Chapter 7
MILES
I sat Brett on the edge of my bed and got the first aid kit from under the sink.
His eye was already swelling, a deep red flush spreading toward his cheekbone that would be purple by morning. He sat there and let me examine it without complaint, which told me how rattled he actually was. Brett Calloway didn’t sit still for anything.
“Hold this,” I said, pressing a cold pack against his eye socket.
He hissed, but held it.
I pulled my desk chair around and sat in front of him. His knees were on either side of mine. He didn’t move them away.
“You didn’t have to take the hit for me,” I said.
“I know.”
“But you did.”
“Yeah.” He shifted the cold pack slightly and winced. “I did.”
I looked at him with his swollen eye, knowing that cock cage was sitting quietly and patiently under his jeans. He looked nothing like the person who’d leaned over a pool table only four nights ago, radiating easy invincibility.
He looked better, actually. More real.
“I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he confessed.
My pulse spiked. I kept my face even. “I know. You sent a lot of thumbs-up emojis.”
He almost smiled. “Miles.”
“Brett.”
“I mean it.” He lowered the cold pack. His eye was bad, but his gaze was fixed on me, dark and direct. “You’ve been on my mind constantly. It’s like—” He paused, searching for the right words. “Being locked up, it’s like it unlocked something else. Something I didn’t know was in there.”
I looked at him for a long moment. “This was just supposed to be a stupid bet,” I said.
“I know what it was supposed to be.”
“Seven days. Clean and simple.”
“Yeah.” His jaw worked. “Nothing about this has been clean or simple.”
The room was very quiet. Outside, a car passed, music thumping briefly, then the distraction was gone.
I was acutely aware of how close we were sitting, his knees warm against mine, the smell of him cutting right through the cold pack, and the antiseptic, and everything practical I was trying to stay inside of.
“Miles.” His voice dropped. “Will you—”
He stopped.
“Will I what?”
He held my gaze. The flush on his face wasn’t entirely from the bruise. “Will you fuck me?” he asked. “I want to feel you inside me.”
The words landed and sat there between us, taking up all the available air.
I’d imagined this moment a hundred times.
Every filthy version had played in my head while I jacked off thinking about him.
But sitting only inches from Brett Calloway, the big, cocky jock with his split knuckles, his swollen eye, and his whole powerful body open and trembling for the first time since I’d known him, was something else entirely.
My own cock throbbed painfully in my jeans at the sight of him like this, broken open, and pleading.
I stood up slowly.
His dark eyes tracked me up, hungry and desperate. He tilted his chin, waiting, that massive chest still heaving.
I reached into my nightstand and set the lube on top. Then I reached into my pocket and set both keys next to it.
Brett looked at the keys, then looked at me.
“Are you going to unlock me?”
“Do you want to be unlocked?”
He was quiet for a long moment, really thinking about it, no performance left, just raw honesty written across his bruised, handsome face.
“No,” he said, finally.
I leaned in and kissed him.
He went still for half a second, surprised, like this was the one thing he hadn’t prepared for. Then he kissed back, slow and uncertain at first, finding the shape of it. His hand came up and gripped my jaw like he needed something to hold.
I took my time with it. The kiss went soft and deep, completely unhurried. I felt him exhale through his nose, a long, slow release, his whole body settling as the tension melted out of his shoulders one degree at a time.
When I pulled back, his eyes stayed closed for a moment.
Then they opened.
“Okay,” he said softly, like the word meant something different now.
I kissed him again, longer this time. My hand slid to the back of his neck, and he leaned into it. With his bruised eye, and his wrecked evening, and all that careful social armor completely gone, it was just him. Just this.
His hands found the hem of my shirt, pulled it over my head, only briefly breaking the kiss. His palms were warm and broad against my chest, exploring slowly, learning. I felt his breath hitch when my hand traveled down his stomach.
I pressed him back against the bed. He looked up at me from the pillow, chest rising and falling in heavy, desperate heaves, the shiny steel cage sitting snug and merciless between his spread thighs.
His fat cock bulged against the bars, veins pulsing, the entire trapped length twitching and leaking nonstop.
He was the most undone I’d ever seen another person, and he wasn’t trying to hide it or recover from it.
He just lay there, open, trembling, offering every inch of his powerful jock body to me.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Miles.” His voice was low and rough. “I haven’t been able to think about anything else.”
I reached for the lube, drizzled it on my fingers, and started working him open carefully.
But there was nothing careful about the way my cock throbbed, watching him take one slick finger first, pressing slow and steady into that tight heat.
His hole was scorching, velvety, and so fucking tight the way it clenched around my finger.
Brett’s massive thighs tensed hard, thick muscles jumping under smooth skin as he gripped the sheets with white knuckles, and breathed raggedly through his nose, eyes locked on mine the entire time.
“Oh god,” he moaned, his voice wrecked.
I added a second finger, scissoring gently, stretching him open while I watched every flicker cross his bruised, handsome face.
His ripped abs clenched into deep ridges.
Inside that merciless little tube, his thick jock cock was raging, the fat purple head crammed tight against the bars, veins bulging, forcing out a constant, messy leak of pre-cum that coated his heavy, swollen balls, and dripped in long, shiny strings onto the sheets beneath him.
Days of denial had left those balls bloated and aching, pulled up tight against the cold ring, twitching visibly with every curl of my fingers.
I found his prostate and rubbed it.
Brett’s body jerked like he’d been shocked.
A raw, broken moan tore out of his throat, his hole clamping down hard around my fingers as his hips bucked involuntarily, chasing the pressure.
The cage bounced and tugged between his legs, the short tube too small to let him get fully hard, turning every throb of pleasure into sharp, frustrated agony.
“Miles.” Barely a word.
“Almost.”
“Now,” he begged. “Please.”
I positioned myself against him and paused there, feeling the heat of him, the tight resistance.
His breath was ragged. His hands locked onto my hips.
“Please,” he said again, quieter this time. “Fuck me, Miles.”
I pressed forward slowly and watched Brett Calloway’s eyes go wide.