Marcus #2
He clears his throat. “You also said my first name earlier.”
“Yeah, I prefer it. Let’s use them from now on.”
He purses his lips, and the dimples appear in his cheeks, like an ethereal being.
How can a man be so…irresistibly beautiful? He should be dissected and studied. Preferably by me.
“As for keeping your secrets…” I stop across from him, letting the duffle bag and stick fall on the bench, the thud loud in the silence. “I can do that.”
He narrows his eyes. “What’s the catch?”
“Why do you think there’s a catch?”
“There’s always one with you.”
“You’re getting used to me quite fast. I knew I liked you.” I smile genuinely, and he frowns. “You do need to give me something in return.”
“I already gave you some bruises and that wound.” He juts his chin in my temple’s direction, grinning. “Was that not enough?”
“It’s because you beat me up and I still helped you that you need to make it up to me.”
“You did not help me. And you got beaten up because you threatened me, asshole. I do not get threatened.”
“Noted. Won’t happen again.”
That seems to catch him off guard, because he gawks at me as if I’m an alien.
“You still have to offer me something, though,” I say when he keeps staring, his eyes narrowed the slightest.
“That sounds like a threat.”
“A threat is if I give you an ultimatum. I’m just putting in an innocent request here.”
“Innocent.” He scoffs. “Bullshit.”
“Well, as innocent as you make it.”
He rolls his eyes, letting out this cute little grumble. God, he’s so fucking pretty and petty, I can’t get enough.
I think that’s the reason I keep going out of my way to yank his chain. To hear that raspy voice with a deepness that goes straight to my cock.
It helps that he’s so fun to mess with.
“Let’s hear it,” he says. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.” I take a step toward him, my voice lowering.
He doesn’t escape me like he did the last time, which is an improvement, if you ask me.
I’m taming the wild horse step by agonizing step.
“No, I don’t.” His voice is rougher, those deep tones reverberating off my skin.
“You sure?” I stop when my boots touch his bare toes, leaning in close enough that I’m inhaling the ocean tones off his skin, but not close enough to touch.
And fuck.
Fucking hell, he smells like temptation and bad decisions all wrapped in beautiful skin.
This close, I can see the flecks of darker green in his eyes, mixing with the lighter color like poetic art people will stare at for hours and not understand. His nostrils flare, and I feel the warmth of his fractured exhale on my tongue.
That’s where I want him.
On my fucking tongue.
Just a taste.
One.
A tiny taste won’t hurt my plan.
The space between us is charged with an electric spark, and it takes all my fucking will not to slam my lips to his slightly pouty ones. I’d sink my teeth into that soft cushion and bite him, then suck it into my mouth until he’s imprinted into my soul.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
His unsteady voice is music to my ears. He can’t resist this either. I know he can’t. Because instead of being such a smart-ass like usual, he looks so serious right now.
I inch closer because I can’t help it. He’s standing there looking like sin in human form, and I’m ready to fall into it headfirst. “Like what?”
“Like you’re going to kiss me. Don’t even think about it.”
“Is that too gay for you?”
He shoves at my chest with an elbow, not really putting his strength into it, my adorably in-denial prince.
“I said. Don’t.”
“Fine,” I breathe out, even if my lips are tingling and protesting at my lack of an attempt to just devour his.
My muscles clench painfully, rigid and shaking with the brutal effort to hold myself back.
I shouldn’t give a fuck about his boundaries, but somehow, I do.
Because the last time I crossed one, he had dead eyes I never want to see again.
Preston blinks at me, then squints. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re still too close,” he mumbles, his arm continuing to press firmly against my chest, though he’s not pushing, just maintaining the distance.
“That’s because I’m waiting for you to guess what I want.”
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with the motion. And fuck.
Fucking hell.
My entire being sparks to life, humming with the need to devour it and him, sink my teeth into his throat.
Mark him.
“Hurt me?”
The question is quiet, too quiet, I wouldn’t have been able to hear it if I weren’t so far in his personal space that we’re breathing the same air.
And goddamn it.
The uncertainty and expectation lacing his words have my cock pulsing.
Fuck this.
In a flash, I grab his nape, spin him around, and shove him against the locker beside his open one, the sound of scraping metal echoing in the air.
He’s too stunned to fight. If anything, a soft gasp spills out of him when I pin him to the surface, my hand secured firmly around his nape, but not choking him.
I kick his legs open with my knee and land my palm on his ass. Hard.
Even though he’s still wearing his briefs, the slap echoes in the air, and Preston releases a muffled groan.
Or more like he sinks his teeth into his lip to muffle his groan.
Pulling at the elastic band of his boxers, I slide my hand inside and knead the firm yet somehow soft muscles.
My voice drops to a rough growl as I speak close to his ear. “You want to be hurt by me, baby?”
“Isn’t that what you want?”
I love how his words become breathy when he’s turned on. He’s the embodiment of fucking temptation, my prince.
And I’m no saint.
“That’s not what I asked, is it?” I pull down his boxers to his mid-thighs and land three consecutive strikes to his ass cheeks.
A moan slips out of his mouth, still muffled, and it irritates me.
He also did this the last time, not letting me hear his sounds of pleasure properly.
But at least he let me listen to him when he begged and blathered, on the verge of exploding all over my hand.
Maybe that’s what I need to do. Push him to the edge again. Repeat that moment.
Drag that abandon out of him, even if it’s the last thing I do.
“Answer the question, Preston.” I stroke his ass where I just hit him, and he stiffens a little.
It’s strange that he welcomes spanking with open arms, but I try to soothe the ache, and he’s so not into it.
Who hurt you, my toy?
Who dared to hurt my toy?
“What question…?” He trails off, looking like my own fucking piece of art, cheeks red, mouth parted, and so overrun with desire, I’m sure if I touched his dick, it’d be standing at attention.
“I asked if you want to be hurt by me.”
He purses his lips, slowly retreating into that head of his and keeping that wall I’ll break the fuck down in place.
I release him and step back, creating some distance I most definitely don’t want.
And for a moment, I admire the sight of my handprints on his fair skin.
Fuck me.
I didn’t get a proper look at him the last time, with him on the run and everything, but he wears my bruises so well.
The animalistic need to mark him permanently rears its head.
Take him.
Own him.
Make him mine.
I clamp down on those thoughts, trying to shove them back because they’re absolutely preposterous.
I don’t want to own others, especially not an elusive little shit like Preston.
“Why did you stop…” He stares back at me, but both his hands are still planted on the locker, his legs as parted as I left them, like a very good boy.
The view of his boxers stretched between his thighs is so fucking erotic, I want to fuck him right here and now.
Thrust my cock in his ass and make him take it, listen to his groans and moans as I fuck and fuck and fuck—
No.
Slow down.
I don’t want him to get spooked and run off on me.
My hand wraps around my wooden stick, and I finger the smooth sanded surface of the shaft.
“What…” He swallows, staring at the stick, but instead of discomfort or fear, his eyes brighten with excitement, my naughty prince. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to answer my question.”
“Why does it matter? Just…” His eyes dart to the stick, then back to me. “Go on.”
“Not until you answer.”
“You—”
“Do you want to be hurt by me, Preston?”
He nods once.
I shake my head. “Use your words.”
“Yeah.” He gulps, the word barely audible.
“Full words.”
“I want to be hurt,” he grumbles. “Happy now, you piece of shit?”
“Very.” I grin, stepping toward him, and he holds his breath.
“Are you…going to use the stick?” There’s a certain awe in his words, as if he can’t believe it himself.
“Yeah.” I grab a fistful of his ass, and he gets on his toes as I bring my palm down on the red flesh in a violent slap. “What’s your safe word, baby?”
“F-friends.”
I chuckle darkly in his ear. “We’ll never be friends.”
“Thank fuck for that,” he grumbles, but his eyes are bright and expectant.
Alive.
And it makes me feel alive.
Complicated. Everything about him is complicated.
And the harsh reality is—I can’t stay away.