Page 7

-NORTH-

THAT ASSHOLE. I’m tempted to pull the plug out and stuff it into his locker, unwashed. Or even better, throw it at his stupid, smug, sexy face.

But I don’t, and my boner won’t let me pretend that what he did wasn’t arousing as fuck.

I’ve been sweating the entire day, the anticipation of him pressing the button almost as much of a turn-on as when he actually did. It was a struggle to hide my shame from everyone around me, the vibrating plug up my ass making me jump and flinch and squirm as my dick leaked and I ached to touch myself.

When I finally get back to the dorm, my boxers are wet and sticky. I flop down on my bed and grind my face into my hands. This is ridiculous. I’m straight. Why am I going along with this? Why is it turning me on so much?

I’m not going to his house. I’m stopping this here and now. Today was too much. I am too straight, and too busy, and too fucking horny to be able to carry on with this . . . whatever it is.

I clench my fists. This is it, I tell myself, this is final.

But in half an hour I’m redressed, unlocking my bike, and peddling to the address on the note as fast as I can. All the way I tell myself that this is crazy, this is stupid, this isn’t right. It’s so wrong. So incredibly, arousingly, wrong.

I make a pact with myself. It doesn’t go any further than tonight. I go over there, and I get him out of my system. One and done, only I mean it this time.

I realize after like two seconds that cycling is a bad idea with a butt plug in. Every movement grinds it up inside me, and I nearly fall off. I keep pushing, feeling the grind, and sweat trickles down my face, from more than just the exercise. At one point the plug vibrates, probably Mal reminding me I’m due at his house, and I swerve and almost go into the side of a very expensive-looking car parked at the side of the road.

By the time I roll up outside the address he gave me, I’m panting and damp. I stare up at the house. This can’t be right. It looks like a mini-mansion, huge and fancy as hell, with trimmed shrubberies around the intimidating pillared doorway. I pause and consider turning back—I’ve never set foot in a house this grand before, and I feel horrifically out of place. Plus if I go inside there there’s no telling what will happen, what I’ll do, or if I’ll humiliate myself. What if this is all a trick to get me back for recording him?

But I’m pulled to the door by the burning urge inside me, and knock, feeling stupidly anxious and super fucking horny, like I’m rolling up to my first date.

For a few minutes I stand here fidgeting on the doormat, almost hopping on the spot. Is he keeping me waiting on purpose?

Finally the door swings open, revealing the tall, lean figure of Mal inside, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. He gives me a critical once-over, as I squirm on the mat.

“Did you keep it in?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say through my teeth.

“Did you touch yourself?”

“No, I didn’t,” I admit, flushing again. It’s harder than I thought it’d be to admit, but I meet his eyes. One and done, I remind myself. It doesn’t go any further.

He steps back, holding the door open, and motions with his head, and I scramble inside like a goddamn kicked dog being let back into his master’s house.