by Angel Lawson
“No,” she says, halting me. “That maggot-faced asshole's jacket came back from the cleaners today. Take it to his room. Sick of hearing him bitch and moan about the way I hang his stuff. These three are fussier than a house of toddlers.”
“Of course,” I say, happy to do anything productive and helpful that doesn’t involve opening all my wounds in front of the person who helped give them. It doesn’t hurt that I know Killian isn’t home right now. I carry the jacket, still wrapped in the cleaner bag, up the stairs to the second floor.
I stop in front of Killian’s door and gently knock, my pulse ratcheting up at the possibility of him answering. I’m paranoid enough to consider that Ms. Crane is in on the mind games the boys are playing, and not too foolish to barge in on him unannounced. The ache in my arms and legs is warning enough. As I suspect, though, he’s truly not home. It doesn’t stop my heart from pounding as I carry the jacket over to the closet and, after deciphering his system, hang it carefully inside. As always, I’m struck by the tidiness of everything, all wrapped up in the way his warm, distinct scent lingers in the air.
I close the closet door and face the room, eyes landing on the mahogany desk against the far wall. The surface is neat—books stacked by size, notebooks and folders organized upright. It’s the exact opposite of his rage-fueled assault on me the night before. His laptop sits in the middle, screen open, but dark. Blood rushes to my ears as I walk over to it and run my shaky fingers over the keys. The screen lights up and the prompt appears for his password. Curiosity gets the best of me and I start typing.
Lords
Incorrect password.
ForsythU
Incorrect password.
After trying every variation of the school mascot I can think of, I swallow and add in four letters.
Story.
Nope.
Glancing around the room, I suddenly spot the framed photo on the dresser. What was his mother’s name? Debra? Darla. I type the name in and press return.
Password accepted.
My heart lurches when it opens, spreading out the icons on his desktop. Like everything else in his room, it’s painstakingly organized.
Curiously, I go to his folders and skim the files, but the only thing I find are papers and essays written for school. Scrolling down further I find a folder labeled ‘LDZ’ and click the mouse. There are dozens of other files, including one named ‘Lady Applicants’, and ‘GAME POINTS’. Game?
Ugh.
Football crap.
There’s another folder, though, interesting only because of the name—‘South Side’—and the fact that clicking on it gives yet another password prompt.
Before I can start trying more passwords, footsteps echo on the staircase.
“Shit,” I mutter, exiting out of the tabs. I make sure the laptop is exactly the way I found it before darting to the door. Peering into the hallway, I hear the quick pace of footfalls continue up to the third floor. I step out of the room, shut the door, and don’t breathe again until I’m behind the locked door of my room across the hall.
I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room and push up my sweater sleeve to look at the bruise on my arm. It’s twice as bad as it was that morning. If Killian caught me snooping around his room…I shiver and pull down my sweater. I don’t even want to think about the consequences.
Later, I run into Rath and Tristian on the stairs. They’re both out of breath, shirtless, clad in only loose gym shorts and sneakers. Their chests are shiny with sweat and I pause a moment on the landing, caught off guard by the sight of their muscles, all slick and bulging. Rath has a dark line of hair below his belly button, disappearing behind the obscenely low-hanging shorts, and my gazes fixes to it like glue.
I jerk my eyes away, face heating. “Uh, hi.”
Tristian’s rolling a basketball in his hands, a thread of amusement in his voice. “My, my. Look at her blush.”
Rath pitches forward to speak near my ear. “My eyes are up here, Story.”
I clutch the books I’m holding to my stomach. “You guys coming or going?” I’d told Rath we’d spend the night working on his upcoming oral exam, but maybe he’s bailing. Part of me hopes that’s the case.
“Just finishing up.” Tristian says. “Rath owed me a rematch.”
“Too bad you lost again,” Rath says, grabbing the ball from Tristian and deftly spinning it on top of one finger. “You’d think you’d learn.”
“You would,” Tristian says, “but I’m a notorious glutton for punishment.”
He winks at me and continues up the stairs. Dimitri starts after him, but I grab his sweaty arm, holding him back. “Are we still meeting tonight?”
He brushes the hair out of his eyes. “I don’t see the point.”
“You said you’d let me try.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but instead bites out a terse, “Fine. But I need to shower first. You can wait in my room.”
It’s not exactly the stamp of approval, but I don’t let that discourage me. If he can’t pass this test—or worse, if he tries to find some way to cheat—the Counts might hold it over him, and then poor Ms. Crane might become forfeit. Even without what I’d overheard the afternoon of the party, I’ve been watching enough to know that Ms. Crane is treated well. Sure, the guys throw barbs at her, but no harsher than the ones she lobs back. Tristian’s are as close as they ever get to having actual heat behind them, and even he’d jumped to her defense.
Something tells me the Counts won’t treat her as kindly.
I follow him, carrying the books up to his room. It’s still as messy as it was the last time I was here, books and instruments, record albums and music sheets piled haphazardly. The black piano is the focal point of the room.
“I’m just going to lay out a few things, okay?”
“Whatever,” he says, walking into the bathroom. The door shuts and a moment later the shower turns on. I shift anxiously before the leather sofa, flipping through the books apprehensively.
I don’t know what level he’s at, which is a problem. Most of the books and flash cards for teaching this stuff are aimed at children. Rath would blow a damn gasket.
We just need to get him through his oral exam, is all. After that, we can take things into a more legitimate direction. He’d told me he read the material—through an audiobook—so at least he knows it. He needs to write the report, and then present it thoroughly, if not verbatim.
As I’m pondering Rath’s skills of memorization, the shower turns off. When the door to the bathroom opens, the room fills with a warm, steamy, soapy scent. Dimitri walks into the room, drying his hair with a towel, shirtless once again, clad in only black skinny jeans that hang low on his narrow hips.
Jesus. He’s beautiful, with those dark eyes and angular features, damp hair falling unkempt around his face. His lips are a dark pink, adorned with those two shiny rings, and in this moment, when he’s not looking at me like I’m a toy to play with, body loose and relaxed, I really can understand why women are attracted to him.
He hangs the towel on a hook on the back of the bathroom door and grabs a black T-shirt out of his dresser. “So,” he says with no enthusiasm, “how do you want to do this?”
“Well,” I say. “I brought up some snacks. Would you like something?” I’ve noticed he has a bit of a sweet tooth—the heaps of syrup he pours on his pancakes and the bottles of soda he carries around all day are a good tell. Ms. Crane keeps the pantry well stocked with baked goods and treats, so I’d thought to bring some up with me, along with some drinks.
He glances at the spread I’ve arranged by the couch, face blank. “A beer, I guess.”
I grab one and pop off the top. Handing it to him, I begin, “Okay, let’s get started.”
He takes a seat on the bed across from me, tipping the bottle back as I talk. The lighting in here is different from any of the other bedrooms. Rath keeps it low and moody, a lamp illuminating him into a dark silhouette against the
chaos of his room.
I’m about ten minutes into explaining a carefully crafted set of mnemonic devices when he suddenly speaks.
“Where’d you get that sweater?” His eyes have drifted somewhere below my neck, glued there, heavy-lidded.
I pause, confused. “It was just in my closet.” When he takes a slow drag from his bottle of beer, I slowly begin again, “So you can memorize the paper we write, which isn’t exactly learning, but it’ll get you—”
“Are you wearing a bra?”
Startled, I take a glance down at my chest. “Of course not.” That’s against the rules. He knows that. I fan the book open in my lap, struggling to keep myself from squirming. “Like I was saying…” As I talk, he gulps down the rest of his beer, Adam’s apple bobbing as it goes down, and this time his eyes are definitely fixed to my boobs.
He interrupts me again. “I should put on some music.”
Fed up, I fling the book aside. “What you should be doing is paying attention! Come on, Dimitri, I know you can memorize this stuff if you just got your head in the game.”
That makes his gaze harden. “Get my head in the game. Right.” Scoffing, he leans over to grab another beer. “This is all your fault.”
“What?” I glare at him. “How is any of this my fault?!”
He rakes a hand through his hair, expression flustered. “You come in here in that sweater,” he explains, gesturing to me. “You expect me to pay attention when your nipples are pointing at me?”
Blushing, I stutter, “That’s not my fault!”
“Yes, it is.” He rises to his feet, pacing, shoulders tense. “You put that stupid fucking fidelity clause into the contract, and now I can’t get any goddamn action! I haven’t had a good nut in forever. I’m a guy, Story. My brain doesn’t have any clarity until I’ve come my brains out nice and proper.”
I gawk at him, at a complete loss for words. “Uh…”
“Killian has his pregame rituals, and god knows Tristian probably busts one every time he looks in the mirror. But me? I’m going fucking crazy here. I’m round-the-goddamn-clock horny.”
Stiltedly, I wonder, “Can’t you just…uh, you know?” He looks almost fascinated by the lewd gesture I make, stopping in his tracks to watch my fist go up and down.
“What do you think I was doing in the shower?” He rolls his eyes. “It’s not the same.”
“Oh.” I deflate, watching him warily.
“But you’re right,” he adds, dropping back onto the bed, flopped out on his back. He scrubs his palms over his face. “I have to pass this fucking exam. I just can’t focus.”
Fiddling with the corner of the page, I can’t help but bitterly wonder, “Why haven’t you made me do something about it yet?” It hasn’t escaped my attention. Killian and Tristian have taken their pleasure from me.
But not Rath.
He drags his hands down his face, turning to curl a lip at me. “Please. Tristian and Killian might get off on all that, but I can get it from girls who actually want me. Why bother struggling with someone who doesn’t?” Shifting his gaze to the ceiling, he adds in a quieter voice, “It’s not the same if they don’t want it. It’s basically like jacking off, except maybe even worse.”
I watch him, taken off guard by the confession. That’s nothing like the Rath I remember from back in high school—the guy who definitely got off on me doing something I very vocally didn’t want to do.
Maybe he’s changed, though. Maybe being in college with new girls—more girls—has shifted his views on it. Maybe Dimitri Rathbone is actually turning into someone who’s not a monster.
Suddenly, he perks, levering himself to his elbows. “Maybe we could have Martin alter the contract. Only once or twice. Just so I can concentrate when I need it. Like how Killer has his pregame fucks, right?”
I stare at him owlishly, pointedly not saying how terribly that ritual had gone for Killian—and me—last time. “I…I don’t know?”
He groans, head lolling back. “Shit, they’d never go for it. This whole thing is useless.” I frown as I watch the defeated curve of his shoulders. “Maybe everyone is right. Maybe I’m just fucking stupid.”
“You aren’t stupid, Dimitri!” I insist, feeling suddenly angry at the word. “You play music like nothing I’ve ever heard. You’re beyond good, you’re practically a genius! You just need to get through this.” But I can see that I’m not getting through. He’s already given up, attention clearly fixed on the piano across the room, fingers fidgeting as if he could feel the keys beneath them.
“What if I,” swallowing, I try to work up the courage to voice the thought running through my head, “wanted to.”
His forehead puckers, eyes finally meeting mine. “Wanted to what?”
I know my face must be beet red. It feels so hot that I press my palms to my cheeks, stomach flip-flopping. Shakily, I offer, “I could…suck you.”
He raises a slow eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you want to give me head?”
Grimacing, I look away, embarrassed. In many ways, he’s right. The thought of doing it makes me vaguely queasy.
It also makes me feel hotter.
It makes me curious.
“I don’t…not want to. I want to do what it takes for you to pass this class,” I try, ignoring the way he’s looking at me—baffled and slightly annoyed. “If you’re this distracted all the time, we’ll never get anything accomplished.”
“I don’t know…”
“You’re cute and everything,” I continue, talking myself into it, “and who knows. If I’m not being forced to do it, maybe it’ll be different,” I wager, sounding far more even than I feel. “Maybe I’ll like it.”
Or, at the very least, not have nightmares about it three years later.
From my periphery, I think I see him smirk, but when I turn, his face is just as passive as ever. “You want to suck my dick?”
Mashing my lips together, I give a single, uncertain nod.
He doesn’t look impressed. “Begrudging nods aren’t really the vibe my dick’s going for. Thanks anyway.”
I pull in a burning lungful of air, willing my stomach to settle at the words I offer. “Dimitri. I want to…suck you off.” At his blank stare, I elaborate, “I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it, so you might have to be patient. But I mean it. I do. Want to. Especially if you think it will help and technically, I am the one that put that no-sex rule in the contract.”
He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes straying back down to my chest. “Alright,” he decides. “If you want to.”
Still, it takes my body a moment to actually get into motion, standing from the sofa and rounding to the foot of the bed where he’s sitting, legs spread, dark eyes tracking me from beneath his long lashes.
I rub my palms nervously against one another before slowly sinking to my knees. His thighs are warm and firm beneath my hands when I reach for him, uncertain, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t tell me to do something else.
So I run my palms up and down, stomach fluttering with nerves when I feel his muscles flex beneath the denim. I can’t tell if it’s impatience or just his way of moving with me, into me. Taking my time, I ascend to his waist, avoiding the obvious bulge right in front of me, and reach for the button of his jeans, popping them open. The sound of his zipper lowering sends a strange, sudden spark of electricity into the pit of my belly. I watch the teeth separate, curious about this flash of…anticipation? Is that what this is?
It isn’t until I reach forward to hook my fingers into the waistband, giving the jeans a tug, that Dimitri responds at all, lifting his hips for me.
I lean back on my heels at the sight of him uncovered, finally following that line of dark hair beneath his bellybutton to the thick, hard cock waiting below. My exhale escapes in a slow gust, and for a moment, I have no idea what to do.
Then it twitches.
I reach out slowly, hesitantly, running my fingertips along the
taut, velvety shaft. Dimitri makes a noise, deep in his chest, gritty and low. That’s what gives me the courage to finally wrap my palm around it, just like I’d done for Tristian the other day.
“That’s it,” he sighs, reaching forward to touch my hair. His fingers weave into it, curling around to the back of my head, and I make the mistake of meeting his gaze, seeing how dark they’ve gotten, how soft his lips look. My own mouth parts on an exhale and his eyes dart down to watch. “You want to suck me, baby?”
I edge closer, giving a small nod. “Yes.”
His hand tightens in my hair, pushing me toward where it’s fisted in my hand. “Go on. Give it a little taste.”
Closing my eyes, I open my mouth and give the tip an experimental lick. It’s not much. I barely even have the taste of him on my tongue. But his thigh tenses beneath my hand. Waiting. I go a step further, pushing the tip all the way in my mouth. I give it a slow, gentle suck before releasing him, testing the waters. His hips buck slightly, chasing the warmth of my lips. I can tell from the growing weight of his hand on my head that he’s getting impatient and eager, so I finally sink my mouth onto him.
“Fuck yeah,” he sighs, fingers kneading my head. I can feel the heat of his eyes on me, watching, voice low and rough. “That’s it, baby, make it nice and wet. You like that?” I hum in response and he groans, hips surging up. “You can take it deeper. Come on, I know you can.”
I’m still reeling from the taste of him, salt and flesh, and the shape of him against my tongue. I want to explore it, find out what it is about this that’s sending a parade of tingles right into my core.
As if reading my mind, he asks in a coarse whisper, “Making you wet, isn’t it?” He gives a shaky chuckle, hand pressing me down a little harder. “You’re such a squirmy little thing when you’re horny. I bet you’d look so good all tied down, wriggling all over the place, so fucking hungry for a dick that you wouldn’t even feel embarrassed about the way you look.”