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CHAPTER SEVEN
RORY
It’s been two weeks since the auction, and every damn one of those days has felt like an eternity. An eternity watching and waiting for Jorge to be a good boy… My good boy. To show me he wants this. I’ve kept my distance, only seeing him in passing—until tonight.
Quinn was adamant I didn’t miss an Evans family dinner two weeks in a row. I was hoping that the chaotic event would keep my mind off things, but all my focus is on the man seated down the table from me. There is an undeniable tension between us—me unable to pull my eyes from him and him unwilling to look at me. He’s avoiding me. I know why. And if I’m being honest with myself, I expected it.
Dinner carries on, the rest of the family oblivious to the unease and discomfort between the two of us. My thoughts drown out the vibrant conversation around the table, like I’m hearing everything through a thick fog. Finn laughs about something—loud and obnoxious, pulling me from my thoughts. I take a long gulp of my whiskey, hoping it’ll help to quiet the noises in my head and help me get through this meal.
“How did your date go with the pilot last night?” I hear a snippet of Layla and Jorge’s conversation. Freezing mid-sip, the glass hovers just below my lips, and I tighten my grip around it. My jealous glare is focused on Jorge, and I can’t stop the flush of heat creeping up my neck. He glances in my direction, and his expression quickly shifts. Fidgeting in his seat, he tries to stow his expression before excusing himself from the table.
Without thinking, I push my chair back and follow him into the house. I trail down the hallway behind him, toward the guest bathroom. He steps inside, and before he has a chance to close the door, I follow him in and shut us both inside.
His eyes widen with surprise as I stalk toward each of his retreating steps. My voice deep and laced with disapproval, I gruff, “I thought I told you to be a good boy.”
Jorge’s breath hitches slightly, and I can practically see his pulse pounding in his neck. His mouth gapes, and he hesitates. “What are you doing?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I stalk toward him until he is stuck between me and the sink vanity. I take a deep breath, the tightness in my chest growing. What the hell am I doing? I am far more controlled than this. But everything about Jorge chips at my resolve.
“Good boys don’t disobey Daddy,” I quietly scold, slowly speaking each word for emphasis.
Staring back at me with defiance, he huffs, “Maybe I’m not a good boy.”
You will be.
Gripping his shoulder, I spin him around and roughly bend him over the ledge of the counter. My growing cock presses against his firm ass, and I bend over him and brush my lips to the back of his ear. “Bad boys get punished.”
His eyes blow wide as I stand and push my left hand into his back to keep him pinned to the counter. I swing my right fast and hard, my hand landing on his ass before he has a chance to protest. Warmth radiates across my palm as he lets out a pained yelp. I connect with his denim-covered ass again and again, wishing desperately that I could see the handprints I’m leaving on his beautiful brown skin.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Jorge,” I softly whisper the words, rubbing my palm over the ass cheek that took every correcting strike. “I just need you to understand… When I told you to be a good boy, I meant it.”
Sliding my hand up his back, I lace my fingers through his dark hair and fist it just hard enough to pull him upright. “I expect better. I demand it. You will learn to be a good boy,” I exhale, the soft stubble of my beard sliding along the length of his neck as I fight against my urge to press my lips to it. To taste him. Our eyes meet in the mirror, both sets staring back at me full of an aching need.
A need neither of us will be quenching tonight.
Tearing myself from his body, I adjust my rock-hard cock and storm out of the bathroom before I’m unable to stop myself from giving in to what I actually want.
What we both actually want.