Page 25 of Bite Me

This time, it was my drink in danger, motor skills and coordination abandoning me all at once. I did a frenetic one-handed shuffle that completely defied the hours I spent in the gym. It was worth it, though, because holy fucking shit.

Eric sprawled across the large, antiqued-gold chair the party committee had found at a thrift store two years ago and refashioned into a throne for the frat’s winter formal. His legs were splayed wide, stiff cock exposed. The rest of him slouched like he was posing for one of the Old Masters, chin lifted in a taunt like the smug king of debauchery he was. All that was missing was a crown.

He’d aimed his phone at the enormous gilt mirror we’d used for anAlice in Wonderlandparty once, and I could guarantee Alice, the Mad Hatter, and the Queen of Hearts had never seen anything like Eric through the looking glass.

My mouth went dry at the sight of him stroking his cock in front of the mirror, giving me the front-row version and the behind-the-scenes version simultaneously. His dick trapped in his fist, abs tight, gaze dark and moody like he was already imagining me on my knees for him.

My cock went instantly, violently hard.

“What?” I glanced up at Jesse, and I must have been a sight of wild-eyed lust, because he started cackling.

He waved a hand at me dismissively. “Go on. I’ll catch you later. But probably not.”

I turned and bolted toward the stairs. At least this time I knew where I was going. Eric could’ve just sent the video without further instruction and I’d have known exactly where he was.

I got to the old chapter-room-turned-storage so fast I arrived winded and had to lean against the door frame for a second to catch my breath and compose myself. No way I was going inthere all disheveled and overeager, even if I knew Eric was well aware of what shit like this did to me. Didn’t mean I had to make it obvious. I liked when he had to work for it. I was pretty sure that went both ways.

Once I could breathe again, I smoothed a hand down my rumpled shirt and stepped inside.

Eric hadn’t moved from his position on his “throne,” but his gaze flicked toward me, that familiar hunter’s gleam in his eyes that wound around my gut and grabbed me by the balls. I couldn’t have looked away even if I’d tried. Dude had a permanent hold on me.

“Took you long enough,” he drawled, as if I hadn’t just jogged two flights of stairs in a state of overheated desperation. His thumb circled his tip like he was trying to murder my self-control. “Thought you were going to make me finish solo.”

“I figured I’d let you warm up first.” I started forward, but Eric shook his head.

“Stop right there.”

I gave a little laugh that came out sharp and disbelieving. The kind of laugh you made when you really hoped someone was joking but already knew they weren’t. God, not this again. Fuck me.

“Crawl.” It didn’t sound like an order, exactly. It sounded like it was a fact, like it was inevitable, and he just voiced it so we were both clear about how things were going to go.

“You’re fucking kidding me.” I snorted. “You want me to crawl? To you?”

There was a better retort in me somewhere, buried under a landslide of adrenaline and that itchy, electric feeling of being watched.

He held my gaze for a beat, then lifted a brow. It was a simple, tiny movement, but might as well have been the starting gun at the Kentucky Derby given the way it made my heartgallop and my stomach flutter. Then he spread his legs wider, his posture a dare, thumb coaxing another drop of pre-cum from his tip like an obscenity made regal by the angle of his chin and the cut of his wicked smile.

“Yes. Unless you’d rather crawl to someone else. I want you to crawl. To me. On your hands and knees, more specifically, since you seem to be struggling to understand my instructions.”

I stared at him for a long moment as if I were weighing my options, even though we both knew I wasn’t. I had some limits, though, and narrowed my eyes at him skeptically, doing a quick mental check. According to the thrill fizzing through my gut like champagne bubbles, this wasn’t one of my limits. It was more than a little out of my comfort zone, yeah. But I was also half-hard at the prospect of Eric watching me debase myself, and there was a twisted kind of pleasure in how immediate my reaction was. I hated and loved it at once.

I tried to hold on to a scrap of dignity, but it was slipping. I almost wanted to make him wait, see if he got desperate, but my body was already cueing up to move.

I dropped to my knees with zero couth, hands splayed on the old wood floor, and tried not to think about how the party was still in full swing right below us while I was about to crawl after Eric’s cock like the biggest simp that ever drew breath. The hardwood was cold and probably dirty as hell, but I’d experienced worse. Usually at Eric’s request. It was humiliating. It was perfect. Heat prickled my skin with every inch I got closer to him. I held his gaze as I went, too, knowing he was assessing, calculating, his quick mind working to create some raunchy golden mean of mutual satisfaction.

Eric didn’t even blink, just shifted on his gilded throne, and teased his cock lazily like he was in no rush at all—as if my ego wasn’t on the line here, crawling toward him like some kind of porn version of the Lion King. Hell, I half expected him to holdme up to the mirror like Simba when I got there. The thought had me fighting back a smile. It was brief, though, because the longer I stared at him, the more I forgot everything.

He kept stroking himself with languid pulls, though I was gratified that when I’d first dropped to my knees, his grip on his shaft had tightened abruptly, like he was staving himself off at the change in scenery.

He liked the power, the spectacle, knowing I’d obey because I wanted to see what he’d do next. Because I wanted him, period. I couldn’t decide if I wanted him to make me beg; I was so past rational thought I’d have paid him money to bend me over that ridiculous chair.

Eric tipped his head, the dark, unabashed stare fixed on me making my cheeks warm. The gold upholstery of the chair shone at his back. He looked like a decadent god of the underworld, all muscle and arrogance with that heavy cock waiting for my mouth. My palms started to sweat. I kept going, drawn into his orbit, desperate even while fully clothed. At this range, I could see a hint of color high on his cheekbones, the blown black of his pupils, his fingers flexing on his cock like he wished it were my throat instead. Fuck, that did things to me. I’d crawl the length of the entire fucking house just for the way he looked at me. I’d probably crawl across burning coals.

When I finally reached him, I braced my hands against his spread thighs. My palms molded to the muscle there, hot through the leather. I leaned in. I could smell him, the scent that was uniquely him—warm skin, musk, a hint of aftershave, and leather. I inclined my chin and, before he could open his mouth to bark out another command, I opened mine instead, then stretched out my tongue in wait.

“Fuck, frat boy.” It was sultry and tinged with a trace of an accent that told me I’d caught him off guard. “You are perfect. Fucking perfect.”

I curled my tongue over his flushed tip and lapped once at his foreskin delicately, just to see what he’d do. Eric tensed, and my satisfaction grew, blooming next to unwavering need. I ran the flat of my tongue along his slit, tasted the salt, and then closed my hand around his base, earning a quiet hiss. “This what you wanted?” How many times had I said it to him? How many times had he said it to me, both seeking the same answer.