Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys Book 5)

by C. M. Stunich

  He obeys like the good monster he is, withdrawing his hand and replacing it with his cock. I can feel the scorching heat of his tip as he presses his erection against my ass.

  Oh, God, yes please.

  Callum pushes himself inside of me with a grunt from both of us, and my eyes roll into the back of my head, lids fluttering at the sensation of being so full that I can’t breathe. Like I have to stop taking anymore breaths or there won’t be enough room inside of me for both his dick and the oxygen that I need to live. The thing is, both Callum and air both are requirements for my survival, so I hold my breath until my chest aches and he’s bottomed out completely.

  Heat and pleasure spiral through me, collecting in my lower belly as my stomach muscles clench in anticipation of his movements. The only negative to this is that my pussy feels naked, empty, and I wish one of the other guys was here to help us out.

  As if he can sense my needs—shit, he probably can—Cal curls his body forward, resting one of his own hands on the wall for balance as the other sneaks between my thighs, two fingers dipping into the molten slickness of my core while the heel of his hand grinds against the hardened nub of my clit.

  My knees buckle right away, but Cal keeps me standing with the pressure of his hand on my cunt, holding me there while I tremble and gasp and try to blink through the sudden bursts of white fireworks in my vision.

  It feels too fucking good, almost impossibly good, and I know I’m going to come from a single thrust or two. Maybe sooner. Cal adjusts his hips, the tight band of my ass squeezing the base of him so hard that he can barely move. Just that slight shift of his body throws me fully into my climax and a deep, primal groan breaks from my own throat as I sag under him, held up by his fingers inside of me and the rough press of my palms on the stone wall.

  The orgasm is lightning fast, a brief overall flicker that makes my pussy clench and ripple around Cal’s fingers as he moans along with me.

  “I can feel my own hand,” he whispers as I pant and shake and wonder how the hell I’m going to make it back to our apartment without collapsing into one of the fancy flower beds along the way. “I can pleasure my own dick with my fingers.” He hooks his fingers inside of me as if to prove a point, and I bite my lower lip so hard that I taste copper.

  This is what I needed right here, a moment of grounding, of pleasure mixed with pain, of my dark avenger with his hoodies and his shorts, his tattoos and his scars, his rough voice and his too pretty mouth. He begins to move, and I’m struck yet again by how obvious it is that he’s a dancer. He fights like a dancer, kills like a dancer, fucks like a dancer.

  Lifting onto my toes gives us both a slightly better angle as I tremble beneath him with my sweats bunched around my knees, and my pussy dripping around his fingers. He rocks his hips against me, rather than thrusting like he might in my cunt. It’s just perfect the way he does that, grinding pleasure into a part of me that’s rarely touched but is now suddenly desperate for more, more, more.

  “I love you, Bernie,” Cal says, surprising me. He nips my ear, and I nearly collapse, my body so boneless and full of emotion and pleasure both that I’m basically sitting on his hand. “Maybe I don’t say it enough, but it’s true. It’s the only truth I adhere to. It guides me in all things.”

  He starts to move the fingers of his left hand faster, the heel of his hand making my clit harden and thicken with the need to come. His hips continue to rock against me, but he isn’t moving them much, mostly he’s bringing us both toward a climax with his fingers. Teasing his own dick. Teasing my pussy. Making me see stars.

  My second climax hits much harder, digs its nails much deeper, and I end up dragging my fingers along the stone wall until they bleed, a long, low groan slipping past my lips as my body contracts and throbs around Callum’s fingers. The feel of that, plus me rubbing my ass back against him drags out his own orgasm, and he sags against me, body shuddering. Callum spills himself inside of me and then tucks me close against him, panting hard.

  For god only knows how long, we just stay where we are, frozen, gasping, the evening air prickling at our bare skin.

  The sound of footsteps gets us both moving quickly, but I can’t stop the groan that slips from my throat as Callum very slowly slides out of me. Fortunately, the person that’s emerging around the corner isn’t a member of the GMP about to catch us with our literal pants down—it’s Oscar motherfucking Montauk.

  “That was brilliant, really,” he drawls in that board, aristocratic tone of his.

  “And you were watching, why?” I retort, yanking my sweats up but stumbling just enough that Cal has to catch me by the arm. My skin burns where he’s touching me, and I can’t help but shift my attention up to his face. His cheeks are slightly red, either from the cold or the exertion of a good fuck, I’m not sure but the effect on his pale skin is nothing short of glorious.

  “It’s been longer than thirty minutes,” Oscar retorts back, and I remember the words Cal called out before we left through the door of the apartment. Oops. I straighten my tank top out as Callum takes my hand and we follow after Oscar after he turns on his heel to lead us away.

  “Did you enjoy the show?” I ask, because I just can’t seem to help myself. Cal lets out a chuckle, meeting Oscar’s eyes when he glances back at us.

  “Well, O, did you?” Callum challenges, but Oscar just gives us a tight-lipped smile and keeps walking. Cal and I exchange a look and catch up to him, breaking apart from each other with great remorse. But now that we’re flanking Oscar, it’s much easier to see the frantic beat of his pulse in the side of his tattooed neck.

  When I glance down, I can see the firm approval of his enjoyment in the hard bulge at the front of his slacks. He notices me looking and reaches over to tap my chin, drawing my gaze back up to his beautiful face.

  “Enough of that, Bernadette Blackbird,” he chastises, pausing outside the door of the staff apartment building to swipe our keycard. The staff always glare at us like blights on the perfection of their indefectible school; it’s even worse in here, since we’re invading their living space, too.

  Nobody here understands how we got in, how we get to live in an apartment together, how we get away with all the shit we do. But that’s okay. It’s none of their fucking business, now is it?

  A brunette woman with sharp frown lines cut into the lower half of her face sniffs derisively as we pass by, and I mime giving a blowjob, pointing at the two boys with me and then hooking a thumbs-up.

  “Should be a fantastic night!” I call out, giving her a little wave before I bounce into the elevator and watch Oscar press the button for our floor. He still won’t look at me, so I get in his face instead, peering close at him until he finally turns his attention over to me. “Just admit it: you were watching us and getting off on it.”

  “O has a problem with intimacy,” Cal says matter-of-factly, earning himself a glare made of gravestones and dead things.

  “My father threw me into a shallow hole with my dead mother’s arms wrapped around my neck; I’m allowed to have issues, Callum Park.”

  A ripple of violence and despair washes through me as I think about baby Oscar, with his blond hair dyed, lying in the dirt with bruises on his neck. Let’s just say, his father made a good choice by putting a gun to his own head and pulling the trigger. If he were still alive, well, I’d be plotting to kill him the way I’m plotting to kill Hael’s dad.

  You know, when we’re not being followed by cops—even ones that are now just there for our protection.

  Sara Young could be playing a game with me. I don’t think so, but I did underestimate the bitch before and I’m not going to do it again. We have to be exceedingly careful with every move we make. One wrong step could tip us from the precipice of freedom to the depths of a jail cell.

  The elevator doors open, and we make our way to the apartment, knocking in a special pattern and then waiting for one of the others to verify that it’s us through the peephole. The sound of locks
being removed is a familiar tune for someone from south Prescott. Click, slide, twist. Aaron eventually opens the door, welcoming us back in.

  Victor and Hael are waiting in the living room, not even bothering to hide the fact that they’re staring at me.

  “Look, I’m …” Well, saying I’m fine would be a lie. I’m not fine. Nothing about this is fine. My mother killed my fucking sister. She killed her for the crime of, what? Standing up for herself? Trying to fight off a sick, twisted sexual predator? And now that I’ve spoken to Pamela, I realize that she’s so keen on hurting me that she’ll even take the secrets of her hatred to the grave. She won’t tell me about my dad. She won’t even say how she committed her greatest sin.

  And I just have to learn to live with that.

  “Processing?” Aaron suggests, and I nod, glancing briefly over at him. That’s a good word, processing. I like it.

  “Processing,” I agree, feeling the sexual euphoria from outside dulling at the edges. It’s helpful, all those endorphins and shit, but it isn’t enough to erase the pain in my heart. Nothing ever will. I’m just going to have to let time work her magic, dulling my emotional wound at the edges until it’s nothing but a shiny, white scar that I can rub my fingers across. “But I’ll be okay. Don’t sit around and worry. Go get some of that fancy cafeteria food you like so much.”

  “It ain’t bad,” Hael agrees, pausing when Vic gives him a look. Obviously, even with my suggestion, they’re not going anywhere. They’d rather chain themselves to my ankles. The thought makes me smile.

  “Or order some pizzas,” I call out, trying for normalcy and seeing that it’s resting at the edges of my fingertips. All I have to do is lean forward and grab at it. “We can smoke and watch South Park when it gets here.”

  “Roger that,” Hael calls out with a cheerful grin. Aaron watches me walk down the hall, but he leaves me alone as I slip into the bathroom to shower, cleaning Cal’s cum from my ass. I don’t cry again, but I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

  Once I’m done, and my hair hangs in wet stringy tendrils around my face, I make my way into the bedroom with my towel wrapped around me to find Cal and Oscar lounging on the bed like they’re waiting for me.

  I ignore them as I dig through the dresser for pj’s, but like, it’s nearly impossible to resist the dual power of their stares. Eventually, I turn around, a flimsy silk nightie in my hand that I just know I shouldn’t wear but probably will anyway. If I put this on, I’ll be ravaged in it, no doubt.

  “We thought you might enjoy having something to take your mind off of Pamela,” Oscar suggests in a voice so mild that it couldn’t be anything but terrifying. Carefully, slowly, I turn around to look at him, dressed in a pair of gray sweats and nothing else. Ink crawls over his body like a plague, tainting every square inch of flesh. The metal swords pierced through his nipples catch the faint light from the single bedside lamp as he sits up. “You asked me to teach you a bit of my knot mastery, correct?”

  I just stare at him, but even though I want to be miserable and wallow in my hate and frustration, my interest is piqued.

  “You want to teach me right now?” I query, glancing over at Cal and trying to figure out if he’s in here by accident or design. Those blue eyes of his blaze bright, and he tosses me a cocky smile.

  “You can practice on me,” he confirms, nodding his head and then pulling his hoodie off. His shirt gets caught along with it, but Cal doesn’t seem to mind, tossing both items onto the floor. His pink nipples are rock-solid, and even though he just came in me not a half hour ago, he’s ready again. I can see the proof of that as he strips off his shorts, leaving himself entirely naked.

  Cal crooks a smile at me, but Oscar snaps his fingers and I give him a skeptical look.

  “Let me teach you the lark’s head knot,” Oscar drawls, giving me a look right back. “Could come in useful in a survival situation, too.”

  “Oh, I see,” I start with a roll of my eyes as I climb onto the bed, still wearing my towel. “You’re only teaching me this because of a possible survival situation?”

  Oscar’s mouth quirks at the edge as he takes a length of silky bloodred rope in his hands.

  “No, I’m also telling you in case we need to tie up these other boys to get some fucking peace.” Oscar snaps that last word out between his teeth, making it sharp, almost painful to listen to. Now that I see him like this, gray eyes blazing, I can remember the feel of his hands around my throat. And fuck it felt good. And fuck if I don’t agree with his decision to remain a virgin until me.

  He really, truly, possibly could’ve hurt someone. But he’ll never hurt me. That much I know for a fucking fact.

  “Now, watch me,” Oscar begins, his voice changing from that of a thespian psychopath to a stern teacher. His glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back up with a single finger before eyeing me over the rims. I do my absolute best not to smile. “There are a few basic knots in shibari. Let’s start with the lark’s head knot. It isn’t used for bondage directly, but it’s usually the first step in other ties.” He makes a loop with the rope, folds it in half, and then slips two fingers into each of the smaller loops that movement creates. I blink a few times, but he does it again, easily. And then again.

  Oscar hands the rope over to me.

  “Try it,” he commands, so I do. It isn’t as hard as I first thought. After a few tries, I get it. While I’m in the process of doing that, Callum is stroking himself with long, easy movements of his fist. The way his blue eyes go hooded, the way his pink lips part, it’s almost too much.

  I shift a bit as I hand the rope back, and the towel falls off, plopping to the floor as Oscar goes very, very still.

  “Shit,” he grinds out, but he doesn’t stop moving the rope around. I realize after a moment that I’m supposed to still be watching his hands, not his silver eyes, not his dangerously beautiful lips. I drop my gaze down. “The overhand knot.” He finishes his demonstration, the soft whisper of the rope as he ties it making my heart thunder. “And the double overhand.”

  I watch his inked fingers moving, but I promise at this point, I’m not paying much attention to the lesson. I just like the way he moves. He shows me the square knot and the surgeon’s knot, and then moves onto half-hitches.

  “Now,” he commands finally, gesturing over at Callum. “Help me tie him up.” Oscar turns his cool gaze over to Cal, but he can’t hide the bead of sweat that trails down his inked throat, between his biceps, and down to the belly button darkening his perfect abs. “Put your back against the headboard, Cal.”

  Callum complies, allowing us to tie him without complaint, hooking his ankles and his neck and wrists to the slatted headboard. The obscene color of the red rope against his pale skin, against his scars and tattoos and long, lean dancer’s body, that makes me so wet and swollen that when I shift backwards on the bed a bit, my thighs rub and pleasure radiates through me in a wave.

  “Holy fuck,” I murmur, studying Cal’s bound form, his cock thick and swollen and throbbing with need. He can’t do shit about it either. He’s at our mercy. Wouldn’t surprise me if he used the safe word right now.

  Callum just closes his eyes and shudders for a moment before lifting his lids again and staring at us. I turn back to Oscar and he shoves his pajama pants over his hips, slicking a thumb over the moist head of his cock. He drags his fingertips down, playing with one of his piercings. It’s incredible to me that someone who hates to be touched so much has so much ink, such intimate piercings. He’s alluded to the story behind that, about the physical pain chasing the emotional, but I need more.

  Whenever he’s ready to tell me, I’ll be here.

  “Come, Bernadette,” Oscar says, and even though I’m his queen and I give the orders, I can sense that he needs moments to be in charge, too, to quell some of that violent, icy anger inside of him. I crawl over his lap, but he encourages me to prop my cunt against his thigh instead of over his shaft. He grabs me roughly
by the back of my hair and licks the shell of my ear once before whispering, “move.”

  I do as Oscar tells me, rubbing the swollen heat of my cunt on him. Right now, wrapped up in all of this, my worries are as distant as shooting stars. There isn’t anything more important than being in the moment, of seeing Cal twisted in Oscar’s rope, of slicking along his inked, muscular thigh until he’s wet with me.

  My own inked left hand grabs his cock, pleasuring him as we stare into each other’s eyes and our mingled breath fogs his glasses. My clit is hitting in just the right spot, and that brilliant beyond brilliant gaze is searing into me, making my body feel liquid, weightless. My eyes go half-hooded as I tear my attention from Oscar to see Callum moaning and shifting, trapped in that beautiful, red rope.

  The orgasm hits me like a punch to the gut, making me groan, making my insides flutter. As soon as it hits me and my muscles go taut, Oscar adjusts me, moving my hips and spearing me on his cock as the climax takes over my entire body. The long, low moan trailing from my lips is soon joined by his as he spills himself inside of me and then rolls me onto my back beside him.

  “Please make me come,” Cal murmurs, his eyes squeezed shut tight. “Please fucking god.”

  I sit up on one elbow, panting, staring at him with vision clouded by sex.

  “Do it,” Oscar commands, and I glance back to see him staring down at me like an imperious prince. “Do it, Bernadette.”

  I reach out with my left hand and give Cal three small, delicate strokes with loose fingers. He comes so hard, all over his stomach and chest, bound with the rope and unable to do anything but experience the rush. After, he slumps in his bondage, panting and shaking, and Oscar moves over, untying him with a few, deft strokes.

  “Jesus motherfucking Christ,” Cal murmurs, shaking as he snatches the half-drank Pepsi bottle from the nightstand. “Holy shit.”

  “Holy shit is right,” I murmur back, and then I know that I’m going to need to try it again soon, Oscar tying me up. Last time, he left. This time, he isn’t allowed to. “Oscar …”