Chapter 8. Liam
Later, I try to shut up about Vikki's class, but I can't stop replaying the hour.
Vikki's hair, her boots, the way she burned down Harry and Nick without even raising her voice.
The way she talked to Miles, like he was an actual person, and let him draw stuff he cares about, and how she allowed Ethan to do other stuff.
Ethan is walking next to me, and every time I start talking, he answers with less than the minimum number of words required to acknowledge my existence. We're going to the gym, after Quiet Time and before MMA.
"Did you see how she got Harry to shut up?" I ask. "Like, in one sentence. He's never been quiet that fast in his life."
Ethan's jaw works. He doesn't look over. "I saw."
I bump his shoulder, trying to get a rise.
Of course he must notice what I'm trying to do.
It's not always obvious how I can get him to freak out, but today it is, and I won't let the opportunity pass.
"And did you see how she handled Nick? Another teacher would have just written him up or cried or something.
Vikki just, like, vaporized his whole personality. "
"Uh-huh."
"She's gotta be younger than half the guards. That's insane. How do you think she even got the job?"
Ethan shrugs. "Probably desperation. Or a diversity quota."
The edge in his tone is deadly. "You don't like her?"
He stops short, forces me to pivot or crash into him. I crash, of course. His eyes are on mine now, flat and unreadable. "I don't like people who show up out of nowhere and act like they run the place. Not after what happened with Shadow."
I want to argue, but I get it. After last year, nobody trusts a new staff member, especially one who seems like she might actually care. The ones who care are always the first to destroy you.
We head to the gym. Everybody else is enjoying the free time we have before exercises start. Only psychos like Ethan use this time productively, to actually work out more. Of course he drags me with him. Of course I love it. At the gym, it's just us.
"You going to do cardio or weights?" I ask, just to break the silence.
"Weights," he says, which was a dumb question, because Ethan only ever does weights. He gets his cardio somewhere else. With me.
We head into the gym. The room is empty, the old bench press and squat rack shoved against the north wall, mats and a couple kettlebells in the corner.
We start our routine. Ethan loads the plates. "You want to start, or should I?"
"You go," I say, "I want to see you show off."
He doesn't smile, but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
He's in a mood today. Of course me being a pest hasn't helped with his mood.
He slides under the bar, grips it, and cranks out ten reps like it's fucking nothing.
Show off. Hot show off. I stand there to spot him, but I don't think I could handle that weight if he needed me to.
When he racks the bar, he doesn't even grunt. I can't not admire it.
My turn. I lie back, set my hands. Ethan removes some plates and then he's spotting me, which means his hips are exactly at my eye level, and fuck. I try to focus on the bar, but I feel myself getting way too hard.
I match him, but on the last rep my form slips halfway through.
He catches the bar before it comes down wrong, and holds it there, forcing me to fight for the last rep.
My arms are shaking, the steel is biting into my palms, and he's just watching me, the barest hint of a smile on his mouth, like he knows exactly what he's doing.
"Push," he says.
I do. I lock out the bar, then rack it, gasping.
"Good job, pet. Making Daddy proud," he says, as he helps me sit and passes me a water bottle. We're both covered in sweat. My dick is hard. Again. So, being the little shit I am, I decide to make him mad. Again. He's hot when he's mad.
"I hope I can make Vikki proud too," I say, and now it's clear I'm messing with him. He frowns and those eyes blaze.
Yes!
"The way you go on about her, it's like you've got some kind of crush," he says, dry, his lips pressed in almost a pout.
"I just think she's good at her job."
"Sure," he says, voice flat.
I smirk. "Jealous?"
He makes a disgusted sound and doesn't answer.
"I bet you are," I say. "I bet you wish I'd talk about you like that."
He snaps the towel at my shoulder. "Grow up, Marsal."
I grin. "Maybe I just like art class better than weight training."
"You're playing a dangerous game, pet, one that ends up with you on your knees and begging for forgiveness. So think carefully about how you want to proceed."
I stand, stretch my arms. "If you're mad, just say it."
He steps closer. "I'm not mad."
"You're something."
He stands his ground, eyes locked on mine. "You think I'm threatened? Maybe I'd prefer if you had half her composure instead of acting like a child."
He steps back, grabs the kettlebells, and starts his set. I follow him with my eyes, the way his body moves, the way his jaw stays tight through each swing, the defined lines of his muscles shifting under his skin.
But I don't know when to stop. Impulsivity is my thing.
"You know," I say, "She held my hand when she was showing me how to shade. It was pretty nice."
He stops mid-rep. "She touched you?"
"Yeah," I say, milking it. "Real gentle. You want me to show you?"
He drops the weights and then surprises me. "Show me," he says. I raise my eyebrows.
"Okay," I say, and reach out, touch his hand like she touched mine, but slower, interlacing my fingers with his just to spite him. "Like this."
He watches my hand. Then looks up, and I see the edge in his eyes, the flicker of something predatory.
"You think that's funny?" he says, his voice low.
"Yeah," I say. "I think it's hot when you're jealous. You know I'm gay, right?"
"Sure. I used to think I was straight too. Come here."
He grabs my wrist, hard enough to make me gasp, and yanks me toward the locker room. I don't fight him but, fuck, every nerve in my body is on fire, dick harder than a rock, the anticipation serving as fuel. He's going to make me regret every word, and I'm going to fucking love every second.
The shower room is never warm, even on the summer days when the sun actually makes it through the reinforced windows.
Today, the tile is freezing. The drains stink of bleach.
The ceiling pipes drip in places, fat drops hitting the floor.
The tiles are cold and wet from the last group.
Ethan pushes me up against the far wall, where it's less likely anyone can see if they walk by.
My shoulders slam into cold ceramic, my whole body jolting at the sudden contact.
He cages me there, arms on either side of my head, his chest pressed into mine so hard I can feel every heartbeat through his shirt.
"You haven't shut up about her all day," he says.
"Yeah?" I say, grinning up at him. "So what are you going to do about it?"
His answer is to press his mouth to mine, rough, the kind of kiss that leaves a bruise. I go pliant, because I know that's what he wants, but I bite his lip on purpose, just to see if he'll snap. He does.
He shoves me back against the wall, hands on my hips now. His breath is hot on my cheek.
"I'm going to make you forget her name," he says, voice dark.
"Good luck," I shoot back, but my voice is already shaky.
He grins, feral. "Let's put this mouth to a better use, shall we?" he asks.
He grabs my hair and pushes me down, rough, guiding my knees to the tiles.
The floor is ice. My knees hit so hard I know I'll have bruises.
I like that. I love that he doesn't care if it hurts.
I tip my head back to look up at him, and he's already got his cock out, thick and hard, the head red and leaking. My mouth waters instantly.
"You want to show off? Show me how good you are," he says, voice gone low.
I open without being told. His hand is still in my hair, holding me steady as he presses in, slow for the first couple inches, then all at once.
I gag and drool, my eyes instantly watering, but don't fight it.
He knows exactly how far to push before it crosses the line, and he always dances right up to the edge, just to see me struggle.
My hands come up, grip his hips. He tastes like sweat and soap and musk.
He holds me there, lets me choke for a second, lets tears drop.
I blink up at him, lashes wet, and the hunger in his eyes makes my cock twitch.
He uses my mouth, fucking in shallow thrusts, only pulling out to let me breathe, then right back in. The only sound is my gagging, his breathing, the slap of his hips against my face. I dig my nails into his thighs, and he just tightens his hold on my hair.
"Don't you dare let go," he says. "You keep it right there, pretty boy."
I nod, best I can. My throat is raw already, spit and precum running down my chin, but I love it. I love that he's not being gentle, that he wants to ruin me just because I couldn't keep my mouth shut about some new teacher.
He starts going faster. My eyes water so bad I can't see, but I keep looking up, keep wanting to see the way he looks at me. My jaw aches. My hands go numb from gripping him so hard.
He pulls out suddenly, leaving me gasping, spit trailing from my lips.
He yanks me up by the hair, brings his mouth to mine, kisses me hard, wet and open, like he wants to taste himself on my tongue.
I whimper into it, wipe my mouth with my wrist, but he bites my lower lip and drags it down before letting me go.
"Not bad," he says, but his voice is rough. "I should leave you here. Let you cool off."
I don't want him to. I want more. I want him to keep going until there's nothing left of me.
"No, Daddy, please," I beg. He smirks and doesn't answer. Instead, he grabs my jaw, tilts my face up to his, and kisses me hard again. He bites my tongue. I kiss him back, opening up, letting him take whatever he wants. My hands find his waist, pulling him even closer.
He breaks the kiss, breathing heavy, forehead pressed to mine. "You want to be a brat? Fine," he says. His hand slides down my throat, thumb pressing against my pulse. "But don't forget who you belong to and who decides the consequences of your attitude."
The way he says it makes me shiver all over. I nod.
He smiles, sharp and mean. "Good."
He moves fast. One hand goes to my hip, the other to the waistband of my workout shorts, yanking them down so hard I nearly lose my balance.
It's like he's trying to mark me, to erase the memory of every other person on earth, especially Vikki.
I don't fight it. I want it. I want him to be angry, to use me.
He turns me, so my chest is to the wall, palms flat against tile.
He pulls my briefs to my knees, then his own.
I can hear the shudder in his breathing, the small noises he never makes unless he's at the edge.
He spits in his hand, slicks himself, and pushes the head of his cock against me.
He's leaking so much precum I almost think he didn't even need the spit.
He lines up and pushes in. No warning, no tease, just the blunt reality of him, thick and insistent. He goes slowly though, careful with it, and I feel every inch. I bite my arm to keep from making a sound, relax myself as something I know how to do pretty well by now.
He buries himself to the hilt and just holds there, breathing hard against the back of my neck, my whole body shivering in extreme pleasure. "Good boy," he says, almost tender, which somehow makes it worse.
Then he starts to move.
The rhythm is brutal, every thrust slamming me into the wall.
The tile digs into my skin, cold and wet, but I barely notice.
All I can feel is him, the way he fits, the way he fills every empty space inside me, and it hurts, God, it hurts so bad and it feels so good.
I can hear the slap of his hips, the grunts he tries to swallow, the way his hands never stop moving, fisting my hair, grabbing my waist, pinning my wrists against the wall when I start to reach back.
I lose track of time. It could be minutes, or forever. I know only that I'm shaking, I'm sweating, I'm close to coming just from the friction and the thrill of it, the risk of being caught, the knowledge that anyone could walk in and see me bent over and begging for it.
He leans in, teeth grazing my ear. "You're mine, Liam, not someone else's, not some art teacher's," he whispers. "Say it."
I pant, "I'm yours."
He picks up the pace, jackhammering now, using me like a fucking toy.
My knees start to buckle, but he holds me up, one big arm wrapped around my chest, squeezing tight.
I feel the first wave hit me, sudden and overwhelming, and I come all over the wall, barely stifling a moan as it crashes through me.
He's not far behind. I feel him swell, the rhythm breaking, then he slams in one last time and goes still, body rigid, every muscle locked. He bites down on my shoulder, the pain blooming through the haze of pleasure, and then he fills me, warmth spreading inside like a second heartbeat.
We stand there, both gasping, bodies glued together, sweat and spit and cum everywhere. My legs are jelly, but he doesn't let me fall. For a long minute, the only sounds are our breathing and the distant rattle of a cart in the corridor.
Finally, he pulls out, careful, and turns me to face him. I look up, and his face is a mess, flushed, eyes glassy. He wipes a thumb over my cheek, smearing away a tear I didn't even know was there.
"You okay?" he asks, and it's soft, barely a whisper.
I nod, but my voice is gone. I'm more than okay. I'm molten.
We shower together, him hugging me, my head on his chest, still no words coming from me.
"Was I too rough? You know I love you, right, baby?"
"Yes, you were. Yes, I loved it, and I love you too, Daddy," I say, grinning into his chest, while he presses kisses into my hair under the hot water.