I stand straight upright and cling to the arms gripping me, slippery with sweat and corded with muscle. Mad, wild thrusts from behind, straight up and down, legs bent wide and far apart.
Finally, when I think surely the moment of climax must be close, I find myself shoved forward so I’m bent double at the waist, hair fisted and jerked so my head snaps backward, a hand gripping my hip crease with bruising force.
Pound, pound, pound.
I whimper, shriek, and then— “Caleb!”
Slow now. Still just as rough and harsh and wild, but slowly.
Uttering that name, it was a plea. A protestation. All I could manage.
I feel the release, the hot gush.
The hands release me, suddenly, and I fall forward, bump up against the window. Opening my eyes, I look out the window and see across the street, an office tower black in the night, all the windows darkened save one, the window opposite my own. A figure in the light, watching.
What a show.
Hands, gentle now, lift me, cradle me, set me on my bed. I fight tears. I ache. My heart aches, my soul. What did I do to deserve so rough and thoughtless a fucking? There was no mutuality in that. No thought for my pleasure.
I let myself drowse, escape into sleep.
But a sound buzzes in my ear, slips through the curtain of unconsciousness. A voice. “I’m sorry, X. You’re mine, and only mine. You can’t know. I wish you could, but you can’t know. You can’t know, or you’d—no. You’remine. And I don’t share.”
Nonsensical words. I know who owns me; that is one mistake I shall not make again.
An apology?
Gods do not offer apologies.
Chapter 8
“Ineed a date for an event, X.” You glance at me sideways.
“Ask a friend.” I pretend to be busy stirring milk into my tea so I don’t have to look at you.
“None of my friends are suitable.”
“Ask one of your many girlfriends, then.”
You laugh. “I don’t haveanygirlfriends, X.”
My turn to laugh. “Ha. I can smell them on you, Jonathan.”
“There are girls, but they aren’t girlfriends.”
“So you really are a quintessential playboy.” It is said with a hint of humor, and an edge of truth.
“Guilty as charged. But again, none of them are suitable. They aren’t classy enough for this event.”
“What is the event?” I shouldn’t ask, because I know where you are going with this, and it isn’t possible.
“It’s a fund-raiser, a charity thing. But it’s super upper-crust. Invitation only, ten grand entrance fee, and that’s just to get in. There’s a guest list that’s going to read like the Academy Awards. I can’t bring any old skank in some slutty dress, like I usually do for these things. I need someone with presence, and class.”
“Jonathan, I know what you’re—”
“I needyou, X.”
“I am not available.”
