Chapter 6 ~ Bellamy #3
I laugh, and it's a loud sound again. One of my teammates shouts, "What’s so funny?” from somewhere in the hall or downstairs, but I ignore him.
“You don’t hate me,” I assure him.
“Keep telling yourself that; maybe you’ll stay in dreamland a little longer so I can finally get some peace and quiet.”
“You think about me a lot for someone who hates me,” I point out.
He chuckles. “Says the idiot who hunted down my number.”
Fair. Truly, I can’t argue with that, but that doesn’t mean I am going to let him have the last say. “Admit it, you missed me.”
“Not even a little.”
I look down to find I am so hard now—properly hard that my pants do nothing to hide it, so I shift in bed, letting my hand slide lower until I am wrapping my fingers around my shaft when an idea pops into my head.
Oh, Minho, the things I do to make you hot and bothered should win me some kind of reward.
Before I could rethink my decision, the singular thought of Minho’s face when he opens my gift—the disgust, maybe even fascination, the way he’ll probably throw his phone across the room and then pick it up—it's enough to make my dick ache and leak precum all over my hand.
“Are you dead yet?” Minho asks, and I can hear him walking around on his end, and I wonder where he is going.
I open my phone's camera while still on call with Minho and snap the photo quickly, taking in the way the lamp light catches the lines of my stomach, the V of my hips and my hand clearly wrapped around my cock where I had pulled it free from my boxer briefs. I don’t show my face, just my body and hope he takes the bait—the invitation.
Please, God, let him play with me.
I send the picture without a caption, and the utter silence that follows is absolute. Whatever Minho was doing stops, and I watch in real time as my dick pic goes from delivered to read. It took longer than I expected, but he’s definitely looking at it.
God, is he staring? Is he in shock? I did it, I won? Maybe he silently put his phone down and is pacing back and forth, thinking about what to say.
I want—no, I need to know what he’s thinking, but I don’t say a word; I don’t even think I am breathing as I let my hand slowly stroke my dick as I wait for Minho to say something.
I hear him moments later, clearing his throat. “Fuck you, no, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
I grin even though he can’t see me. “You could... fuck me if you wanted to, but then I would have to train your ass into knowing who's in charge.”
He laughs dryly. “Lose my number, Bell, I mean it.”
I can almost feel the edge of his words like a serrated blade at my throat as if they are meant to be my final warning, but final means he’s going to stop responding, and he didn't. Just when I think he is going to hang up, Minho sends me a photo, and I click on it, expecting to find him giving me the finger or something like that.
I don’t expect what I will find, though.
Minho is standing in front of a mirror fully nude, dick hard and flushed red at the tip; his hair is more blonde than silver now, and holy mother of fuck, he has more muscle and tattoos than I expected—more tattoos than me, and I think I might pass out from Minho heaven because... Oh. My. God—his nipples are pierced.
I am going to come to this picture every night now.
“This isn’t a truce, Bell,” I hear him say.
“Let me see your face, baby,” I beg because holy shit, I want an entire album of sexy pictures of him. “I’ll be good, just let me come to the sight of your eyes.”
“You couldn’t beg me hard enough for more even if you tried, Boy Wonder.” He hangs up before I can say shit, and honestly, what do or would I say?
I blink a few times, staring at his picture because fuck, fuck, fuck. I don’t know where to begin. He didn’t even try to hide his entire face; you can almost make out the smirk on his lips.
No shit, this isn’t a truce, Minho.
He just declared world war time to fuck my step-brother like a good boy—and a good boy I will be, right after I fuck shit up and make him beg.
I’m opening our text threads before I even know what I am going to type, and honestly, that's on-brand for me when it comes to him. I never know what I should say to him. I just want him in the worst ways, and he knows it. What more is there to say?
Me: Sweet dreams, Minho
You may have won this round, but I’ll win the next one.
I hit send and toss my phone onto the nightstand before letting my head fall into my pillows, staring up at the ceiling above me but instead of seeing nothing but a blank canvas, I see him—Minho, taking a shower so late at night at his grandparents house thinking he’s won the war but truly all he’s managed to win is one of the many battles to come.
And little does he know that I will be seeing him tomorrow after practice. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees me walk in, utterly taken off guard that I would be there, and when I am done messing around, I am going to make sure he never forgets who owns him.
Because Minho Seong-Walker is mine.
Always has been.
Always will be.