are indeed two faces of the same coin, and maybe this is why we orbit towards each other.
My hands twitch to touch him; I always fucking want to.
Zayden leans closer, washing his mouth without a word.
Our eyes remain on each other, even as he spits and uses the back of his hand to wipe his lips.
There’s a war within him, and it swirls all over those dark orbs.
He leans forward, palms flat on the sink like he’s holding himself up.
Or maybe he’s holding himself back from doing something he might regret.
I remain behind him, watching the way his shoulders rise and fall. I note the way his ribs expand like he’s trying to breathe through concrete. I wet my lips, shoving my hands into my pockets, and simply ask, “You good?”
He doesn’t answer.
I move closer, and he doesn't move.
“What’s the matter?” I ask again, to which he scoffs and rolls his eyes like a brat.
“Why the fuck do you care?” he snaps, before he brushes past me, making sure to shoulder-bump me hard enough that I stumble back.
My lips curl at that. Violence is like foreplay for a man like Zayden.
And I like it when it’s rough. I’m on his heels.
“Did you know your future missus was sucking off your best friend's dad?”
“Are you jealous, Ruas?”
Zayden snorts, stopping dead in his tracks before turning to face me. His lips twist into a smirk as he quips. “Of what? Your ability to ruin everything you touch? Or your daddy issues?”
I shrug. “You have those too.”
He chuckles at that, and I step closer.
“Why are you such a brat?”
He rolls his eyes when I fully invade his space, my hands flattening out on each side of his head, pinning him against the cold locker door. I feel his breath hitch, his eyes becoming nothing but small voids.
“Maybe your charm doesn’t work on me, Safra. Ever thought of that? I’m not a brat.” He tries to shove me back, but I hold firm. “You’re just spoiled.”
My dick jolts inside my pants. The urge to feel him around me has my blood boiling, making my body a furnace, and I want nothing but to burn him with me. My chest brushes against his as I lean. “You make it fun.”
He chuckles, the vibration tickling my chest. “Fun?”
“Mmm,” I coo, leaning closer so my nose is along his jaw. “So much fun.”
I don’t have to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes, I can fucking feel it.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice dropping low. “Maybe I’m spoiled, what can I say? I want what I want. Still doesn't change the fact that I want it.”
My eyes remain on his Adam's apple as it bobs with each swallow. Zayden doesn’t move, but I do.
Leaning in closer, I practically rest my head against his, my other hand moves to his throat, adorning it with a pretty hand necklace.
His pulse hammers against the pads of my fingers.
My lips graze his jaw before I place a soft kiss there.
All the muscles in his body go stiff, including the one between his legs.
I drag my mouth slowly across his skin, marking my territory, feeling the way his body fights against the pull between us.
He fights to submit to me. And still he doesn’t pull away.
“You hate me, Ruas,” I whisper against his skin. He groans, a sound that sends a current of electricity down my spine.
“Most days…” he breathes out painfully. I know he’s not lying, and yet, it makes me want him more.
“You’re adorable,” I add as my grip tightens across the muscle in his neck. “And, unfortunately for you, it only makes me want this more.”
“Wan–” His words are cut off by my hungry mouth, slamming against his.
I’m ready to devour him. I’m not gentle, not one bit.
His hand moves to my throat, closing around it harshly as my tongue swipes along the seam of his lips, demanding access he tries to deny.
His hand tightens its grip before he eventually surrenders with a part of his lips.
It’s a collision of hate and need when he kisses me back.
Our tongues gently glide against each other, dancing in unison as if we could erase the rot that surrounds us with this passion.
Zayden fists my shirt, pulling me into him, as I deepen the kiss.
My body molds against his, and for a moment, he clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.
My hand falls to his waist, rubbing the evidence of our shared arousal against each other.
I want to fill him. I want to do this with no clothes on.
But I know this is a rare event, a moment of weakness that will result in a fist to my face.
And yet, I welcome it. Because even when he hits me, it means he feels something.
Zayden’s breath is ragged against my lips when we finally pull away to breathe.
I’m a little taller, so when I look down at his eyes, there’s a flicker of something dangerous.
Something I’m addicted to seeing. Want, rage, and shame.
All of it. All at once.
I press harder against him, groaning as our cocks rub against each other.
Hating the fabric that separates us, our hips grinding, the friction fucking unbearable.
Zayden’s body betrays him beautifully, while mine begs for more.
Small sparks of electricity flow through me, heat pooling deep in my core.
The familiar feeling of the edge closing in has me moving frantically, grinding my cock into him while kissing and biting his lips.
I’m about to fucking cum, and I wonder if he’s close too.
My fingers hook around his belt loops as he matches my movements.
“Fuck, Ruas, I think…”
I cum even before the word leaves my lips, and by the groan that escapes his mouth, I know he did too. And just like that, the safety bubble that wrapped around us pops. As expected, his hand shoves me away before his fist collides with my face.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” he snarls just as the door slams open.
We both freeze, my eyes darting to the wet spot in his black uniform pants that glistens with his cum. Zayden storms out of the room, not bothering to fully fix his clothes, before stepping out into the cold with a ball in hand.
Elijah grins, but doesn’t speak. He only stares. “You know some chick was hanging outside the door?”
My heart stutters, and my eyes go wide at his words.
It’s one thing if the boys found us like this; they are part of Velarium.
Unfortunately, they’ve seen my cock in Zayden’s mouth more times than I can count.
That isn’t the issue here; I could fuck Zayden in front of Elijah, and he wouldn’t bat an eye.
But to the outside world, Thiago Safra is a playboy—one with a life perfectly laid out for him.
Wife and kids. I smile for the cameras and can charm my way into any girl's bed.
Yet all I want is for that broody asshole to let me in.
“Do you know who it was?” I ask, my voice tight.
Elijah shrugs. “Nah. She’s not one of the usual girls who hang around.”
That small piece of information is useful, but not helpful at all. I need to find out who was lurking around and why. “Can you at least tell me what she looks like?”
He scratches his chin and lazily replies.
“I don’t know, long black hair looks like a goth Barbie.
” And based on his description, I know exactly who it is.
The only question now is why? I fix my disheveled clothes and shove my hands into my pockets.
My gaze roams over Elijah, who seems nervous but is trying to hide it.
I don’t ask, and maybe I should. But I don’t.
I only pat his shoulder on my way out and stalk to the fields where I know Zayden will be.
The air is cold and thick with tension that he tries to play off.
Zayden runs down the fields, uniform clinging to him, damp from sweat, with the ball between his feet.
His movements are swift while he tries to outrun the inevitable.
He doesn’t wear any cleats, and neither do I. This is as even as we ever get.
I jog onto the pitch, flanking him on the right.
He doesn’t look at me. So, I steal the ball.
Right before he’s about to kick it, he growls and chases me down.
Our bodies collide, elbows and knees rubbing against each other, as our feet fight for control.
It’s not soccer—it’s war. And I love every second of it.
1. my little lion