Page 36 of Bull's Boy

“Ouch, shit.”

Malcolm pressed his lips together to prevent his laughter from spilling but still snorted out of his nose at Bull shaking out his hand. He got a mock glare in return, but Bull’s chocolate eyes melted at the sight of him, just like they’d done every time he’d glanced at Malcolm ever since he’d pulled on Bull’s shirt.

He squirmed into the plush couch, his skin heating in all the places Bull’s come had coated him an hour ago. “Don’t maim yourself over there.”

Bull grunted and turned back to his project: a mostly completed, massive cat tower. “Why include instructions if they aren’t going to make sense?”

“At least you read the instructions,” he offered, snickering again at the dry look he received in response. “Can I help?”

He shook his head—just like he had the other two times Malcolm had offered—and went back to work. “I got it, baby. You just relax.”

Warmth seeped through him at the familiar words. He’d said them—or a version of them—each time Malcolm had volunteered to help with the tower, and when he’d attempted to go out to the truck with him to collect the rest of his purchases, and when Malcolm had tried to insist he could help with making food after they’d cleaned up in the bathroom together. Each time Bull refused—calling him baby or baby boy in the process—and instructed him to relax or to just let Bull take care of him, it didthingsto Malcolm’s insides.

Turning his guts into a pile of marshmallows, for starters.

Was this how some people really treated their… Huh. What were they? They hadn’t gone on a date or really spent time together in a get-to-know-you capacity like he had in the past before taking the step of being in a relationship with the woman he was seeing.

And yet, Malcolm knew what his cock tasted like. And how it felt to rub against the beast while Bull whispered in his ear how sexy he was. And that when Bull squeezed his ass, his hands were so big his fingertips dipped between his cheeks, and that excited Malcolm so much he came all over himself.

But he didn’t know as much about Bull as he wanted to. A horrible thought occurred to him, and it must have shown on his face because when Bull glanced over, he immediately started to rise, concern etched in his brow.

“What’s wrong?”

Malcolm covered his face and groaned. “Oh my god.”

“Baby, tell me what’s happening.” There was a firm command in his voice, an edge of dominance that pulled at somethingin Malcolm’s chest, loosening the words despite his embarrassment.

“I’ve made you come twice, and I don’t know your real first name!” he cried, dragging his hands down and pulling at his face, then flopping onto his back. “I’m such a slut.”

Bull snorted, coming to stand next to the couch and tower over him. Since Malcolm had stolen his shirt, he only had on the well-worn jeans with holes in the knees. The rest of him was bare to Malcolm’s ravenous eyes, his gaze lingering on those pierced nipples every time they caught the light and the tantalizing happy trail that led to the monster in his low-slung jeans.

“Come here,” Bull said, smiling at him and offering a hand.

Malcolm took it without hesitation and let himself be pulled upright and then maneuvered back onto Bull’s lap after he sat down against the arm of the couch. They were about the same height, since Bull was slouched down a little, and he liked that he could look right into his eyes.

And he had a feeling it was going to become his favorite seat in the house.

“My first name is Mark,” Bull said.

Malcolm pulled a face. “You don’t seem like a Mark.”

He shrugged and ran his hands down the sides of Malcolm’s thighs, teasing at the edge of his T-shirt where it had hiked up a little and bringing goose bumps to the surface. “You can take that up with my moms, but it’s probably because I’ve gone by Bull since high school.”

“Oh yeah? That’s a long time to go by a nickname. I guess it makes sense you seem to personify that instead of… Mark.”

Bull laughed at the exaggerated way he said the name, like it really was strange and not a perfectly normal one. Why was his heart beating faster over his reaction? It wasn’t like he’d never made someone laugh before, but Bull was usually so serious and reserved it felt like he’d broken through a shell and found a new layer to him.

And that… made him really happy.

Smiling, Malcolm settled against him more fully and rested his hands on Bull’s warm chest, loving that he could touch his skin, be close to him and just talk, and it felt so easy. There was no awkwardness between them now that they’d cleared the air. He wasn’t sure if it was because they had known each other for months or if it was because Bull was a man instead of a woman. Maybe his brain was hardwired to be nervous around women but relaxed around men?

Or, a small voice in his brain whispered, it’s because Bull so easily took charge, even in simple instances, like a conversation about his name. Instead of letting Malcolm spiral or downplaying his feelings, Bull had just smiled, climbed on the couch, and cuddled him as he answered the unspoken question.

“Yeah,” Bull said, a small grin lingering on his face. “The guys on the football team started calling me that, and it spread to the rest of the class, then to everyone else. My whole family has called me Bull for nearly two decades.”

“But the team started calling you by that because of the size of your dick, right? Not because of how big your body is?” Malcolm couldn’t help but confirm, leaning forward a little more.

Bull rolled his eyes. “Who told you that?”

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