My hand speeds up, dragging pleasure from my balls to the tip of my dick. A rise and drop, so close to that peak.
I grind my ass against the sheet and grab the washcloth. I wish he were still spanking me, his voice a stern growl in my ear. "Come now, Trevor."
I do. I finish with a rough tug from the washcloth, pumping out long, shuddering blasts. My teeth sink deep into my lip to hold back the gasps and moans. It's too short, that moment of perfect ecstasy, leaving me with just a come-soaked piece of terrycloth and a sore ass that's a lot less exciting with my nuts drained.
My dick is oversensitive from that last rough contact with nubby cloth, my stomach lurching between guilt and loss.
I just wanted someone to touch me for real, someone who wanted to touch me. Am I so horribly revolting to use Grady like this if he doesn't know I'm using him?
Chapter 5
Grady
I WAKE from one of my best nights' sleep since—I can't remember. Before Afghanistan. No dreams, no sweats, no horrific phantom pain in a foot that doesn't exist anymore.
I swing my way into the bathroom on the crutch and get my shower. Trevor's got an early class, so I plan to save myself an extra trip upstairs by hauling him out of bed as soon as I'm done.
Towel around my hips, I pound on his door with my free hand. "Hey. Time to roll if you want breakfast. It's Tuesday." It usually takes at least three wake-up calls to get the kid moving before nine. I'm going to head to my bedroom to dress before I issue another warning, when his door pops open.
"Thanks. I—" His gaze drops and then jerks back to my face. "I'd like breakfast please."
I'm feeling pretty damned positive about this improvement in his usual routine. A little discipline was exactly what he needed to stop acting like a put-upon brat just because I gave him some basic expectations. Then I see his bottom lip is looking red and chewed. Did he do that last night?
I don’t think I hit him too hard, only enough to make an impression. As soon as he stopped fighting it, I gave him a few more to make sure he understood I wasn’t kidding and that was it.
In all it went better than I expected. Something about getting him to that point of surrender seemed right, like I was an old hand at this type of discipline. Though around that same time I started to wonder if my hand would give up before he did. Kid had an iron butt.
Looking at his lip though—maybe I'd been too hard on him. I can't exactly see through his briefs to know how much damage I did. Forcing him to drop his briefs to show me his ass was more embarrassment than I wanted to dish out. He already paid for the mistake, and obviously it did him good.
"How many eggs you want?" I ask.
"Four." He darts across the hall into the bathroom, and then sticks his head back out to add, "Please."
I look through the door into his room. His bed is already made, not right and tight, but at least made.
Yeah, that did us both some good.
Even after I dress and strap into my foot, I still hear the shower going. Damn it. I get he's seventeen, but I gave him that lotion so he wouldn't waste so much damned hot water.
I bring my towel and shower crutch back to the bathroom and rap my knuckles on the door.
"Yeah?" he calls out. His voice doesn't sound strained, so maybe he's trying to shave the peach fuzz on his upper lip rather than clean the pipes.
"Can I come in?"
"Uh—yeah."
I push open the door and hang up my towel, prop up the crutch. My arm takes on some spray because the curtain isn't shut all the way.
"Ah hell, kid. You're soaking the floor out here." I grab my towel and mop up. That puts me eye level with the gap, and I can see for myself whether or not his ass is bruised. It's not any redder than the rest of his skin in the cloud of steam.
"Oh sorry." He jerks the plastic next to the wall, then sticks out his head. "I'll clean it up."
"It's done. Unless you make another mess."
“Not planning on it—” he cuts short the sneering tone and ends with a respectful, “—sir.”
Serious improvement. I suppose there’s a reason that kind of discipline has lasted so long. A quick dose of pain and humiliation makes a brat think twice without any lasting damage, besides maybe a tender seat.
I toss the sodden towel into the hamper and lean my crutch back in its place between the toilet and tub. “Four eggs coming up. Don’t know where you put it, kid.”
*
At work that day, I zip through two transmission jobs and clock out at four fifteen. I stop to grab a loaf of fresh Italian bread from a bakery, figuring on unthawing some meatballs and sauce for a big bowl of pasta. That should fill up the bottomless pit living in my guestroom.
When Frank first contacted me, I had doubts. Of course I’d do anything for Frank, but after kissing the military life good-bye, I got used to living alone, having it all exactly how I wanted it. Trevor’s arrival required a big adjustment. Now I was growing used to the company. If nothing else, kept me from forgetting how to use a serving dish.
Come to think of it, my aunt had a big platter she used to serve pasta on. Maybe it was in one of the boxes in the cellar. I’ve saved any of the ones that looked like they had sentimental items in them in case someone in the family wanted to look.
When Aunt Letty died ten months back, my cousin didn’t want to deal with taxes, cleaning out the house, or all the repairs that needed to happen to put it up for sale. He and I worked out a deal that got me a house in Boston for a hell of a lot less than market value, which was how a guy in my paygrade could afford even a small house in the city. Ducking my head as I lurch down the uneven steps into the damp murk, I think again about what it would cost to create a washer-dryer hook-up on the second floor to save me breaking my neck on these stairs, especially now with the amount of laundry Trevor added. I suppose I could put Trevor on laundry duty, and cleaning out the boxes too, next time he decides to test limits, though I wonder if it’ll have the same good result I got from tanning his hide.
I start on one that says dishware in Aunt Letty’s neat but shaky cursive. First up is a cut-glass candy dish wrapped in newspaper that says it’s been at least fifteen years since it was put away. There’s a lid with it. Aunt Letty’s definition of dishes is pretty broad, considering the next item is an ugly, squat ceramic jug with a cork in it. Inset comic lettering labels it Bingo Money and Las Vegas. A souvenir plate follows, ditto Las Vegas, this one with a sequined Elvis, under that a plate with a Mardi Gras mask decor from New Orleans. I wonder if I’m going to need to call an archaeologist to get through the rest of the layers. But then there’s the platter I was looking for. The color is more gold than the yellow I remember, glaze crinkled with age. I pull it out of its newspaper nest, revealing a folded Christmas stocking. From the paw prints and the glitter-glue name, it belonged to a pet named Smoky. Next to Smoky’s stocking is a hairbrush, the words burned into the back marking it another souvenir.
I grab the handle. No bristles, just a flat wooden blade. The label says it’s a Bald Man’s Hairbrush from Niagara Falls. What it looks like, though, is a hand-sized paddle. I smack it against my palm. A sharp sting spreads through my skin, heating into the layers below. I bet that would get Trevor’s attention pretty fast and spare my hand, assuming we need to go another round. And yeah, if he tried that lost-track-of-time bullshit again, he’d sure have a hard reminder coming. I tuck it in my pocket, rewrap and put away everything but the platter, and then climb back up to get dinner rolling.
Trevor bangs in through the door, though none of his crap hits the floor. He sticks his head in from the hall, and says, “Be right back,” before tearing off upstairs with his backpack. He thumps back down a minute later, skidding into the kitchen on socked feet. “Can I help?”
Whoa. I’m not saying I’m not glad of the attitude adjustment, but this is freaking me out. I don’t want the kid acting scared or thinking he has to grovel around me. I level a stare at him. His eyes aren’t afraid, peerin
g right back, all innocent and blue. But then his cheeks flush and he blinks, glancing down.
Damn, those are some long black lashes. Got 'em from his mom, along with the thick, wavy hair. But those clear bright eyes are all Frank’s.
He darts off another look up at me, through his lashes, and then bites his lip. “Something wrong?”
I almost laugh at him. He’s one of those poor suckers who get pegged as guilty just for standing still. “I don’t know. Something I should know about?”
He shakes his head.
I mean to give his head a light cuff, but it’s more like a ruffle of his hair because he’s skinny enough I might knock him over. “It’s all good, brat. Don’t chew a hole through your lip.”
His shoulders straighten.
“I’ve got dinner squared away, but if you want to help out, you can bring down the stuff in the bathroom hamper and put it in the washer.”
And the shoulders slump. Yeah, kid. No one likes laundry duty. But he trots off upstairs, and I put the pasta water on to boil.
When he pops back out of the cellar, he draws a deep breath. He’s winded from that? I need to get him trained up better.
He inhales again. “That smells so good. What are we having?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
His eyes go wide, as bright and eager as a boot private coming off a ten-day patrol grabbing his first non MRE. He licks his chewed, swollen lip. “Um, thanks.”
“What for?” I flip the last of the meatballs frying in the pan.
“Cooking.”
“You’ve been sucking down my chow for ten days. What makes you say something now?” I pull the sauce out of the microwave and give it a stir.
Is he afraid of me?
Afraid of getting in trouble is good. Afraid of me—while it might also keep him out of trouble—is something that chafes me for a reason I can’t suss out yet. More intel required.
“Sit.” I point at a kitchen chair.
He follows orders, dropping his butt down fast. No wince, so he can’t be all that sore.
“Tell me the truth, Trevor.”
He swallows and looks down at the tabletop. Hm. Afraid of what I might ask him? I miss that happy, eager look he’d had when he’d smelled the meatballs, not that he’d been wearing it long enough for me to get used to it.
The water boils, so I dump in the box of dried spaghetti. When I turn back to him, he’s drawing something with his finger on the kitchen table.
“Trevor?”
“Yeah?” His answer is wary, a touch of that adolescent sullenness I definitely haven’t missed.
No point delaying. “Last night. Are you afraid of me now?”
His brow furrows, dark slashes scrunch toward the bridge of his nose.
I explain, “You’re scuttering around like you think I’ll backhand you if you so much as look at me sideways. Was it so different than having your dad spank you?”
His cheeks flash bright, solid squares of red against his pale skin. “No.” He says it fast and sure, eyes wide and earnest. He shakes his head like the word isn’t enough. “I’m not afraid you’ll hit me—I mean, not like that.” Again that poor lip gets the teeth, followed by an audible suck.
“But?” I lean back against the stove.
“You’re gonna again, I mean, if I break your rules again?” The words come fast now.
“You break the same damned rule and I’ll blister your ass twice as hard.”
He swallows.
So maybe this is nothing more than a routine test of limits. From the attitude adjustment last night had given us, I could see the wisdom in Frank’s form of discipline. Sure made an impression.
“In case you’re thinking about trying me, have a look at this.” I pull the paddle out of my back pocket and place it on the table in front of him.
He spins it to read the back. “Bald Man’s Hairbrush?” He sounds amused.
“You need a demonstration right now?”
His fingers jerk away from the handle like it’s on fire. “Uh, no, I mean, no, sir.”
“Okay then, you know the rules, and we’re clear on the consequences.”
I don’t phrase it as a question, but he nods.
I scoop up the paddle and tuck it back in my pocket. “Good. You can set the table.”
He doesn’t yessir me, but he gets right up and grabs the plates from the cabinet. Didn’t think he knew where those were since he never puts a dish away.
I don’t know what he’d been nervous about me asking, but there’s something good about clearing the air. As we tuck in, he chatters on about his chemistry study group and does an imitation of his professor giving out the assignments. I don’t mind the company.
The nervous lip-chewing starts up again when he’s washing the dishes, a job he volunteered for.
“So, my chemistry study group is getting together Thursday night.”
At last we’re getting to it. Maybe the attitude adjustment was less from me spanking his ass and more about him wanting something. A curfew extension, I was betting.
“And they can only meet at night in a bar?” I towel dry the plates and stick them back in the cabinet.
“No. Not a bar. A coffee shop. It doesn’t even serve alcohol.”
“But at night.” Of course.
“With classes it’s the only time everyone’s free.” He scrubs hard at the frying pan.
“And it doesn’t make more sense to meet your chemistry group in a chemistry lab?”
“We’re going over our work. Please. Just until eleven. My first class on Friday isn’t until ten.”
“Eleven.” I consider what kind of an impression I’m making to bend the rule so soon after he’s broken it.
He rinses off the pan and shakes his hands dry. “Please?” He wipes his hands on his ass.
Maybe I’m learning, or maybe this shit’s instinctive, because the next thing I know, I’ve hauled him against my hip and bent him over it, arm wrapped around his waist to keep him there.
I smack the paddle against his jeans pockets, three times each side, and he yelps and jerks.
I let him up, and his face is flushed, but his eyes aren’t afraid at all. He rubs his ass, looking at me.
“If you are not here by eleven on the dot, you owe me twenty of those on your skivvies every night for a week. Understood?”
“Yes…” he rubs, lip poking out, “…sir.”
Chapter 6
Trevor
NEXT morning, I reach back and grab my ass cheeks on my way into the shower. There’s no trace of the warm tingle the paddle put on them after dinner last night. That paddle took a starring role in my bedtime jerk-off fantasies. Even now my gut swings giddily between wanting to trigger a full spanking with that hard block of wood and dizzy terror that I won’t be able to take it.
My dick perks up, and I try to will it back down. Grady gets fanatic about the water bill, and I don’t want to piss him off before I get to hang out with my friends. Yeah, actual friends. People who don’t hate me for getting the answers right or asking questions or wanting to know stuff. People who actually geek out about molecules like I do.
Grady’s off to work by the time I make it downstairs, even though I manage to refrain from jerking off in the shower. I hit up the fridge for something to eat and find a meatball sub, covered in plastic wrap and sealed with masking tape, marked lunch if you want.
It makes an awesome breakfast too.
*
The coffee shop doesn't belong to one of the chains. It's two rooms. They serve fresh sandwiches and desserts, and there's a stage for a band. Even better, the whole place smells like the perfect balance of sweet coffee and chocolate. I hope it clings to my clothes so I can breathe it forever.
Crowded around the tiny table are the people from my physical chem class study group, plus some other people I get introduced to, but I don’t remember any of the new people’s names after Kiani says, “And this is Cael.”
Cael is t
all, with hair that's red and brown and blond all at the same time. It glows like burnished metal under one of the soft recessed lights. The hair on his jaw is in between scruff and a beard, but it's obvious he's growing it in because his cheeks are smooth. His hazel eyes shift between brown and green like the water in a stream.
I might be staring as much as I can get away with. He is seriously cute.
For a while, everyone is talking about grades and professors and projects and labs, and I feel like a normal college freshman. Not a social pariah from Ohio who has a hopeless crush on his godfather and an epic kink for getting spanked.
A couple people say good night. I check my phone, but it's only eight. I've got three separate alarms set to make sure I have a full hour and a half to make the thirty-five minute commute back to Grady's. I know that not only will my ass be sore in a not-sexy way if I screw up, but I’ll be coming home as soon as class lets out with a tracking device implanted in my skin. Grady takes his promise to my dad seriously, and they both think I'll be boozing away if I'm left to my own devices.
The last people to leave are the girl Kiani from my study group and her boyfriend. We’re going to meet up after lab on Friday. Then it’s just me and Cael.
He glances around the now-empty table, then leans toward me. "I think we've been set up." His voice is dramatic.
I look over my shoulder. His tone makes me expect to see Grady, my mom and dad, and possibly Father Vincent here to catch me having coffee with a cute guy.
Cael laughs, like we're in on the joke together. "I've got to say, our friends have good taste. I like you, Trevor."
Oh. That kind of setup. Wait. He likes me? Tall, gorgeous Cael likes me?
His light brown brows squinch in a frown. "Uh-oh. You are gay, aren't you?"
No one has ever asked me that—at least not with the suggestion that saying yes would be okay. Definitely not in Loserville, Ohio. I think my dad knows, but he never asked.
The Trouble with Trevor (Off Limits Book 1) Page 3