Page 39 of Trick of the Flesh
That’s as far as he gets before I’m on him. I pin him to the bed, one hand over his mouth, my knee between his thighs. The mattress creaks, and his body goes stiff under mine.
“Scared?” I murmur against his ear.
He shakes his head, but it’s a lie. His pulse is a drum against my palm, too fast, too shallow. His body arches toward me even as his eyes plead for mercy.
My sweet, needy Caleb.
I let him breathe, pull my hand away slowly, and reach into my back pocket. The rope slides out, coil by coil, soft from years of use in his dad’s garage. His gaze drops to it, and his whole body goes still.
“No,” he whispers, but it isn’t resistance. It’s reverence.
“Yeah,” I say softly, dragging the rope across his chest, letting the fibers scrape his throat. “You know what this means.”
I catch his wrists, press them above his head, and thread the rope around them, slow and intricate. Every loop tightens his breath. Every tug draws a gasp out of him. His fingers twitch like he wants to pull away, but he doesn’t.
He won’t.
Because he wants this. He needs me to take control.
By the time I knot it to the headboard, his wrists are bound, skin flushed where the rope bites. I test the hold with a sharp yank. He gasps, chest heaving.
“There.” I brush his cheek gently. “Now you can’t run.”
I take my time with him. I always do.
I bend low, my mouth finding his, and kiss him hard enough to bruise. No sweetness, no warmth—just teeth scraping his lip,tongue forcing his mouth open. He moans into it, helpless, and I swallow the sound whole.
“When I was on my knees for you in the maze you called me pathetic, and I called you it too, but listen to me. Neither of us are pathetic, Caleb. So let’s stop using that word.” My thumb caresses his cheek, and he nods.
“You’re going to think about this when you’re away at school.” I murmur against his mouth. “You’ll sit in your little dorm pretending to be normal, but all you can think about is me tying you down, kissing your lips, and fucking you.”
His eyes flutter shut. He nods, small and broken.
“Tell me.” My hand tightens on his jaw.
“Yes.” His voice cracks. “I’ll be thinking about you. About this weekend.”
“Are you going to miss me?” I press my thumb hard against his chin until his lips part. “Is it going to be me that you stroke your cock to under the covers at night?”
His throat works. “Fuck, yes, Miguel—” He swallows. “—in my bed, in the shower. It will always be you that I think of.”
The confession pours fire through my veins. I laugh low, the sound vibrating against his mouth.
“Atta boy, baby. You already know it’ll be your perfect ass I’ll be dreaming of coming inside when I touch myself.” I nip his ear, dragging my teeth down to his jaw, marking him with little bites no one will ever see. He’s mine in ways they can’t imagine, and we’ll keep it that way until he’s ready.
“You gonna think about my cock in your mouth?” I rasp, letting the words burn between us. “About being on your knees like the whore you are, for only me?” My hand reaches between us and I feel his dick twitch as I brush over it.
He shudders under me, eyes flying open wide, as if he can’t believe I’d say it out loud. But his body already knows the truth.He arches, straining against the rope, desperate without even realizing it.
“Answer me.” My palm presses against his throat, not choking, just owning. “Will you?”
A strangled sound slips out of him. “Yes, Miguel.”
“Mmm, I bet you will.” I grin. “You want to be my filthy little brother-slut, huh? You dream about gagging on me while you play good boy for your professors? While you’re lacing up those basketball sneakers to practice.”
Tears sheen in his eyes, but his lips tremble as he nods.
“Yes.” It’s a broken whisper. “Yes.”
