Chapter 15 Beck #2
Meanwhile, I’m destroyed by the effort it took to so much as utter those words, dizzy from his praise, and hanging on the edge of something I don’t have a name for.
But he’s gone.
Confusion spikes through me, then anger. I lower myself to a bench and curl inward on myself, resting my elbows on my thighs and breathing deeply.
Part of me wants to scream or hit something. Or cry like a kid who lost his favorite new toy. But under all the frustration, beneath the humiliation and the ache and the need, something else sits warm and steady.
Trust?
Do I trust Brody Miller?
It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand it, other than Brody has never lied to me. Some deep part of me knows he’ll take care of me like he says he will.
The only question is how hard I’ll have to work for it, what else I’ll have to prove, and how badly it’s going to hurt.
That’s if the anticipation doesn’t kill me first.
The Halloween party is loud enough to rattle my bones. I’m so on edge, I consider having a drink. Just one to numb the frayed edges of my nerves. I’ve thought about it several times tonight already, even contemplated taking a shot when Fish, Cade, and a few others were pre-gaming.
Instead, I’m stone cold sober and examining every masked guy who vaguely matches Brody’s height and build. It feels pathetic, as though I’m chasing after him like some kind of pathetic needy girlfriend.
Caty would call you out for thinking like that.
I don’t want to be chasing anyone. Maybe if I think of it as hunting him, it’ll give me the confidence to let him come to me instead of trudging through a sea of slutty zombies, fairies, vampires, and firefighters. There’s more leg, tit, ass, and man chest on display than a swimsuit catalogue.
My phone burns a hole in my pocket, but I refuse to take it out again. It’s bad enough that I’ve sent him so many desperate messages, only for them to go unseen and unanswered.
Becky: You going to the party tonight?
Becky: I’m on my way.
Becky: You here yet??
I check one more time. No reply. Nothing.
I resist the urge to change his contact name to Captain Douchebag and type out a fourth message demanding that he answer me for fuck’s sake. Keeping me on edge like this is cruel.
“Stop scowling,” Caty says, elbowing me as she adjusts her blonde wig. “You’re supposed to be a brooding southern vampire, not an annoyed frat boy.”
“I am a brooding southern vampire,” I mutter through my incredibly realistic retractable canines.
She rolls her eyes. “Brooding vampires don’t check their phones every eight seconds, Bill.”
I roll my eyes and shove my phone back in my pocket.
“Fine, Sookie,” I say, over emphasizing the ridiculous way the character from her favorite show True Blood pronounces the name.
She giggles, and I let her drag me to the dance floor.
She’s such a dork, doing the corniest possible dance moves in the middle of a crush of grinding, scantily clad bodies, that for a while I forget myself.
A few songs in, Caty stops trying to hook random people on an invisible fishing reel and pauses, looking over my shoulder. I start to turn towards whatever she’s looking at, but she puts a hand to my face and grins.
“Don’t look now, but we’ve got an audience.”
I look, because of course I do. I turn my head and glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, a dark figure stands just outside the dance floor, facing us. His face is hidden by a terrifying Purge-style mask, and he’s wearing a nondescript black hoodie and dark jeans. And he’s watching us.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t wave or gesture towards me. He just watches. Even without being able to see his eyes, I know he’s watching me, specifically. His head tilts slightly, studying me, expressionless and creepy, but the movement is familiar all the same.
I feel his slow, deliberate stare in every vein and nerve ending. I’m frozen under his gaze, until he turns and walks away, slipping into the crowd.
I’m rooted to the spot, confused and disappointed to be left behind again.
Caty wakes me up with a swift swat to my arm. “Go, you idiot!” she hisses, then smacks my ass so hard I jump and lurch forward.
“Fuck it,” I say, and walk towards the crowd that Brody—or who I think (hope) is Brody—disappeared into.
I push through sweaty bodies, trying not to be too obvious. I try to act like I’m on my way to the bathroom, hoping I won’t be stopped by anyone when my pulse is hammering like my life is in danger. Or about to do something I shouldn’t.
People shout greetings as I push by, but no one tries to stop me.
I barely register the chaos of a college Halloween party, counting on most of my teammates, classmates, and other athletes to be drunk enough not to notice I’m on a mission and follow me.
I keep my eyes scanning the crowd, catching glimpses of a black hoodie and broad shoulders weaving through the party.
His sure-footed, purposeful posture and gait give him away more than anything else.
He disappears around a corner, out of sight. My breath catches and my legs move faster to catch up. Behind the corner is a small stairwell, which makes my lips quirk up, expecting that this would be the place he’d most want to harass me. But it’s empty.
The echo of a door clicking shut comes from the basement, and I quickly follow.
I burst into a corridor that leads to the laundry rooms, and the lights go out.
I’m swallowed by darkness, broken only by the glowing exit sign that leads to an outside courtyard and the glow of several vending machines.
The music of the party is much quieter down here, but the bass can still be felt.
It seems to sync with my heartbeat, ramping up my nervous energy as I move through the dark space.
I half expect Brody to jump out at me any second.
It has my senses on high alert and the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.
“Brody?” I whisper, feeling stupid and reckless. How would I explain looking for him when everyone thinks I hate him? Because I do, obviously. So what excuse could I give for following some rando down a dark hallway on the off-chance that it’s him?
There’s nothing but silence.
Hands seize my shoulders from behind, making me gasp loudly. My back hits the wall hard enough to knock some of the breath from my lungs.
Fear sparks through me momentarily, then the masked man is in my space, pressing a hand to my shoulder to pin me against the wall.
His scent and the heat of his body are familiar and comforting.
Which, really, should freak me out. But all the fear, fight, and critical thinking drain out of me like air from a balloon. , and I sag in his grip.
He doesn’t speak. He just stares silently for a long moment, as if considering what he might want to do to me now that he has me here.
He must decide quickly, because I’m suddenly flipped around, chest pressing against the wall.
His hands grip mine and guide them up against the wall, spreading my fingers wide.
His grip rearranges me like I’m nothing more than pliant clay for him to play with.
He nudges my hips, and I tilt them automatically, curving my spine to push my ass out like I have any business doing so.
The position feels obscene and humiliating but somehow also so natural. Like his hands and my body know what I need and how to move to accomplish it.
His breath brushes the back of my neck as his hands move around my hips and undo my belt. He unzips my pants and pulls them down over my ass with clinical precision.
Cold air hits my skin, reminding me just how exposed I am. I try to straighten, to turn towards him and say something—anything—but he presses me forward until my cheek is flat against the cold cinderblock wall.
SMACK
Fire streaks across my right ass cheek, the sound reverberating down the corridor, sharp and loud. My knees almost buckle, breath leaving me in a state of confused paralysis.
I don’t fight him. I can’t. My body stops pretending it’s in charge and lets go. Lets him take over.
A warm hand smooths over the throbbing flesh of my ass before he’s suddenly not behind me anymore. He’s not at my back.
He’s gotten to his knees behind me.
I can feel his breath on my cheeks as he brushes a light kiss over the spot where he smacked me. Then his hands are on me, caressing and kneading my ass cheeks like they’re modeling clay.
Brody spreads me open, his fingers firm on my skin. I’d be embarrassed if I had any dignity left, but I’m pretty sure my last bit of dignity was drowned in that ice bath yesterday.
I flinch as his tongue swipes through the cleft of my ass and over my hole.
What the actual fuck was that?
I choke on a moan, high and desperate, not knowing what this is or how to react to it. It feels weird. Weird and foreign, and wet and soft, and so fucking delicious.
His tongue slides over me again, and my body bows forward, hips twitching involuntarily.
The sensation is slippery but so damn good, setting off forbidden nerve endings that tingle and shoot sparks of pleasure from my asshole to my spine.
He taps his tongue against my hole, and I feel it in my balls.
They draw up against my body, and I pant to hold myself back, not wanting to come from nothing but Brody’s tongue on my asshole.
I can’t compute how out of this world it feels. It’s filthy and intimate and so far beyond anything I’ve ever let someone do that my brain can’t compute which way is up. I mean to ask him to wait, to hold on, to give me a moment to breathe, but all that comes out is a desperate moan.
Before I can form a thought, he drags me around by the hips, turning me to face him again. Not that I can see his face. When I look down, all I can see is that blank, eerie mask that he’s pulled up on his forehead to free his mouth.
His mouth that wraps around my cock, engulfing me entirely in one go.
Oh sweet Jesus.
I can’t breathe. My hands claw at the wall behind me. I throw my head back so hard I almost knock some sense into myself. Then the tight, wet pull of his mouth lures me into that blank space where I’m nothing but need and nerve endings again.
Holy fuck he’s good at this. I’m no stranger to blow jobs, but he has me reeling. The hot, perfect suction of his mouth makes my vision spark at the edges. My legs shake.
His tongue slides under the head, circles, and sucks before he takes me all the way to the back of his throat.
“B–Brody—” I gasp, not even sure he can hear me.
One arm pushes on the inside of my thigh, and he hooks my knee over his shoulder.
At first, I’m rocked by the motion, trying to keep my balance while my shoe keeps the end of my pant leg attached to my foot.
But the motion drives my cock deeper into his mouth where I can feel his throat swallowing around me.
I nearly collapse. My body curves and my hands steady themselves on his shoulders.
When his hand moves between my legs and a slick finger presses against my hole, I tense.
It feels weird and I’m not sure I like it, but I don’t tell him to stop.
He pushes it inside, slow and deep and intrusive, and curling it in a way that forces a sound out of me I’ve never heard myself make.
I’m stunned for a moment, confused about the shift from weird to holy fuck.
He does it again, repeating the same motion and pressing against that raw spot inside me. An electric pulse of sensation that’s somewhere between intense pleasure and the need to pee rips through me. I come so hard and fast my vision whites out.
My hips jerk uncontrollably. I scramble for something to hold on to, pushing his mask off in the process. He looks up and locks hungry eyes on mine. My mouth falls open around a wordless cry, and the hallway spins.
He holds me steady, watching me as his mouth and sneaky finger milk me for every last drop of cum, dignity, and clear thought left in me.
When I can’t take anymore, he releases me with a wet pop, dropping a soft kiss to the tip of my cock, then the inside of my thigh. And then, as if he didn’t just destroy me, he stands and fits his mask back on top of his head.
I’m boneless and shaking, slumped against the wall, pants around my ankles with one leg inside out, breathing like I’ve run five miles uphill.
“W–what…” I manage. “What did you just do to me?”
Brody steps into my space, his mask inches from my face, breath hot against my lips.
His voice is low and steady. It’s devastating.
“I made it easier for you to know what to beg for.”