Chapter 6
Grant
Kit’s that one dude who never asks for shit—he goes there and handles it. Most of the time it’s whatever, but sometimes it’s fucking annoying trying to read the guy.
I’m grabbing my keys off the counter, running through the grocery list in my head, when Kit rounds the corner in his jacket and just posts up by the door, staring at me.
“You coming?” I ask.
He shrugs.
That’s all I get.
I could’ve said no, of course. Told him to go back to his robot shit or whatever the hell project has him looking like a zombie lately. But Kit’s solid company—zero drama, zero yap—which is rare in this house. So I just jerk my chin toward the truck and he follows.
Shopping is easy. He’s actually useful—checks the dates when I tell him, grabs the bulk rice, spends five minutes inspecting avocados.
We move through the aisles smoothly. I get my chicken, my peppers, extra pasta, the good olive oil Finn keeps stealing for whatever the hell he uses it for.
Kit pushes the cart and doesn’t complain. It’s comfortable.
We load the truck in the lot, with that last orange light sitting over everything. The lot’s still half full—families, couples, some lady fighting with a cart return. Normal Tuesday.
“You’re driving,” I tell him, tossing the keys and heading for the passenger side. My back’s been tight as hell since Monday’s practice, and I’d rather eat glass than admit it to the coach, but fifteen minutes riding passenger sounds like a fucking vacation.
I climb in, slam the door, and kick back.
Kit hasn’t moved.
He’s standing on the driver’s side, hands nowhere near the handle.
“Kit.” I lean over and crack the door. “Let’s go, man. Stop fucking around.”
Nothing.
Alright.
I sit back. My first thought is he’s being a stubborn prick because I made him drive. Just some passive-aggressive shit.
“I know you hear me, bro.”
He slides into the driver’s seat, and closes the door behind him. I get one look at his face—staring straight ahead, hands flat on his thighs, completely paralyzed—and the back of my neck goes hot.
Oh.
But here? In a parking lot, two seconds after buying chicken thighs, with the neon Kroger sign buzzing twenty feet away? This is where he wants to pull this shit?
Kit doesn’t even flinch at the half-laugh I let out.
I reach over, snatch the keys out of his hand, and turn the engine over.
The dash lights up, and I hit the master window switch.
All four, all the way up. I got the darkest legal tint on this truck when I bought it—Miles said it looked like a drug dealer’s ride, I told him to shut the fuck up.
Right now, that tint is the only thing keeping us out of jail.
I’m telling myself to chill.
I’ve been telling myself to chill for three weeks.
Alice noticed it two Sundays ago. We were laying in bed after a heavy session, and she said I’ve been too insatiable lately.
I blamed it on the season. She bought it, and things have been fine.
But the truth is I’ve been obsessing over that night.
Over Kit completely helpless under my hands, taking whatever I gave him.
Every single day. Before bed. In the shower.
Twice in the locker room in a way that was a serious problem.
Three weeks is a long-ass time to have something gnawing at the back of your brain.
So yeah, I’m not fighting this.
I reach over and lock my hand around the back of Kit’s neck.
He doesn’t move.
I can feel his pulse hammering under my palm—the only sign that anything’s happening for him at all. His hair spills over my fingers, and I tighten my grip.
“Is this what I think it is?”
Kit blinks once.
Something snaps in my chest.
I grab him before I even seriously think about it, hauling his limp body over the center console. His legs end up straddling my thighs, his weight dropping right into my lap, and I lock my hands on his hips.
I lean back and just look at him. His face is blank. Eyes glazed. A faint flush creeps up his neck. He’s breathing hard, but he’s not giving me anything except that absolute submission.
That’s the part that’s been fucking me up. That’s the part I can’t explain to a single soul.
“Three weeks,” I tell him. He doesn’t respond.
Just keeps still in my lap, radiating heat and completely checked out of reality.
“You know how long three weeks is? Looking at you every day at the house, sitting on that couch, looking like a pretty little house-slut—” I dig my fingers into his hips. “Three weeks of that.”
I shove my hands under his shirt and yank it up.
And there they are.
Last time, I was too busy skull-fucking him to do anything about it. Miles got his mouth on Kit’s chest and I watched, fucking furious I couldn’t do the same. Miles took his time feasting on them, and just thinking about that makes me fucking vicious.
I get my mouth on Kit’s nipple and clamp my teeth down.
He inhales sharply through his nose.
That little catch of breath—that’s all he gives me, and it still knocks every rational thought out of my skull. I suck hard, dragging the skin, and feel him stay absolutely still except for the tiniest shift of tension in his thighs.
“Yeah,” I breathe against him. “Yeah, I know. Miles had these sweet little tits all to himself last time, didn’t he?” I bite again, harder, then drag my tongue over the sting. “Not tonight.”
I work him over, switching, sucking until the skin is dark red and he’s doing this thing where his breathing hitches every few seconds.
“Pretty little bitch-nips,” I say against his chest, moving my mouth back and forth. “You know what you’ve got, don’t you? You know exactly what you’re doing straddling me in my truck like a whore.” I get my teeth around him again. “Little fuck-doll.”
Just saying it makes my dick throb.
“I’m gonna mark these up,” I tell him. “I’m gonna make sure everyone in the house knows I had my mouth here.”
I latch onto his left nipple, my tongue flicking hard over the stiff little nub before I bite down. I’m not trying to be teasing. I want to leave a ring of teeth marks around that pretty pink bud.
He doesn’t flinch even right now. It’s actually amazing how he just stays limp and obedient while I bruise his perfect chest with my mouth.
I switch to the other side. Suck harder this time. Slobber all over him, and let my spit glisten on his skin. His nipple’s all puffy and swollen when I pull off, red from my teeth, and fuck if that doesn’t send a hot spike straight to my balls.
“Look what I did to your tits. All marked up like a proper slut.”
I pinch them both at once, twisting hard enough to watch his breath hitch. And when I pull back to look at the damage so far, my jaw goes a little slack. They are so red.
“Fuck—goddamn!”
I go right back at it, sucking harder because the way his skin marks is—fuck, there’s something genuinely wrong with me for how much I love this.
I get my hands on his sweatpants, fumbling with the drawstring. He’s not helping, obviously, but the second my fingers wrap around his cock, he flinches, trying and failing not to react. His thighs lock against mine, and something in me goes completely off the leash.
“Rock-hard already,” I say. He twitches when I pump his cock once, a tiny, involuntary flinch. “Sitting in my lap, dripping pre-cum like a whore. What kind of bro leaks like this just from sitting in another man’s lap, huh?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Exactly that.”
I pull my hand back, think about what I want for half a second, then lean in close to his face.
He stays still even as I get close, even as I tip his chin up. He stays still even as I pry his mouth open and push two fingers past his teeth, deep enough to fuck his mouth with my hand and drag it back out coated in thick, stringy spit.
“There we go,” I say, watching the spit rope off my fingers. “Just needed to borrow some lube for your other hole.”
I reach behind him.
Two fingers, slicked with his own throat spit, go inside his ass.
He stays still while I work him open, and the effort it takes is written in every line of his body. I can feel him clenching, fighting his own biology, and I get my mouth back on his nipple, biting down hard while I scissor my fingers apart inside him.
Watching him not react to any of it is the most insane thing I’ve ever been into. I’ll seriously have to unpack that later.
Or never. Never is also an option.
“You gonna be quiet for me?” I ask against his skin.
“Yeah, you are. Dolls don’t talk back.” I suck hard, drag my teeth.
His breathing breaks into short, punched-out exhales right against my ear and I am losing my fucking mind.
“Yeah, that’s it. Squeeze my fingers. Let me feel how tight that pussy is—”
He does, even though I know it’s not on purpose.
I pull my fingers back, spit into my palm, and push back in with three. The choked gasp that almost escapes him is the closest thing to a noise I’ve gotten.
A car door slams a couple spots over. I couldn’t give a shit, but Kit’s eyes dart toward the sound—some basic survival instinct breaking through the doll act for a split second.
I clamp my hand around his jaw.
“Don’t look at them. You’re not out there. You’re my property right now.”
The red flush on his face burns deeper.
I work my fingers inside his hole, curling them forward every few strokes, finding that one spot that makes his breath hitch and stumble.
His sweats are in the way, so I just shove them down to his mid-thigh, as far as they go. There’s something so fucking dirty about not even bothering to strip him naked. Just peeling back enough to use his holes like a cheap truck-stop slut.
Yeah, I’m so turned on, I think I’m going a little insane.
I lean in, grab that slack jaw, tip his head back, and spit straight into his open mouth. He stays perfectly still, my spit pooling on his tongue until it spills over his bottom lip and drools down his chin.
My brain shorts out completely, and my dick twitches so hard I almost blow right there.