Chapter 8 Connor
Connor
Sticky sneakers zigzag me through a posh labyrinth of drunken twenty-somethings. All I hear is a quick, droning thump throbbing in my chest. I can’t tell if it’s the music or my heartbeat, but it feels a lot like Morse code telling me to get the fuck out of here.
I need a bathroom first. The one I pissed in not too long ago has a line through the hall, and I think there are people fucking in the other one. There’s got to be more bathrooms in a place this big, but everything is blurry right now, and I keep getting lost.
The bar is easy to find, so I grab a dishrag and wet it in the sink before ducking into the wine closet.
I shove the rag into my underwear. It’s cold against my gooey junk, but I’m overheated to where I relish the chill.
Still, I’m sweating, shaking, and pressure swells behind my eyes like I might actually cry.
What was that?
Why did I do that?
Why did he do that to me?
I scrub the inside of my fly like I’m scrubbing blood off a murder weapon, but it only adds water to all the goo. Why did I even wet the rag? Clearly, I’m not in my right mind. I must’ve gotten roofied or gotten a contact high from the dance floor. I don’t know! I don’t know what to do.
Where’s Dane? Probably still with that guy, whoever he is. Probably laughing about what a loser I am before butt-fucking each other against the washing machine. The thought makes me sick, like I might actually puke.
The closet door swings open, and I’m caught with my hand inside my pants by a girl with Little Mermaid hair. She squeals a noise of disgust before high-tailing away.
Fuck, I’m actually gonna puke.
Too frenzied to care, I leave the wet, cummy dishcloth on the closet floor and race for the back deck.
I zip past a few of Dane’s buddies and descend the stairs two at a time to ground level.
I find a narrow, shadowed passage between the house and the perimeter fence, but instead of vomit barreling up my throat, it’s a strangled whine with my forehead pressed to the stucco.
The tiny peaks in the facade dig into my skin, but the pain is soothing in the moment. Like it’s all I have left.
I’m gonna come for you.
Possibly the hottest phrase a woman can say to a man, but this time it was a man saying it to another man.
It was Dane saying it to me.
His deep voice, his dreamy eyes, his statuesque body undulating around a building climax, hypnotizing me with his fiendish passion, decadent lust, and gay sex.
Like Jesus descending from the clouds in my nana’s old paintings, it was terrifying and awe-some, and I came faster and harder than I have in God knows how long.
I came in my underwear for the first time since high school, and I came because of Dane.
The images race through my mind like intrusive fantasies.
Dane’s tongue in that other guy’s mouth—who was he?
Dane’s hips grinding against his. Dane’s hands on his head as he fell to his knees.
Whoeverthefuck was in the way of me seeing Dane’s cock, but by the way the guy gagged on it, it’s got to be big.
If the shoe and hand size rule is legit, it’s got to be big.
But I thought Dane wanted me. He’s said so since the day we met—teased me, seduced me, and half-convinced me I must be something special if someone like Dane Calvo is interested.
I thought he was going to kiss me on the dance floor.
I prayed he wouldn’t and was disappointed when he didn’t.
His skin shimmered against the neon lights and smelled like the fancy body wash he keeps in our shower.
His voice melted like butter in my ear while the weight of his head on my shoulder made me feel like I’m his stability as much as he’s mine.
But I was nothing but a headrest.
He never wanted me. I was a game. A dare he made with himself. And I fell for it.
“Connor.”
My name in that haunting, sexy voice jolts my forehead off the wall, teeny pieces of gravel falling down my face.
I scrub it all away and march forward, so Dane will know what it’s like to have someone shove him aside and tell him to fuck off.
My hand is already in my pocket, fishing for my phone to order an Uber home, but I don’t even make it to the shoving part before Dane grabs my biceps and forces me in front of him.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you crying?”
“Fuck you.” I squirm until his grip loosens, and I finally get to show him what I think of his dare. I shove his chest hard enough for him to stumble back, not quite hard enough for him to fall.
“Connor!” He grabs me again, squeezing my arms this time and walking me against the wall I just finished sobbing on. It’s rough against my back and scratches my scalp.
“Get off me.” I fight against him, but he’s leaning his weight into me, pinning me down. “I wanna leave,” I tell him.
“I’ll take you home,” he says with an edge of panic, eyes big and consuming.
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m fucking done with you.”
“Why?” he asks desperately. “I told you to leave. You stayed. Why did you stay if you didn’t wanna watch?”
“Why would you bring me here just to fuck someone else!?” This time, I put my muscles to work and push Dane off me. He wobbles backward a few steps, eyeing me like I’m insane. I feel insane. Dizzy, angry, and sad.
“You’re jealous,” Dane says, voice lower and calmer but no less consuming.
I shake my head, and another tear streaks down my cheek. “No, I’m not. I’m just sick of you acting like a messy gay fuckboy all the time. It’s disgusting. Makes me sick.”
“Yeah?” He marches forward. “Did it make you sick before or after you came in your pants?”
Anger and humiliation surge through me until all rational thought leaves me through a ball of saliva that I spit in Dane’s face. It strikes him under the eye, trailing down his cheek.
The look of shock on Dane’s soft features shakes me from my possessed state, exorcising the demon inside me through a pathetic whimper.
“Dane,” I say as he staggers two steps back, blinking fast but moving slow. I take two steps forward, wanting to touch him suddenly, but too afraid to bridge the gap.
His head tilts down before my saliva can dribble off his chin, and he scoops it all up with his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” I whine, grimacing through a different sort of embarrassment.
Embarrassment that I could lose so much control so fast, and embarrassment that I could be so cruel to someone I care about.
But like my Cub Scout leader used to say: for every finger you point at someone else, there are three fingers pointed back at you.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, when there’s so much more I should say. Something like you’re right, but all I can say is I’m sorry and hope Dane doesn’t give up on me the way I threatened to give up on him just a minute ago.
The way he stands perfectly still, staring at the cache of spit in his cupped fingers, puts more fear in me than what transpired in that laundry room. Please don’t give up on me.
When his eyes flicker up to meet mine, there’s an indescribable intensity to his stare that reminds my heart to beat. If he hits me, I’ll deserve it, but I step backward in my cowardice, fearing the blow.
But when Dane lifts his hand, it isn’t to strike me, but to smear my spit across his lips and tongue. He dips those two fingers into his mouth to the second knuckle, staring at me while his throat contracts with a purposeful swallow.
My frenzied mind can’t make sense of the sight, only that I can’t look away. It’s always so hard to look away.
His fingers drag out from between his lips, glistening in the moonlight, and he steps forward.
“Dane.” I press my back to the wall, anxious and overwhelmed as Dane brings his dry hand to my jaw.
The space between us dwindles to a sliver, only an inch left between the tips of our noses when Dane murmurs, “Open your mouth.”
“Hm?” I get lost in his eyes as they soften to something dream-like.
His thumb sweeps along my lip and settles on the ball of my chin. “It’s okay,” he says, applying just enough pressure to coax my lips to part. “Open your mouth for me.”
My jaw lowers, tongue draped over my bottom teeth. My hands tremble at my sides as Dane whispers the same phrases he moaned in that laundry room. “That’s it. Good boy.”
Those two wet, glistening fingers glide across my bottom lip and along my tongue, filling my mouth with Dane’s thick digits.
My lips close around them, tongue moving instinctively, and throat flexing as I try not to gag.
Dane’s saliva doesn’t taste like much. Watery and slightly sweet.
I suck it all down as Dane drags his fingers back out the way they entered.
From my mouth to his, Dane slurps his fingers back into his own mouth, humming a delicious sound while he trades my spit for his own.
It’s grossly erotic, like nothing I’ve seen before.
Not even in porn. My sticky cock pulses in the discomfort of my wet boxer briefs, and my nipples tingle against the sleek inside of my button-up.
This time, when Dane draws his fingers free, they’re sodden enough to dribble spit onto our shoes. My mouth widens without coaxing, and I suck those fingers down with my chin tilted up. Slurping, bobbing—like a baby bird feeding.
A moan from Dane’s throat caresses my dick to harden, and I lave my tongue across every inch of his fingers just to please him. He takes a half-step, locking my feet between his own and pressing our bulges together. He dips his head to the side of mine, warm breath against my ear.
“You know you’re the only one I want, right?
” His words swim inside me, filling every nook and cranny of my being with warmth.
I push my hips against his, mashing our crotches together as I moan around his fingers.
They drag upward, and I lift onto my toes just to taste them a second longer before my mouth is empty and I’ll have to explain myself.
How do I explain this?