Page 12 of Trick of the Flesh
He bolts.
Heart hammering, legs pumping, arms swinging slightly as he sprints past the old swing set, past overgrown shrubs. I follow. Silent. Patient. As calm as a predator on the hunt. Every step I take makes him twitch, glance back, and panic more.
“Run, little brother,” I whisper, voice low, curling through the night. “Come on. Make me earn it.”
He stumbles over the roots of a gnarled tree at the edge of the yard. I laugh softly behind the mask, a sound that doesn’t carry far. “Careful, pretty boy. Don’t trip too soon. I like watching you struggle.”
Primal hunger coils tight in my gut. The chase, all this tension, the fear coursing through him—every gasp, tremor, every glance over his shoulder—is mine to savor.
I let him gain a few steps, just enough to think he’s out of reach. He’s desperate, fast, scrambling over roots and fallen branches.He really should have considered running track in college.The moonlight barely reaches him; the darkness swallows him whole, but I know exactly where he is.
A branch snaps. He jerks. I grin beneath the mask. “That’s it. That little flinch? That’s the sound of remembering who owns you.”
He twists, looking back. His chest rises fast, sweat plastering hair to his forehead. Shorts riding up. I can smell him—warm, nervous, alive—and I tighten my grip on the desire coiling in my stomach.
“Faster,” I breathe, low and rough, letting my voice scrape across the shadows. “I know you can. Make me work for it. It’s not worth it if the prey is so easily caught. Make me earn every thrust I give you.”
He stumbles again, almost tripping over another root. His hands scrape against bark as he regains balance.He is perfectionin every single way.Every flinch, every misstep makes me harder. The primal side of me hungers for it, for him, for the thrill of the hunt.
I could never get this feeling with anyone else.
Closing the distance, letting my shadow fall across him just long enough for him to feel it. I brush his shoulder with mine, just a touch, enough to make him stumble again, breath hitching.
“Careful,” I murmur. Lifting the mask and letting my teeth catch the shell of his ear. “I’m right here. Right behind you. Every shaky step. Every gasp of air. Every tremble—you can’t get away from me that easily, little brother.”
He darts left, weaving through trees, thinking he can lose me. But I let him go, just for a second, letting anticipation coil tighter in both of us. The thrill of almost catching him, hearing his frantic panting, and feeling his fear and desire makes every nerve in me hum.
“Miguel, we don’t need to do this.” He shouts through the trees. He glances back, eyes wide, lips parted, and I see it: the mix of panic and want.
He hates it.
He wants it.
Both at once.
“Run faster, little brother,” I whisper, voice rough, almost a growl. “Make me chase you harder. I want to hear your heartbeat in your throat and feel the tremor in your legs. That’s mine. Every single second of this struggle is mine.”
Dirt and leaves kick up under his sneakers. He twists his torso, looking over his shoulder, and I close the gap, fingers brushing his back as I chase. He gasps. I can hear the tremble in it.
“Don’t even think about stopping,” I pant, voice low and dangerous and out of breath. “I’ll ruin you if you do, Caleb.Right here. Right now. I’ll fuck you into the dirt. But I don’t want to do that… not yet.”
He glances back, chest heaving, his crystal blue eyes wild. The fear is beautiful. The desperation is addictive. Every step he takes, every flinch, every stumble makes my blood hum. I can feel him trembling under my gaze, even from behind.
We burst into a small clearing, moonlight cutting through the trees. Branches scratch our arms and legs, leaves sticking to sweaty skin. I let him think he’s gaining ground. Let him believe he’s outpacing me. I can almost see the relief in his wide eyes before he catches the glint of my mask in the shadows.
I was the track star, while he was the basketball god.
Caleb will never outrun me.
I step forward. Silent. Ghosting through the dark. Caleb freezes, breath rattling in his chest, muscles taut.
“You’re fast,” I murmur, voice low and teasing, “but not fast enough. You’ll never outrun me, pretty boy.”
I brush past him, chest grazing his back, fingers catching his arm just long enough for him to gasp. Heart pounding, his breath shallow, he nearly collapses to the ground. Stepping back and letting him move again, teasing, stretching the tension between us for a little longer, letting the predator-prey dance play out in slow motion.
“Feel that?” I whisper, leaning close so he can feel the heat of my body brush his. “That little spike of fear? That’s yours. All yours. And I’m taking it. Every last drop.”
Leaves slap against his legs as he tries and fails to run away. He stumbles, recovers, and stumbles again. Every gasp, every shaky inhale, and every glance over his shoulder makes me want him more.
