Chapter 12 Brody
brODY
Sunday mornings on campus are dead. The sun is barely up, the air chilly and damp. The only idiots awake are me and Beckett. Of course he’s up. He’s probably been here since well before dawn.
I’m halfway through my warmup when the feeling of eyes on me becomes unbearable. All morning I’ve had that feeling, like a hand crawling up the length of my spine.
I glance up, and Beck jerks his gaze away so hard he almost falls off the rowing machine.
I smirk. Last night really did a number on him.
He tries to hide it, but there’s a little bounce in his step, a tiny hitch in his breath whenever I move.
He refuses to smile at or even acknowledge me, but he’s got a glow about him that is unmistakable.
A post-orgasm looseness that can’t be denied.
He’s trying desperately to hide it, like he keeps catching himself looking happy and has to put a stop to it immediately. It’s adorable, honestly.
By the time we’re in the dining hall, it’s almost painful not to poke the bear. This early, there’s just fresh fruit, cereal, oatmeal and baked goods, and a help-yourself offering of coffee and tea. Beckett has a hot cup of tea in his hand and is choosing from the fresh fruit display.
“You’re awfully peppy this morning,” I say as I slide up next to him and pick a banana.
He startles, almost dropping his tea. It takes him a few seconds to pull himself together.
“I—um—what?”
“You seem like you’re in a good mood.”
“Oh. Um, yeah, I guess. Nice day.”
It takes real effort to keep myself from smirking or looking at all smug.
“Couldn’t have anything to do with last night,” I say, peeling the banana slowly and making a show of opening my mouth to slide the banana in.
Beckett looks around as though we aren’t in a nearly empty dining hall. There’s only one other student in here, a swimmer based on the hoodie he’s wearing, and two cafeteria employees in the back.
Then he eyes me warily as I push the banana farther in my mouth. I don’t gag, and I don’t look away, keeping direct eye contact. He cuts his gaze away from me when the banana touches the back of my throat.
Trying not to snort, I pull the banana out and take a reasonable bite, winking when Beckett chances another glance at me. He moves farther down the line, giving a bowl of apples a thorough inspection.
“How many times have you jerked off today already?” I ask when I’ve swallowed down half of my banana.
His eyes widen into saucers, and he quickly glances around us again. Which just confirms it for me. My smug smirk can’t help but make an appearance, and I grin like a wolf that’s been handed someone’s pet rabbit.
“Come on, Becky… tell me.”
I didn’t actually mean to call him Becky. Beck was about to slip out, and I waited too long to add on the “ett” and got tongue-tied. But my guy freezes. His lips part, and a full-body shudder runs over him at the accidental name slip.
Oh, shit. He liked that. I felt that shudder in my gut. And lower.
“Y-you can call me Beck,” he whispers. But I’m not letting him ignore my question.
“H-how many times?” I coax softly, leaning forward just enough that he feels the heat of my breath.
He swallows. Hard. “Two.”
I bite my lip and look up at the ceiling like I need strength from above. God. Damn.
“And how many times did you come thinking about gagging on my cock?”
His breath stutters, and the cup in his hand trembles. Red spreads across his cheeks, his neck, and the tips of his ears. He’s sweating.
He’s trying to hold himself together and failing spectacularly.
“T-two,” he whispers.
I hum low and approving. “Good girl, Becky.”
He shivers again, and I have to turn away before I pounce on him right here.
I’m barely out the side door of the dining hall when I hear Beckett call my name
“Wait!”
I school my face into something neutral before turning to face him.
Beck jogs up, breathless and still holding his cup and an armful of food. “What are you doing today?”
“It’s Sunday,” I say blandly. “I’m going to go do some gay shit like the Lord intended.”
He barks out a surprised laugh, the sound echoing off the courtyard. It reverberates through me and settles in my chest, warm and happy.
“Can I walk with you?” he asks, looking down at his fruit haul like he forgot it was there. He drops everything but an apple, a protein bar, and his tea on a picnic table and looks back up at me a little shyly.
I shrug. “Sure.”
We head down one of the quieter paths. Campus is still nearly empty, the sun warming the leaves that haven’t quite given in to October yet. It’s gotten significantly warmer since our morning workout. It feels too warm for the season—climate crisis, hooray!—but it’s peaceful.
I take the long way without making it too obvious that I’m trying to drag this out.
After a while, when Beckett has finished his snack and discarded his cup in a recycling bin, I sit down under a tree, leaning back against the rough trunk. The shade hides us from the path above. Beck hovers like he’s afraid the ground might swallow him.
“Relax,” I say, patting the grass beside me. “It’s just a tree. And we’re outside. I’m not going to jump you in public.” Not that there’s anyone around to see even if I did.
He snorts, glancing around again before sitting closer than I expected, close enough that the heat of his thigh kisses mine whenever either of us shifts.
“Are you really…” he starts, then seems to think better of what he was about to ask and leaves it hanging.
“Gay?” I supply.
He blinks as though he wasn’t expecting me to say it out loud. “Uh. Yeah.”
I nod. “It’s not a bad word, you know. Say it.”
“What?”
“Say it. Say gay.”
He hesitates. “Gay.”
“Again.”
“Gay.”
“Good. Now repeat after me: Brody Miller is gay.”
“Brody Miller is gay,” he parrots.
“And I am too.”
“And I—Wait, no. I’m not.”
“Bi then?”
His shoulders fall, breath deflating. “I’m straight. It’s the only thing I can be.”
“Because of your dad?”
Beckett nods but barely, like the motion alone is too much of an admission.
“He seems like a real douche canoe,” I say.
Beckett snorts. “I’d pay good money to hear someone call him that. From behind a two-way mirror. Because I do not want to be there for the aftermath.”
“Is your dad in the mob or something?”
He laughs again. Wow, twice in one morning. At this rate, I’m going to start thinking he likes me.
“No. He’s an investment banker. But I’ve seen him tell people off so thoroughly they cowered in fear of him ruining them.”
“Sounds like an adult tantrum. Maybe he needs a nap. Or a spanking.”
Beckett goes still. Color drains from his face, then floods back thick and bright.
Interesting.
“Then again,” I add casually, “he might like that too much.”
He scoffs. “I sincerely doubt that.”
“You don’t know. He might.”
“He wouldn’t. He’s not—Anyway, who would like something like that? That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t kink-shame, Becky.” I say, pointing at him accusingly. “Different strokes. Everyone’s got a thing. Or two. Or ten. There’s nothing wrong with liking what you like.”
He turns his face away, pulls a dandelion free, and twirls it between his fingers. “Like what kinds of things?” he mumbles.
Oh, buddy.
“Like spanking, for one. Foot fetishes. Nipple play. Breeding kink. Pain. Degradation…” I cut my eyes sideways. “Being told you’re a nasty little slut who takes what he's given and thanks me for it.”
The dandelion falls from his fingers.
He swallows. Hard.
“Well, I don’t like that stuff,” he insists. “Feet are gross, and I’m a dude, so…”
“So what?” I laugh.
“So, I mean, nipples and breeding wouldn’t be a thing.”
I stare at him. “Oh, you poor, ignorant, repressed thing.”
“Excuse you? I’m not ignorant. Or repressed.”
“Sure, baby. And I bet you're a pro at eating pussy.”
He makes a face before he catches himself.
I point. “Ha!”
“What? What’s ha? There’s no ha.”
“You looked horrified.”
He bristles. “I just didn’t like it, okay? If people are allowed to like things, then I’m allowed not to.”
“Calm down,” I say, patting his shoulder. “You can like or not like anything you want. Including nipple play, being licked, sucked, bitten, spanked.”
Another priceless expression spreads over his face. I think I could sit here and teasingly educate him forever. I want to teach him everything in graphic detail and then give him a hands-on tutorial. I want to watch him fall apart and put him back together.
“And getting your ass filled with cum,” I add casually. “You might not be able to get pregnant, but that doesn’t mean your ass can’t be bred like a prize–”
“Please stop,” he whispers, voice cracking.
I look at him for a long second. His whole face is red, and it’s bled down his neck down past the neckline of his crewneck sweater.
I lean in conspiratorially. “I’ll stop when you admit you like one thing. Just one.”
“Why?” he begs weakly.
My voice drops low. “Because I have a feeling you’re so flustered because you like the idea of me holding you down. Of toying with all the parts of you that you think are shameful.”
Beckett’s throat clicks dryly.
“I bet you even like the idea of taking my big cock inside you. Just imagine it—begging me for more while I stretch you and fill you over and over, harder and faster, until you don’t know which way is up.
You’d take it like a good girl until I’m done with you, until I’m pumping a load so deep you’d feel it in your—"
His hand slams over my mouth.
And holy shit. He’s right there, inches away, flushed and sweating like he’s still lifting weights, pupils blown so wide his eyes are basically black. Pain mixes with need in his expression, but the need…
The need is winning.
I lick his palm, causing him to yank it back as though I bit him. He stares at his hand. Then at me.
Curious about his reaction, I lean forward and flick my tongue along the edge of his jaw. Quickly, pulling back to watch his expression again.
His mouth drops open.
I do it again, this time darting my tongue out at the spot just below his plump bottom lip. Then I do it again, slower. I don’t back away before lashing my tongue out one more time.
This time he lunges forward, catching my tongue and sucking it into his mouth.
I moan loudly and kiss him back, hungry and reckless and dizzy with how good he tastes. I press him into the tree trunk, run a hand up his thigh.
He buckles like he’s been shot. And then he moans into my mouth like he’s dying.
No. Like he’s coming.
He’s coming.
In his pants.
Because of a kiss.
Fuck. Me.
I rub him through his shorts, feeling the wet warmth spread, tasting the way he pants against my lips as he trembles through his climax.
If he was confused and embarrassed before, I know this is going to cause him to have some kind of existential crisis.
But I want him to know just how sexy it was that he lost control like that.
I bend down, press my mouth to the soaked fabric of his thin gym shorts, and suck. Tasting him like this makes me want to rub myself through my pants, to take his hand and show him just what it does to me.
He cries out, cock jerking beneath my lips. Lifting my head, I kiss my way up his neck to his lips, panting into his mouth.
“Oh, baby,” I whisper. “I knew you wanted it. But I didn’t know how bad.”
Beckett flinches as if the words burned him. His breathing turns sharp, and his eyes widen in panic.
“Oh, hey. Shh, it’s okay.” I murmur, reaching up to smooth his hair back.
He slaps my hand away, scrambling back, and gets to his feet. He’s still half-hard and looks wrecked. He stares at me for barely a heartbeat, breath ragged, then turns and bolts across the lawn and back towards the dorms.
I sit under the tree a second longer, giving my body a chance to calm down. My heart is pounding, and my lips are bruised.
I can still taste him.
And while I feel bad that Beckett is freaking out, all I can think is that I can take control and show him what I know he wants. What he needs.
I’ll give him space, but I’ll be right there the moment he shows any signs of being ready to explore this new side of him.
He’s gone right now, but he’s not going far.