Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
While he seems to enjoy it now, I’m not sure if I can take it to the next level. I’ve been dying to fuck him raw and hard and come so deep inside him, no other cock will ever go near him. It takes everything in me not to claim his tight, little hole, especially when he clenches around my fingers.
But I’ve had to force myself to slow down.
He’s truly like an injured animal sometimes, balking at the merest hint of change.
The other day, after he came down my throat and watched me swallow his cum with hooded eyes, he looked away, hesitating before he said, “You might want to stop sucking my dick if you believe I’ll return the favor.”
“You think I’m sucking your cock so you’ll return the favor?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that what’s expected? I’m not the gay one. Anyway, I’ll never get on my knees or put your cock in my mouth.”
“Why not?”
“I’m telling you it’s not going to happen, and that’s that.”
Then he stormed out, confirming a little theory I had.
Preston is fine with me doing all the work, but he clearly feels out of his element when I ask him to do anything.
Even grabbing our cocks that time in the alley seemed to make him uneasy.
Probably because he’s been straight his whole life, and the prospect of touching me drives the entire sexuality change home.
Or maybe he simply doesn’t like touching me.
At any rate, I had to put some distance between us because he’s getting too comfortable with his push-and-pull games. But I also realize Preston isn’t the type who sits back and does nothing.
He’ll probably wait until after tomorrow’s game.
As for what he’ll do, I’m not sure. Maybe wreak havoc in my arena again.
With a sigh, I finish practice, tidy up, and then hit the showers.
As I’m leaving the building, I pause in the parking lot when the smell of fuel hits me. I lift my head, my eyes widening as the flames mount to the sky slowly but surely.
My bike is on fire.
And right in front of it, on the concrete, there’s a sentence written in what looks like blood.
I destroy what I can’t have.
Our house in Stantonville isn’t much, but it’s two stories high with a small garden where Mom plants the colorful flowers she loves so much.
We moved a lot during my childhood, from one rental to another until Mom could afford a mortgage on this place when I was around six.
She spent all her days off doing DIY renovations, and I helped her over the years to make it ours.
After high school, I had the chance to live in the dorms at Stanton River College, but I couldn’t leave Mom alone. Not yet. She works most night shifts anyway, so it’s not like I can’t bring friends over. I just choose not to. I don’t trust those fuckers from the team not to ruin the perfect order Mom and I have in our place.
For most of my life, this little house has been my safety. The place I go back to when I need to tune out the outside noise or the internal emptiness.
Sometimes, I’ll be greeted with the smell of pancakes after early practice. Other times, it’s the burning smell of a ruined Mexican food recipe Mom learned from Mrs. Rodriguez next door.
Since Mrs. Rodriguez babysat me a lot and I hung around in her kitchen all the time, I can make the food better than Mom.
Mrs. Rodriguez tells her she should stick to saving lives, which isn’t wrong.
Mom is an amazing mother, nurse, gardener, and great at DIY, but she’s not really that good at cooking. That’s why I’m glad I at least have the skills to make her day better.
Today I go home with that thought.
I stop short when I notice the ridiculously shiny, expensive car in our driveway with a well-groomed chauffeur sitting inside. I tighten my grip on the strap of my duffle bag when I notice what’s parked right next to it.
A Ducati Panigale V4 SP2. Glossy black with carbon fiber wheels catching the porch light like a blade. It looks more like a statement piece than a machine. A bike made for collectors who care about bragging rights, not torque.
After my bike burned three days ago, this should be tempting, but it’s just an empty shell.
I barely throw a glance at it, then walk inside the house. After I remove my shoes, I abandon my bag by the door.
Mom’s footsteps echo in the now-oppressive air of our home before she stops in front of me. I lower myself so she can kiss my cheek.
It’s amazing how she’s become so petite compared to me when she used to feel like my shield against the world when I was a child.
I suppose it’s because now, I’m the one who needs to protect her, not the other way around.