Page 11

11

JACK

W hat the hell have I gotten myself into? I pace back and forth on the deck, too agitated to sleep.

I wasn’t expecting to see him this morning. Figures he’s just a part-time restaurant delivery driver. Probably works just enough to keep himself in beer money.

I honestly wasn’t expecting things to go like that. Even after I told him to drop his pants. I just figured I’d enjoy his embarrassment for a minute or two and tell him to scram. But he knows how to get under my skin. I’m not sure yet if he knows what he’s doing, but he’s got those bratty, button-pushing instincts. That has the potential to be dangerous.

So does what I’ve been able to piece together about what he’s getting out of this arrangement. Ugh, I don’t even like thinking of it as an arrangement . The word gives it a permanence I really, really don’t want it to have.

When I pointed out earlier that I’ve never even touched his cock, I was curious to hear what he’d say. I expected eagerness, anticipation or frustration. When he responded with indifference, that was an uh-oh moment.

“The kid’s chasing pain,” I muse out loud to myself, staring up at the moon with a groan. Great.

So far, my foolproof plan to repel him by scaring him off is a giant fucking failure. Because the deeper I dig and the darker I go, the more I get the sinking feeling that he’s into it. Or me. It might not matter.

The thought that he’s into what we’re doing rather than me makes me feel a little better at first. Any dominant with a mean streak and big enough to throw him around would be able to tick his boxes. I scrub a hand over my eyes with a sigh. Why, for the love of God, did my guts squirm with something snakish and bitter as soon as the idea of him with somebody else went through my mind?

It’s a stupidly possessive impulse that I can’t understand. But there’s just something about the expression in his big blue eyes when they’re scared and filled with tears. I want that all to myself.

It’s a terrible thing to think for so many reasons. I sigh as I head back inside. Maybe I’m overthinking this. Maybe he got home, realized his ass was going to be sore for a while and cursed me out six ways from Sunday. The aloe should help, provided he bothers to use it, but I still lit him up good.

I’ll admit that was also a little bit of a push, an attempt to bully him out of my life before shit gets messy. Because if these interactions turn into a regular thing, it’s going to be hard to maintain a sense of anonymity. I need that detachment — it’s what I’ve counted on for the past decade to keep me from getting my heart crushed again.