Chapter 16 Brody
brODY
I slowly step back from Beck, giving us both a breath of space, but I don’t take my eyes off him for a second. He looks wrecked. He’s flushed and trembling, his pupils blown so wide they swallow the brown of his eyes and turn them into black oil.
He’s still leaning against the wall, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.
He’s watching me warily, as if I just performed some kind of suspicious sorcery rather than gave him a simple blow job.
Although the finger seemed to be a shock, so maybe that was his first time having his prostate stimulated.
He probably thinks straight boys don’t play with their butts.
I drag my thumb across my bottom lip, collecting the last faint trace of him on my skin. Then I pop it in my mouth and suck, licking it once to be sure I got it all.
His gaze locks onto the movement like he’s hypnotized. His jaw slackens. His breath stutters.
“Do you want to know what you taste like?”
Pink lips part, and his tongue peeks out like he wants to get a taste, too.
“You taste like sin and sweet desperation,” I say, surprised when he doesn’t argue about being desperate. “You taste like mine.”
Beck doesn’t move, he just stares at me like he’s trying to solve a problem he doesn’t have the math skills for. Then something in him wavers. He leans forward, barely, but enough.
He’s going to kiss me.
A hot jolt of something I don’t want to inspect too closely pumps through my bloodstream. I lean in to close the distance, hoping he’ll be able to taste the sweetness of his release on my tongue still.
Then voices spill down the hallway, loud, drunken, stupid laughter, and Beck jerks like someone tugged on his puppet strings. His face goes sheet-white, even paler than the makeup he used to make his skin look undead.
He scrambles to pull up his pants, hands shaking as he struggles to untangle his foot from one of his pant legs. He’s breathing so hard he’s practically wheezing, no longer lost in the aftermath of a moment I wish we could have kept for so much longer.
He looks at me, and I can see the dam about to break behind his eyes. He’s right on the edge of saying something important. But he doesn’t.
He turns and bolts just as a group of rowdy partygoers lurch around the corner, cackling about something to do with the batboy being too pretty for his own good. Baseball players, then.
I pick up my mask and lean casually against the wall. One of the guys notices me and stops.
He steps away from his group as they continue towards the exit door, someone already lighting up a cigarette.
He approaches me with that slow, loose swagger of someone who’s drunk but still in control of it.
His costume is a mess of ripped flannel, fake blood, and dirt.
He looks like an extra for The Walking Dead.
“Hey,” he says, voice pitched low enough to be intentional. “I’ve seen you around but haven’t had a chance to introduce myself.”
He has?
He sticks out his hand. “I’m Tripp.”
I accept the handshake, noticing how his grip lingers. Definitely longer than necessary. Damn, he’s bold.
And cute, if I’m being honest. Lean, athletic build, rich brown hair, and what looks to be a smattering of freckles under the smeared gore. He’s a good mix of jock hotness and boy-next-door charm that probably gets him into plenty of trouble.
“Brody,” I say, matching his low tone.
He smiles, and if the slow perusal of my body means anything, he’s definitely flirting. “Good to finally meet you.”
There’s a small part of me that considers taking Tripp up on the unspoken offer, whether it’s just for the night, or maybe something more.
He’s good-looking, open, and direct without having to spell it out.
I’m sure we’d have a good time, no games or repressed aggression.
No waiting for a bomb threat in the form of a panic attack.
I bet he wouldn’t run away from me like he’s been caught at a crime scene. A guy with his charm and confidence would probably stick around to endure the heat. Hell, he might even enjoy it.
It’d be easy. Simple. A hell of a lot less effort than chasing a closeted, uptight, over-privileged control freak who alternates between choking on my cock and choking on his denial.
A huff of laughter escapes me at the warm, syrupy feeling that trickles down my chest and into my stomach at the mere thought of Lincoln Beckett.
My body knows better than my brain does.
Because the truth is, I get a hit, a visceral jolt of lightning through my whole self, every time I’m around Beck.
Something inside me recognizes him, like I’ve been waiting my entire life for someone with his exact combination of arrogance, panic, and submissive need hiding under a perfectly starched collar.
And Beck wants me. He just doesn’t know how to let himself want me.
It's why he pretends nothing is happening the second the moment is over and his lust haze breaks. It’s why he pretends he hates me. It’s why he denies me until he’s so desperate he’s out of his mind, shaking and begging me in dark hallways.
Beck knows he isn’t straight, but he won’t say it out loud, and not just because he isn’t ready to come out.
He might never be ready, but I don’t care about that.
What I care about, what I want him to do, is accept himself for who he is.
Every last part of him, down to his submissive need and very sensitive prostate.
I’m okay if he wants to use his submission as an excuse to experiment—for now. But I won’t let him hide behind it forever. Because there is a difference between helping someone explore and letting them lie to themselves until it twists them into knots.
Beck is on a journey. A long-overdue, messy, very necessary, sexy journey. And I’m happy to be the one to guide him through it, even if I have to whisper commands in his ear or drag him by his hair.
By the time I’m done with him, he’ll accept who he is. And there will be no more running away.
I give Tripp a friendly nod. “It was nice meeting you,” I say, polite but a touch dismissive. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”
His eyes flicker with disappointment and maybe curiosity, but he nods back and returns to his friends.
I pull my mask back on and trudge back to the party, hoping to find the one I really want and reel him into another sexy trap. This time, though, I’ll steer him to somewhere less public.
Because I want him all to myself.
Beck avoids me all weekend.
He dodges me at the Halloween party after running off, dodges me in the dining hall, dodges me at the gym, and at Monday morning lift he manages the Olympic-level feat of not looking in my direction once.
It’s almost impressive. Really, I have to hand it to him for being so determined to pretend I don’t exist, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m growing tired of this back and forth, especially when it’s not as obvious that he’s tormented by either my presence or my absence.
He can avoid me all he wants, but I want it to hurt, dammit.
Luckily for me, Coach McCoy announces that Beck will be running the pre-practice film review Monday night.
I make sure to get there early so I can settle into a seat with the perfect vantage point.
I sit back with my arms folded behind my head, watching him fumble with the remote and straighten his notes twice before it starts.
He’s cute when he’s trying too hard.
Once he gets started, he remembers that he’s comfortable taking control when it comes to this team and the rest of his life.
He just doesn’t want to be in control when it comes to me.
Something warm and fuzzy unfurls in my chest, growing twice as large when Beck notices me smiling and forgets what he’s doing.
He probably thinks I’m up to something, planning a way to humiliate him, when really, he’s the only one who’s ever made himself feel inferior in public.
We’ve gone over most of the intra-squad showcase footage, talking through probable opponents for next Sunday’s duals, and breaking down what we did well and what we didn’t. Most of the team offers basic comments.
Coach seems to feel that Beck’s presentation is missing something, and I have to agree.
Taking the remote from Beck, he pulls up our match, freezing it just before the first period.
On the screen, there we are, faced off and getting ready to take things to another level that he definitely didn’t see coming.
Neither did I, but I just couldn’t help matching his energy with some of my own.
“Let’s talk about this one,” he says. “Best match of the night. Beckett and Miller had the closest score. It was the match of the night to call, but ultimately it went to Miller. Let’s find out why.”
Beck stiffens beside the projector, and I feel a giddiness perk me up like a shot of espresso. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, feigning interest in the video when really I’m more focused on him.
Coach runs a clip from the third period, and the team watches. On the screen, we’re in tight, shifting weight. Beck tries to roll out of my trap but can’t quite get the momentum.
“There,” I say, pointing. Coach pauses the tape, rolling back to the moment I stopped him, and waits for me to explain. I smirk at Beck. “Your hips are too high. If you’d backed it up another inch, you could have flipped me.”
I throw him a wink, and he scowls so hard I can feel the heat moving up his neck. A few guys whistle, and a couple laugh. Beck does his best to ignore everyone and moves on too quickly, voice higher than normal and his face darkening.
Ooh, I’m going to pay for that. A delicious ache pulses between my legs at the thought.
When we finally get to the end of practice, we line up to spar. Beck is on his A-game, maybe a little too aggressive. Snappy and irritated for sure. It’s fun.