Chapter 23 #3
When the first rope of Brody’s cum hits my cheek, I bow as if cramping up.
My mouth falls open, more cum painting my lips and tongue.
My hips don’t stop grinding, frantically gyrating against Brody’s shoe as I ride out my own orgasm, spilling inside my pants.
I cry out pathetically, loving the hot splash of Brody marking me, losing myself in the ecstasy of the pleasure ripping through my body, and slumping over his knee when I’m completely spent.
Brody leans back in the chair, chest heaving.
His softening cock lays against his thigh, a drop of cum still leaking from the slit.
I eye it and move forward, flicking my tongue out to lap up the salty drop before sucking him into my mouth.
For a second, I don’t do more than suckle him, wishing he’d wake up and fill my mouth and throat, but he’s too spent.
After a few minutes, Brody shifts to sit up and removes his hoodie and t-shirt.
He wipes my face with it first, then gestures at my lap.
I take the shirt, unbuttoning my pants and pushing the soft, worn fabric into the front of my pants when Brody’s eyes are covered by pulling his hoodie back over his head.
I clean up the worst of the mess as best as I can, but there’s nothing I can do about the dark wet stain that’s soaked through the khaki fabric. These were the absolute worst pants for this to happen in. I check the clock. Fortunately, I have time to run back to the dorm and change if I skip lunch.
Brody offers to walk with me, but I decline. I need some space. Every time I try to force space between us, I only end up in this type of situation. So I try using my words this time.
“Thanks for the, um… study session. But I need to do this in a way that’s less distracting. This final is really important.”
Brody reaches for his now soiled t-shirt, rolls it up, and shoves it in his hoodie pocket.
“Alright,” he agrees. “But no more avoiding me. You can’t run from this, Beck.”
“Run from what?” I ask, busying myself with packing my backpack.
Brody stops me with a hand on my chin, directing my face toward his.
“My future profitability,” he murmurs, before kissing me so deeply I lose track of what I’m doing.
By the end of the week, my nerves are fried.
Between purposefully not avoiding Brody and questioning the space he’s giving me, and knocking out my finals one by one, I’m basically sagging with relief that it’s over.
I might as well be a limp, wet noodle by the time I walk out of my last exam.
I’m relieved, exhausted, and feeling strong about my Corporate Finance final.
There were some questions about shareholder dividends that made me feel strangely confident. And, yeah, maybe a little aroused.
The moment I step out of the business building and switch my phone back on, it buzzes. When I see Dad on the screen, my stomach drops.
I haven’t spoken to him since the quad meet. Before the quad meet, to be more specific. He didn’t even call to berate me on my performance, or to question what Gregg Thompson had loudly implied to the entire gym or to tell me that a win by disqualification doesn’t count.
I stare at the phone long enough that it stops ringing but it picks right back up again. There’s no point in not answering, he’ll just call Coach McCoy or the dean or hell, take his private helicopter and come here himself.
The moment I click accept, he starts in on his usual bullshit.
He doesn’t say hello, or ask me how I am.
He doesn’t even ask why I missed his annual Thanksgiving dinner party.
He launches straight into grilling me about my finals, reminding me that exams at this level separate the serious students from future failures.
He doesn’t pause for breath between letting me know his expectations for my grades before moving on to questioning me about our next dual.
Like he didn’t walk out of the last match without saying a word. Like he didn’t leave me standing there, watching after him, humiliated in front of my entire team. A team that he has stressed time and time again the importance of maintaining respect as a leader.
Like he didn’t even notice I missed an entire holiday that most people spend with their families. Never mind that I spent that week sick in bed. I bet he’d have something to say about the one person who cared enough to stay with me.
“Finals were fine,” I say numbly, ignoring most of what he’s said already.
He’s already moved on. He continues, unbothered.
“And you’ll be in shape for the match Friday?
West Virginia has a competitive lineup. This James Parker kid cuts a ridiculous amount of weight and still comes out looking like a heavyweight.
The steroid rumors are probably exaggerated, but either way, he's the kind of opponent you don’t want to underestimate. ”
I stop walking. My dad keeps rambling, and I realize he hasn’t asked me a single question about me.
About my life. About how I’m actually doing.
He didn’t call after the meet, didn’t check on me when I was sick, didn’t even acknowledge I didn’t come home for Thanksgiving.
And now here he is, talking to me like I’m a product he’s invested in and not a living, breathing person.
A person who’s only ever wanted him to look at them with something other than contempt and see them for the person they are and not the investment they represent.
“Dad,” I interrupt, surprising even myself. “I haven’t spoken to you in almost three weeks. Do you realize you didn’t even greet me? Or ask how I am?”
There’s a beat of silence before he huffs, annoyed. “I asked about your finals.”
“That’s not asking how I am,” I say, my voice shaking even though I’m trying to keep it steady. “That’s asking about my performance. My output. That’s not the same thing.”
There’s another pause. This one is cold. I can hear his exasperation.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says, clipped. “I have more important things on my agenda than to listen to you whine like a child. Even your mother isn’t this sensitive.
I breathe through the sting. “For your information, yeah, I feel fine about finals. Even Finance. And I’m feeling better after being sick, since you don’t seem to have noticed I missed Thanksgiving.
And yes, I’ll still be ready for Friday despite dropping muscle mass during the week I was sick.
Thanks for asking. Please don’t worry about coming to the dual against West Virginia, I do understand that you’re a very busy man.
I sincerely hope you stay home and get updates from Coach instead of coming just to stare me down from the sidelines and berate me for not winning hard enough, no matter what I achieve. ”
I’m not sure what my father is thinking about my uncharacteristic outburst, because I hang up on him before he has the chance to reply.
I hung up. On my father.
I stare at my phone like it might explode. Like Charles Beckett might suddenly teleport through the screen and throttle me right here and now. My pulse is hammering, my hands shaking, and the quad feels both too open and too empty.
I blink furiously at my phone screen as it goes black, then look up when I notice a shadow blocking some of the sunlight on the pathway.
Brody is standing right in front of me, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, eyes narrowed and thoughtful in that way he gets sometimes. Like I’m something to be studied and understood, a subject in experimental psychology and abnormal human behavior.
“Was that your dad?” he asks quietly. His voice is stiff, like he might be angry about me talking to my father of all people.
“Yes.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Wish I had recorded that for you to show Ms. Delia.”
Brody Miller mentioning my Ms. Delia does something funny to my stomach that crawls up my chest and settles there. Like heartburn or something. Before I can help it, a smile spreads across my face.
“You know what, so do I.”
Brody’s eyes widen comically. “Beck?”
“Yeah?”
He swallows once, slowly, and looks back and forth at the people milling about around the quad. “Either we need to get somewhere private, or I’m going to kiss you right here in front of everyone.”
Oh.
Silence stretches between us, the air around us concentrating to a filtered bubble of time and space. My pulse races. Brody’s gaze drops to my throat like he can see it.
“My room,” he says suddenly, stepping forward and grabbing my wrist with a firm, sure grip. “Now.”
“What about your roommates?” I manage, stumbling after him.
“They’re in exams.”
We run across the quad and into his dorm, bumping shoulders as we sprint up two flights of stairs. The second the door to his dorm shuts behind us, Brody pushes me back against it, breath warm against my cheek.
“I am going to lick every inch of your body,” he says, voice husky with want and something deeper. “I am so proud of you. I’ve never seen you do anything as hot as it was watching you stand up to your father like that.”
The words hit me so hard I feel it all the way to my toes.
We stumble around his dorm, kissing like we’ve been holding this tension under our skin for weeks—because we have. Our hands get clumsy, sliding over fabric, fumbling buttons, greedy for skin. Shoes, coats, hoodies and everything but shirts and pants are dropped directly on the floor and forgotten.
When Brody lifts his mouth from my neck, I hear myself whisper something I’ve never said out loud before.
“Brody… I want you to fuck me.”