Chapter 13 Beck #2
Brody cocks his head at me, a slow grin playing over his lips. “No? I’ll mark it off then.” He finishes, zips himself up, and walks over to the sink next to me to wash his hands. “So what is on the list?”
I gape. I wanted to diffuse the tension and redirect us back to more comfortable territory, but it’s just as dangerous here. Maybe more so.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “I mean, I don’t have a list.”
Brody’s eyes narrow like he’s already caught me in a lie. “You seemed pretty curious to me.”
“I’m not,” I snap, too fast. “I just… react when you say things. Sometimes. It’s stupid, and I don’t like it, and it needs to stop.”
Brody drags a thumb across his bottom lip, thoughtful in a way that makes my stomach plummet. “See, the thing is…” He pauses, evaluating me, deciding something. “I don’t believe you, but I’m also not trying to be a creep. So here’s what we’re going to do.”
He takes one slow step forward.
I instinctively take one back, only to feel the cold edge of the sink behind me. There’s nowhere for me to run. Nowhere to hide. His presence fills the room, pours in through my lungs and chokes me.
“Remember our safe word?” he asks quietly.
My throat bobs. I nod once.
“Say it.”
The heat in the room is stifling. Part of me doesn't want to, because I know if I say it, it shuts the whole thing down. The other part of me doesn't want to acknowledge the existence of a safe word because then I can't pretend this is out of my control.
Don’t lie to yourself about it being your choice.
Caty’s voice buzzes in my skull like a warning and a dare.
“Becky?” Brody prompts, soft but commanding, a dangerous blend that makes my knees tremble. “What is the safe word?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating and loving everything about this at the same time. “C-call you c-captain,” I stammer.
Brody hums, low and pleased, like he’s savoring the vibration of it in his own throat. Then he steps into my space, so close our chests almost brush.
“That’s a good girl…”
I push off the sink ledge and skirt around him to get some more space. He’s not really going to test my boundaries here, is he?
By the looks of the devilish grin on his face and the way he licks his lip, he is most certainly thinking about it.
My stomach flips. I hate him.
Okay, I don’t. Not entirely. But I hate that I don’t hate him the way I wish I did. The way I should.
He steps closer, and I can tell he likes the chase. What I can’t tell is if I like it or not. I might, sort of, very deep down, like that he likes it. He backs me up until my shoulder blades are pressed against the row of stalls.
“Brody,” I warn.
He arches a brow. “Say it like that again.”
“I’m not doing this here.”
“You sure?” He nudges the stall door behind me. “Because I think you are.”
“I’m not—”
He pushes me gently inside the first stall, crowding me inside. His voice is gravelly, eyes flaring with lust. “Why don’t you take me out and see how hard your bullshit makes me.”
My insides squirm. The inside of my pants squirms more.
I flick a nervous glance at the door. There are enough gaps around the edges that someone could easily see that two people are in here, not to mention the twelve inch gap at the floor where our feet can clearly be seen. “Someone could come in.”
He shoves the stall door closed with a sharp slap that makes me jump.
“You better be quick then,” he says, murmuring against the side of my neck. A violent shiver races down my spine. His voice drops dangerously. “Take. Me. Out.”
That hot, electric fire floods my veins, and I obey instantly.
I push down the front of his athletic pants with one hand, my other wrapping around his cock. My breath catches. It’s hot and smooth, veiny, and heavy in my hand.
He doesn’t need to tell me what to do.
I stroke him, rough and eager, not bothering to be gentle even though there’s nothing but the sweat of my palm to ease the glide of my hand. He quickly starts to leak, thrusting into my hand, making my palm slicker.
He purrs filth against my ear to encourage me. “Good girl… just like that… such a good girl for me…”
The praise reverberates through my bones. My knees almost buckle as if I were the one being jacked off.
Instinctively, I stroke him the way I like to stroke myself, tightening on the upstroke and rounding over the tip.
Brody groans so deep in his throat it could be mistaken for a growl. He even bares his teeth before his mouth drops open. His hips jerk, and he drops a hand to cover mine, guiding me to squeeze harder, pump faster until he gasps and comes.
Cum fountains out of him, the first spurt shooting up my arm. The rest I manage to catch in my hand, thanks to him holding it in place while he pumps his last small bursts of release into it.
For whatever reason, I’m panting harder than he is. Both of us lean back against opposite walls of the stall, my handful of cum and his dick still lolling out of his pants. Brody is smiling like the devil himself, no doubt pleased to have ruined me some more.
He reaches a hand out and grips my shirt, pulling me against him. I hold my hand out to the side, unsure of what to do with it. My eyes widen with shock when my chest lands against his. I can feel his softening cock along the hard ridge of mine, straining through my pants.
He tries to pull me in for a kiss, but I flinch.
I don’t even mean to. It just happens. It’s not like I didn’t kiss him earlier today, but it was too much.
Like sucking his tongue was more erotic than sucking his dick.
I felt too much and came in my pants for absolutely no reason.
It was the single most mortifying moment of my life.
Worse than the stairwell even, because he was being so damn nice to me.
Brody’s eyebrow raises. Before I can apologize, his eyes drop to my hand and my palm full of his cum.
I stare at it too, wide-eyed and horrified that I’m still just holding it like this. But what am I supposed to do? I’m half frozen with fear and far too hard to leave this stall. It’s his mess, he should be the one to clean it up.
“Lick it,” he says.
My head snaps up. “What?”
“You heard me.” His voice is low, controlled. “I told you I wouldn’t let you waste a drop next time, didn’t I?”
I hesitate. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious.
The little bit I got last night was surprisingly not terrible.
It was like the first sip of a milkshake, that little burst of flavor that makes you want more.
At the same time, the idea of it kind of grosses me out.
I’m definitely not supposed to like stuff like that. What if I put it in my mouth and gag?
Or worse… what if I like it?
“You’re not ignoring your captain, are you?”
He tilts his head, curious how I’ll respond.
He’s given me an out with that simple question.
But I chickened out earlier and flat out ran away from him like a coward.
And it’s not the first time I’ve done it.
If I keep it up, will he get bored of me?
Will he stop this ridiculous, dangerous game we’ve been playing?
Whether I want to admit it to myself or not, I don’t want it to stop. Not like this. First of all, I can’t let him win.
Slowly, I bring my hand to my mouth. And without breaking eye contact, I run my tongue over my palm, licking up most of the cooling load. I let it coat my tongue before holding my mouth open, tongue out, so he can see it dripping off my tongue.
A soft, approving rumble escapes him. I swallow reflexively, acutely aware that a part of him is inside me now.
“That’s right, kitten,” he murmurs. “Lick it all up. Tastes good, doesn’t it?”
Heat floods me, shame and want tangled in my gut and ramping me up even more.
It’s not gross. The fact that it’s cold is a little off-putting, but I don’t hate it.
I don’t hate it at all. It’s salty and sweet and just slightly bitter, but the flavor isn’t strong enough to overwhelm.
Honestly, it smells stronger than it tastes.
“So good for me,” he adds, leaning in to lick the corner of my mouth. Close but not kissing.
I shouldn’t want more. But I do.
Fuck me, I do.
Brody licks what I can only assume is some of his own release from my lip and hums. “You like being good for me, don’t you?”
No.
Yes.
Fucking hell.
“Do you want me to reward you, Becky?”
Goddamn it all to hell, I fucking nod like an eager little bobblehead.
He must see the torment in my eyes, because he chuckles and says, “It’s okay, baby. I know you want it.”
My traitor cock twitches almost painfully.
“All you have to do is tell me you’re my good girl.”
I choke and pull back incredulously. He’d better be kidding, because he knows that’s not happening.
Nope. Not happening.
He leans against the wall casually, smirk firmly in place. I fucking hate that smirk more than anything in this fucked up pornographic Twilight Zone episode I’ve been calling my life. Please tell me I’m going to wake up soon.
My chest caves. “Brody—”
“If you want me to make you come,” he says calmly, “you have to be good for me. And I want to hear it.”
I scoff, trying to claw back my dignity. He crosses his arms.
“If you want to play my game, you have to play by my rules. And only good girls get to come. So, are you a good girl or aren’t you, Becky?”
My cock throbs. My throat works. But nothing comes out.
I can’t do it.
He grins.
“You know where to find me.”
And then he fucking leaves me there. Standing in a bathroom stall at the most popular campus café. Harder than I think I’ve ever been before and shaking like a leaf in fall.
Just fucking leaves.
I’m dying.
Or I’ve already died or may as well have, because I’m walking around campus like a ghost. I don’t talk to anyone or barely acknowledge when I’m spoken to with more than a dazed nod.
Every time I see Brody, I look away. I can’t bear to look at him. If he walks near me, I tense like a struck nerve. And every time I see that evil, self-satisfied, knowing smirk, I consider murder.
I want to hit him. Hurt him. Strangle him.
But I can’t get close to him because any time I do, I consider…
No. Nope. Not going to happen.
Even though I’m so fucking hard just thinking about it. Even though I can’t get off to save my life.
It’s impossible.
I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard. I haven’t come in over a week. All I’ve accomplished is edging myself into insanity.
Brody fucking broke me.
Naturally, I take it out on him the only way my broken brain can think of—I pair him with the biggest wrestlers for practice, shoulder check him every time he dares pass me, or trip him when the moment calls for it.
And I’ve stolen every pair of underwear he leaves in his locker or gym bag. Don’t ask me how I know the combination code to the new lock he bought for his gym locker. I have no boundaries anymore.
None of it fazes him.
Not. One. Bit.
Smirk. Smirk. Smirk.
The only time he reacts in even the smallest way is when Pierce makes those stupid comments about Brody’s dad and beer—whatever that’s about—and he gets a little quiet.
It’s barely noticeable. But I notice. And I hate that I notice. And I hate even more that I feel a tiny bit bad about it, because even though I don’t understand it, it clearly hurts him. And he deserves to be in as much pain as I am!
By Thursday, I swear my balls are blue and the slightest breeze makes me so hard I’ve doubled over in the middle of practice, walking across the quad, or even just sitting in the library.
By Friday, I’m in so much pain I think I might need an actual doctor.
The ache is second only to the mental anguish I feel over not being able to make myself come because some dickbag told me not to.
But I can’t make it through another day, another weekend, or, fucking hell, even another hour like this.
Finally, I go looking for him after practice. This needs to be dealt with. I’ve got to find a way to put an end to this without giving in to his ridiculous demand.
I hang back a little in the hopes I’ll be able to catch him alone for a moment, but I end up getting dragged into Coach’s office to discuss our first dual that’s still weeks away.
He goes over the roster, opponents, and techniques the underclassmen need to work on. I try to focus. Sort of. I’m really not capable of much cognitive effort. I can’t think past my throbbing dick, which I’ve spent most of the week hiding with baggy clothes and strategically held hoodies and bags.
To shut him up, I let out a long and overly specific rundown of every wrestler’s stats and potential weaknesses we could exploit. Coach stares at me, maybe because it sounds like I’m badly reciting a memorized essay, or maybe because my voice is choppy and wavering.
“I’ve had some extra time in the past two weeks,” I say when he doesn’t seem to know how to respond.
It’s true. To get my mind off my boner and try to lull myself to sleep, I’ve been staring at wrestling stats and reviewing the opposing team’s footage for hours at a time.
It’s either that or spend too much time trying to make myself come, which I’ve figured out is futile, or imagine myself falling to my knees and begging Brody to touch me.
Finally, Coach lets me go.
I trudge to the locker room, intent on a brisk shower before I try to track Brody down at dinner. Ugh. What if I have to suffer the embarrassment of knocking on his dorm room?
He’s not really going to make me say it, is he?
I’m still overthinking it, barely holding back very real tears when I get to the locker room. I expected it to be empty, but there’s a shower running. And I can…
Goddamn it, I can feel that he’s here. My dick is basically one of those well-detector sticks now, leading me right towards the only cure for my thirst.
With heavy feet and a heavier brain, I make my way towards the sound of running water. I don’t even have the wherewithal to pretend I don’t want it to be him.
The sight of Brody’s broad, muscular back and firm, round ass has me blinking an actual tear away. Water sluices over every inch of his body, carved like a marble statue of pure sin.
His head is tipped back, eyes closed as he basks in the pressure of the shower spray.
He doesn’t know I’m here yet. I could back away. Pretend I didn’t come running to him the way he knew I would.
What’s it going to be Beck, your pride or your ruin?
My throat is dry despite the steam. It’s overly hot, and I can’t seem to take a full breath in.
I take one shaky step closer.