Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
As the sensation builds, and my sack tightens, I watch his brown eyes, so willing and full of need.
I lose control and hold that gaze. Everything in me is reduced to one pure sensation. I come inside him, cursing loudly this time, not giving a damn who hears.
“Fuck, Rayne.”
I push in hard.
He swallows every fucking drop I give him.
I’m somewhere else entirely. Floating on air, for a moment. When he finally slides off my cock, he stands up and gives me a goddamn kiss on my cheek.
And then he walks back over to the desk nearby, cracking his textbook open again.
Like nothing.
Like I’m not standing here with my cock hanging between my legs, still covered in his spit.
I shove it back in my pants and zip up, and a moment later, a student pushing a rolling carrel of books walks past the end of the stack.
Would have been better if you passed by earlier.
Put some fear in Colson’s veins.
I need to leave.
But instead, even after coming, some part of me lingers on Rayne, like there’s a tether luring me over toward him again, where I shouldn’t go.
I walk over to the desk and see his lips still slick from before, even as he flips through the textbook.
There’s so many things I could say to him, but only one comes out.
Something I’ve been curious about, and now I’m not holding back from asking.
“You say you’re not afraid of me. So why don’t you trust me, Rayne?” I say softly.
There are a million reasons why he shouldn’t trust me, but I just want to hear it from his lips.
He doesn’t respond. He turns a page in his history textbook, pretending to read. I soon realize I’m not going to get anything more from him.
“Okay. Have a good study session,” I tell him. “I’ll wait a few desks down ‘til you’re done to make sure no one comes in to attack you.”
I stay there when I hear him speak again.
“You were always terrifying to me, Hunter,” he says quietly, “but I always thought there was something good in you.”
“Shut up. Spare me that sappy bullshit.”
“It’s real,” he says, looking in my eyes again. “Your artwork, for one. It was beautiful. You had so much talent, and then you just stopped. Why did you stop painting and drawing?”
“Because shit got bad. Why don’t I stuff my cock in your mouth again so you quit acting like a guidance counselor now?”
“I’m not afraid of being real with you.”
I bite my tongue. “I went easy on you. Pulled your hair, fucked your throat. Starting to think I want to hurt you worse.”
He glares at me. “I was ready to be there for you after Lune died—”
“Don’t talk about my sister.”
“It broke my fucking heart when that happened to her, too. But instead of accepting any support from me or Weston, you lost your fucking mind.”
For fuck’s sake.
Where the hell did that come from?
It feels like the floor drops out from under me, hearing him lay it out so plainly.
My jaw clenches.
I thought he was going to toss banter at me like he usually does.
Instead, he got way too real, way too quickly.
Part of me wants to get up and leave, but for some reason, I pull out the wooden chair next to him.
He watches me for a while.
When I don’t respond, he goes back to his book.
I lean back in my chair, scrubbing my face with my palms.
I think about Lune every day, but Rayne mentioning her name feels like a sucker punch, all the same.
And he’s also right.
There is so much about me that you don’t know.
In the years after Lune’s death, I spiraled out even worse than before. Rayne isn’t aware that I took that to a different level when I moved to London.
I knew some of the guys I was getting involved with were tied to the notorious Thornwick crime family.
They didn’t call it the mafia.
But it was.
London was supposed to help me control my violence, and instead it only got stronger when the Thornwick family asked me to do more and more dirty work for them. I never killed anyone for them, but I got far too close.
And one night, I put my knife against someone I never should have touched.
I’m never going to tell Rayne about why I left London, because he doesn’t need to know things that could potentially get him hurt. He doesn’t get to have information when it’s that sensitive.
I’m silent for a long time.
Listening to the sounds of the occasional student quietly walking along the floorboards nearby.
Hearing Rayne turn the pages of his book beside me, ignoring me.
My chest feels hollow.
Heavy, at the same time.
But I’m like a furnace, containing the white-hot flame inside of me.
“I know I’m broken, Rayne,” I finally tell him, my voice just above a whisper. “I know it better than anyone.”