Chapter 3 #2
“Twister?” I regret the suggestion the instant it leaves my mouth. The image of our bodies tangled together, muscles straining to hold awkward positions, flashes through my mind.
Tyler’s smile shifts into something dangerous. “Now that could be interesting.”
“Forget it,” I mutter, scanning the shelf for safer options. “Chess? Scrabble? Jenga?”
“Jenga,” Tyler decides, dragging himself up from the couch. “Simple enough, even in our current state.”
I set up the wooden tower on the coffee table while Tyler refills our glasses. My fingers are already clumsy from the alcohol, making the tower wobble before I’ve even finished stacking the pieces.
“Steady hands are key,” Tyler murmurs, settling back on the couch. “You go first.”
I stare at the tower, trying to focus through the haze of whiskey. I select a piece near the bottom, working it free. The block slides out clean, and I place it triumphantly on top.
“Not bad,” Tyler admits, studying the structure. He leans in, biceps flexing under his t-shirt as he extracts a middle piece with casual confidence. His hands are bigger than mine, fingers longer and more dexterous. I catch myself staring and drop my gaze to the tower.
We trade moves in silence for a few rounds, the only sounds the gentle click of wood against wood and the persistent drum of rain. The tower grows unstable, swaying with each breath or movement.
“Your turn,” Tyler says after successfully placing another piece. “Let’s see those steady hands.”
I lean forward, focusing hard on a loose piece near the middle. My fingers brush against it, testing its give.
“You know, I’ve always wondered what you’d be like,” Tyler says suddenly, his voice dropping lower.
My hand freezes. “What I’d be like with what?”
“When you let go.” His eyes lock onto mine. “When you stop fighting it.”
My fingers tremble. “Fighting?”
“Whatever’s got you wound so tight.” Tyler’s gaze travels down to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “I bet you’re something else when you surrender.”
The block shifts under my unsteady fingers, and I pull back before the whole tower collapses. “Stop that. You promised no bullying.”
“This isn’t bullying,” Tyler says, his voice a low rumble. “This is just conversation.”
“It’s distraction,” I accuse.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe I enjoy watching you squirm.”
I steel myself and reach for the block again, determined not to let him throw me off. I manage to extract it without disaster, but when I attempt to place it on top, my hand isn’t as steady. The tower wobbles.
“Easy,” Tyler whispers, leaning in. “Be gentle.”
My throat goes dry. The piece slides into place, but the tower tilts to one side.
Tyler takes his turn without hesitation, his confidence infuriating. As he places his piece, he says, “Remember when you walked in on me in the shower last Christmas?”
The memory hits me—steam, smooth skin, water sluicing down muscled planes. I’d nearly concussed myself on the doorframe when I’d backed out.
“You didn’t leave right away,” Tyler continues, his voice soft but relentless. “You stood there for what, ten seconds? Fifteen?”
“Shut up,” I hiss, heat flooding my cheeks.
But Tyler isn’t finished. “I saw your face, Liam. I remember what you looked like.”
My hand jerks toward the tower, selecting a piece at random. It slides free but catches at the last moment, sending the entire structure crashing down with a clatter. Wooden blocks scatter across the coffee table and floor.
“I win,” Tyler says, victorious.
Something snaps inside me—rage, frustration, maybe the whiskey. I lunge over the coffee table, knocking over glasses, and tackle Tyler back against the couch cushions. “You fucking cheater,” I snarl, grabbing his wrists.
Tyler laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest against mine. “There he is.”
We grapple, a tangle of limbs and harsh breathing. Tyler is stronger than me, always has been, but the whiskey and my fury give me an edge. I pin one of his arms before he twists, flipping our positions with frightening ease.
Suddenly, I’m on my back, wrists pinned above my head, Tyler’s weight pressing me into the couch.
“Get off me,” I demand. My body goes rigid, bracing for whatever comes next—a punch, more taunts, something worse.
But Tyler doesn’t move. His grip on my wrists softens, though he maintains enough pressure to keep me pinned. His eyes search my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away, but I force myself to hold his gaze.
“Liam.” My name sounds different in his mouth now, almost tender.
He releases one of my wrists to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. The gentle touch is so unexpected, so at odds with the Tyler I know, that I freeze.
“W-what are you doing?” My voice comes out hoarse.
He doesn’t answer, just continues stroking my face, his calloused fingers surprisingly soft against my skin. When I stop struggling, his thumb drifts to my lips, pressing against them. The simple touch sends a jolt straight to my core.
I exhale, my lips parting under the pressure of his thumb. Tyler’s eyes darken, pupils expanding as he watches my reaction. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes his thumb between my lips.
“Now be a good boy and suck,” he murmurs, voice rough.
I should bite him. Push him away. Run. Instead, my lips close around his thumb, tongue pressing against the pad. The taste of his skin—salt and whiskey—floods my mouth. Tyler’s breath hitches, the sound rippling through me like a stone dropped in still water.
“Good.” He leans closer. “Knew you’d like this.”
His thumb moves in my mouth, mimicking another act. My eyes flutter closed, shame and arousal warring for dominance. Heat pools in my groin, my jeans growing tight.
“Look at me,” Tyler demands.
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. The raw hunger I see there should terrify me. Instead, it pulls a moan from deep in my chest.
“There you are,” Tyler whispers, his free hand sliding down my side to grip my hip. “Let me hear you.”
My hips buck up, seeking friction. Tyler shifts, aligning our bodies, so I feel the unmistakable hardness of his erection against my own. It sends another shock through my system—he wants this, wants me.
“Tyler,” I gasp around his thumb, not sure if I’m pleading for him to stop or continue.
“I’ve got you,” he assures me, rocking his hips against mine in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
He withdraws his thumb, replacing it with the gentle press of his lips against my jaw, my neck, the sensitive spot below my ear. His mouth is hot, insistent, but not rough like I expected.
“Fuck,” I breathe as he rolls his hips again, creating delicious friction through our clothes. “Ty, we shouldn’t…” I trail off, barely registering that I used a nickname I never have before.
He grins against my skin, his teeth grazing my collarbone. “We definitely shouldn’t,” he agrees, but his hands continue their exploration, slipping under my shirt to trace patterns on my stomach.
I want to shove him off, tell him to fuck himself, but my body is already answering in ways my mind refuses to accept.
Tyler watches my struggle, my chest rising and falling as I fight the inevitable.
My eyes snap shut, the denial crumbling as heat coils tighter in my stomach, my hardness pressing into his.
The moan that escapes my throat betrays me more than anything else.
My hands, free now, should push him away.
Instead, they find their way to his back, fingers digging into the firm muscle there, pulling him closer.
My legs spread wider, allowing him to settle more fully against me.
“Christ, you’re beautiful like this.” Tyler slides a hand between us, pressing the heel of his palm against the front of my jeans, and I cry out at the increased pressure. “That’s it.” His fingers work against me, insistent through the denim. “Show me what I do to you.”
My back arches off the couch, my entire body going rigid before surrendering. I cry out, the white-hot pleasure consuming me. Tyler strokes me through my orgasm, and I hear his encouragements through the fog of ecstasy.
The world returns into focus—the rain on the roof, the scattered Jenga blocks, the sticky wetness in my underwear. I’m sprawled on the couch, legs still spread, with Tyler hovering above me.
Horror rises like bile in my throat.
Tyler must see the shift in my expression because he withdraws, giving me space to breathe. Concern replaces the hunger in his eyes.
“Liam,” he starts, reaching for me again.
I flinch away, pushing at his chest. “Get off me.”
This time he complies, shifting his position to let me scramble up. My legs shake beneath me, barely supporting my weight.
“We should talk,” Tyler says, sitting up and running a hand through his disheveled hair.
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I snap, backing away. “This never happened.”
I turn and flee before he can respond, stumbling on unsteady legs to my bedroom. The door slams behind me, and I twist the lock with trembling fingers.
Outside, the rain continues its relentless drumming, as if to say nothing has changed. But everything has. And I have no idea how to face any of it when morning comes.