Page 23

Chapter twenty-two

Trayton

I run my fingers along the intricate lines etched into my skin, tracing the tattoo on my arm. Each stroke feels like a ghostly whisper of the needle that once pressed into my flesh, held steady by a pair of firm hands. I remember the sensation of my arm being gripped, the slight pressure as he leaned over me, carefully rubbing at the ink.

If I want to fuck the rival, I will.

To hell with him. Grady’s one of their weakest players anyway. Trust Daxton to pick the dud of the team.

Who does he think he is, really? He’s supposed to be on our side. Coach made it clear: You’re part of the team, and that means you don’t mess around with the rivals.

Prick.

Kal finally got his act together and hooked up with a girl after we hit the bar. Maybe now we’ll have the old Kal back. Without all his whining over some girl he’s never going to see again. Not that I’d ever say that to his face—I like my face the way it is.

I glance down at my tattoo, a swirl of art I genuinely love. Yet, I can’t stand knowing it was him, Daxton, who inked it onto my skin. He designed it, and I hate that. I want to look at my tattoo and feel joy, but every glance reminds me of his face. I rise from my chair, pacing the confines of my room. Why do I let this jerk get under my skin so much? Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

The memory of seeing him sprawled on the ice, tears streaming down his cheeks, stirs something deep within me. A crack in my resolve. Suddenly, I wanted to be kind, and that was new—I’d never wanted to be kind to Daxton Rivers. I wanted to see him smile, to be the reason behind that smile. But why?

When he finally did smile, it took my breath away for a moment, his expression reminding me so vividly of someone from my past. I couldn’t let myself drift back to those days, to connect Daxton with those long-buried emotions. But still, he has a nice smile—a really fucking nice smile.

And he blushes a lot, which, I hate to admit, makes my heart race. There’s something irresistible about the way his cheeks turn crimson, especially when I’m the one causing it.

He’s still a complete prick though.

That’s exactly what he is, and I can’t stand him. I despise Daxton Rivers. I repeat it like a mantra, my fingers trailing over my arm, the surface now smooth, the scabs long gone. But then a thought pierces through my mind.

Oh, my mind is twisted, but how I revel in its madness.

I rummage through a chaotic drawer, my go-to spot for random items, until I finally grasp it. Daxton’s business card. His number is printed on it. Excitement rushes through me as I dial the digits into my phone, eager to send a text.

Me:

I need you to get to my dorm ASAP. It’s an emergency. My tattoo doesn’t look right.

I sit back, a smirk spreading across my face when the message is read almost immediately. Grady must be dull company tonight.

Quiet Boy:

What do you mean it doesn’t look right? Send me a picture.

Damn. I didn’t expect him to ask for a picture.

Me:

My camera is broken. You need to get here.

I glance down at my flawless tattoo and can’t help but chuckle. Oh, Daxton, I’m about to ruin your evening.

Quiet Boy:

You keep saying something isn’t right doesn’t help. It should be fully healed; it’s been a month. What doesn’t look right?

If I were in his shoes and someone I inked said there was an issue, I’d rush over without a second thought.

Me:

It’s got orange pus seeping out of it.

I watch the typing bubble appear and then vanish.

Quiet Boy:

ORANGE??????

Fuck. Shit. Damn. What color is pus again? I quickly search on my phone—white and green, it says.

Me:

I meant green. I think I have a fever or something. Hurry, Daxton.

Green, orange—close enough, right?

Quiet Boy:

Shit. Okay. Give me 15. What’s your dorm number?

Me:

666

Quiet Boy:

Figures.

Daxton cracking a joke is unexpected. Even though his texts don’t indicate that he’s drunk, I can’t help wondering what state he’ll be in when he finally shows up.

Fifteen minutes later, a harsh knock sounds at my dorm door. I crack it open, trying to hold back a laugh, but it escapes uncontrollably when I take in the anxious crease on his brow and the troubled set of his eyes.

Before I can get a word out, he blurts, “Let me see it.” He’s practically tripping over his urgency. I step aside and tilt my head.

“Come in.” His eyes don’t leave the sleeve covering my arm as he edges closer to the door. I close it behind us with a subtle flick of the lock.

“Trayton, let me see,” he insists, and before I can protest, his hand grips my arm, his fingers tugging my sleeve upward. His gaze roams over the expanse of the unfinished tattoo etched on my skin, and his fingertips begin to trace it with a deliberate, searching pressure. With every passing second, his forehead creases deeper until the intensity forces him to glance up at me—while I desperately keep my expression neutral.

“Nothing’s wrong with it,” he demands, disbelieving; it’s as if his very words momentarily reveal his own shock at the deliberate lie I’ve made.

“You fucking prick.” He releases my arm with a rough shove. “You did this on purpose,” he accuses, disappointment and anger mingling as his nostrils flare and his fists clench with barely restrained anger.

I smirk and taunt, “Go on, I know you want to.” I fully expect his rage to erupt into a swinging fist, yet surprisingly, his assault never comes.

“It’s fine. I have Mike’s number. Move so I can get back to my evening.” He dismisses me, his tone final and cold.

“Oh, Daxton.” I lock eyes with him—those once-bright, green eyes now darkened with simmering anger and hurt. “You’re not going anywhere.”

He arches his eyebrows in a defiant challenge. “And you’re going to stop me?” It’s as though he truly believes I stand no chance of holding him back.

“Well, yeah,” I reply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No sooner do the words leave my lips than he shoves at me. Instinctively, I grab his hands and pin them securely behind his back. He wriggles, desperate to break free; his raging eyes are fixed on mine with a wild intensity.

“Let me go, Trayton,” he hisses, straining against my grip. Standing over his five-foot-eleven frame, my warm breath caresses his flushed face, and I watch as his lashes flutter in frustration. We’re dangerously close now, and despite the chaos of the moment, I cannot—will not—allow him to slip away. The image of his full, demanding lips and the haunting recollections of him from my dreams—no, my living nightmares—floods my mind. In an unwelcome twist of want, I feel a shiver of sensation ripple through me.

What the fuck is this feeling?

“Does Max and everyone at the tattoo parlor know about your old life, Daxton?” His entire body stiffens, his shoulders drooping as if a heavy weight has just been placed on them. The silence that follows is more telling than any words he could muster. “Didn’t think so,” I say and give a smug grin.

“You’re a fucking cunt, you know that,” he snarls, his lips curling back to reveal gritted teeth. I imagine if I let him go and took a step back, I’d see his fists clenched tightly at his side. He’s likely envisioning all the ways he could inflict pain on me, picturing his fists colliding with my face and the satisfaction it would bring him. Meanwhile, my mind drifts to thoughts of him on his knees, his lips wrapped around my length.

Does he gag?

Does he swallow it?

Does he spit on it?

Does he savor it like it’s the best ice pop he’s ever tasted? My gaze fixates on his mouth, and I can’t help but imagine how perfectly those lips would fit around me.

“Get comfy, Daxton,” I say, my voice now low and gravelly. The tension in the air is palpable, and I’m painfully aware of the hardness pressing against my jeans. All I would have to do is push myself into him slightly and he’ll feel it too.

At that moment, I decide I don’t care if he does. I push myself into him, watching as his breath hitches and his eyes widen, the dullness on his face replaced by a spark of electricity.

I lean down, my lips grazing his ear. My body tilts forward deliberately, and I murmur, “I want my dare you owe me.” Each word is heavy with the promise of something more intoxicating. I let go of his hands, but I don’t step back. I stay towering over him, his body plastered to mine.

For a long moment, his eyes search mine as if trying to read my intent, and when the realization finally washes over him, his gaze slides down to my chest, losing eye contact with me. “Go to hell, Trayton,” he grumbles, stepping back with an almost dismissive gesture. “What do you want from me?” he huffs out, his arms rising dramatically before they fall, and his palms slap against his thighs. “You don’t want me to fuck the rival. Fine, I won’t.” His eyes lock onto mine with unwavering intensity.

I tilt my head, letting a knowing smirk play across my lips. “I want you on your knees.”

The words hang in the charged air, and Daxton’s face shows a flicker of shock as he blinks rapidly. “Sorry, what?” he asks so weakly he seems to falter under the weight of my challenge. I don’t take my eyes off him as I walk backward toward my bed.

“You heard me.” My eyes trail down his body, lingering on every defined muscle and curve, as he stands here, rigid, caught off guard—a deer frozen in the glare of headlights. “On your knees, and crawl to me.” I’m both playful and commanding, and I tilt my head further and offer a challenging smirk. “Remember.”

I settle back onto the bed, my body sinking into the soft, messy pillows, and watch him stand anxiously in the middle of the room. The sight of him, illuminated by a sliver of fading light, stokes a fierce desire inside me. Daxton’s lips, so enticing, seem almost too fuckable to resist, and I know I’ve got him exactly where I want him—there’s no room for no.

“I’m not kissing you,” he declares, tilting his chin up defiantly.

“Who said anything about kissing?” I tease.

“That was the dare,” he reminds me, with an edge to his tone.

Raising my hand slowly, I point directly at him. “You’re right. But what you didn’t know is that if you forfeit, you have to do the ultimate dare.” A sly smirk spreads over my face as I speak, my words sounding as fearless as they feel, knowing full well that if he did end up checking whether I’m talking shit—which I am—it will be too late anyway.

“What’s the ultimate dare?” he asks, a trace of vulnerability creeping into his voice.

“You get on your knees, crawl to me, and suck my dick until I’m coming down your throat.” The instruction hangs in the air as I watch him throw his head back in a raw, noisy laugh that fills the room.

“Good one,” he manages between bursts of laughter, and I can’t help but be drawn to his genuine smile and the warmth in his eyes.

“I may be good with a joke now and then, Daxton, but right now, I’m anything but joking.” Instantly, his laughter falters, replaced by a tense stiffness; his shoulders tighten, and his breathing quickens, revealing the mix of desire and uncertainty pulsing through him. I lean back on my elbows, tilting my head as I study every subtle shift in his body language.

“And what if I say no?” he whispers in a near-inaudible murmur that trembles with hesitation.

I allow a confident but gentle smile to curve my lips as I meet his eyes. “You won’t.”

“Because if I do, you’ll tell Max about the drug dealing,” he says flatly, more of a statement than a question. I don’t respond verbally; instead, I fix him with a smirk that I know gets under his skin, the kind of expression that always seems to light a fire of irritation in his eyes. “You know that’s sexual assault, right? It’s blackmail.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I reply casually, and I shrug my shoulders, maintaining an air of calmness.

“You don’t have to. It’s you, Trayton. It’s written all over your face.” I bite my lip, studying him carefully—the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath, the intensity in his gaze as he assesses me. If this were something he truly didn’t want to do, I’d see it in his body language. So I decide to test my theory. I sit up, lazily peeling my shirt off before reclining back on my elbows. His eyes widen, and I know I’ve hit the mark.

His gaze travels over my body like a magnet drawn to every contour and muscle. His eyes trace the lines of my pecs, and I watch as he visibly gulps, his fists clenching tightly at his sides, his breath becoming ragged.

“It would be sexual assault and blackmail if you didn’t want to do it,” I say, cutting through the charged silence. His eyes snap to mine, and I let my gaze travel over him from head to toe. “That’s not the case here.” To cut through the tension and because, frankly, I enjoy this, I slip my hand into my sweatpants, pulling out my dick with casual confidence.

Daxton’s lips part, and his gaze fixes on me as I move my hand up and down, each stroke deliberate. My skin tingles just watching him, the way he stands there, eyes glued to me, and I think I might reach the edge just from this moment alone. But then he does the unexpected.

He drops to his fucking knees.

He doesn’t immediately collapse to his hands; instead, he descends to his knees in a controlled, almost fearful manner, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. His gaze is fixed on my hand… With a speed so slow that it’s almost painful, he moves his hands to the floor, fingers splayed against the cool hardwood, and drops his head, dark hair falling forward to conceal his face.

“Eyes on me, Daxton.” The words escape my lips in a breathless whisper. I never expected this image to be so intoxicating, but here he is, a picture of raw, wild desire.

His head lifts slowly, cheeks flushed a deep pink, just the way I like them. The green of his eyes has deepened to a midnight emerald, the black of his dilated pupils blending seamlessly. His tattoos, dark and shadowed, stretch down his arms, visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his thin cotton sweatshirt. His lip ring glints under the faint overhead light, and his fingers, decorated with heavy silver rings, tap nervously against the floor with every slight movement.

He’s a fucking masterpiece.

When he finally reaches me, his chin is almost resting on my knee. I sit up, leaning forward until my dick is mere inches from his lips. My heart hammers in my chest, and my breath hitches. His lips are so close that if he were to stick out his tongue, he’d lick my dick. The thought alone sends me into overdrive, my hand pumping my dick faster, squeezing the head tightly. A bead of pre-cum appears at the tip, glistening in the dim light, and Daxton’s breathing stutters.

“Shit.” The word is a low moan, drawn from deep within me. I force myself to slow down, to make this last. I don’t want to come yet, not like this. I want to be buried deep in his throat when I do.

Daxton’s eyes dart from my face to my dick, fixated on the drop of pre-cum as it rolls down the head. His breath hitches again, becoming erratic. He darts his tongue out, a quick, feral movement, and licks up the bead of cum. It’s so fast that if I blinked, I would have missed it.

“Fuck.” The word is an exhale, a release of pent-up tension. Daxton’s eyes flutter closed as he licks his lips, savoring the taste. His breaths are ragged, uneven, matching the wild beat of my heart. I can barely breathe, barely think; anticipation is coiling tight in my gut as I wait to feel those lips wrap around my dick.

“Daxton. Lips. Now.” The command escapes my lips in a husky groan as I squeeze the tip of my cock, drops of pre-cum glistening at the slit. Daxton doesn’t flinch, his lips parting slightly as he leans forward, mouth wrapping around the head, and sucks gently. I can feel the warm wetness of his mouth as he takes me in. My head falls back, eyes rolling as I release my grip, and a guttural moan escapes from deep within my chest.

Daxton doesn’t hesitate. I force my head up and look down, eyes locked on him, not wanting to miss a single moment. His cheeks cave in, creating deep hollows as he sucks, the pressure building as he does it again and again. I can feel the tension building, the familiar tightening in my balls that tells me I won’t last long. Daxton pushes forward, taking more of me into his mouth, and I know he won’t be able to take all of me, but fuck, he tries. When my cock hits the back of his throat, I swear I see fucking stars, and what feels like electric jolts shooting through my body.

“Fuck, fuck,” I pant, my balls drawing up tight, and I grasp Daxton’s hair, pulling sharply. He lets out a hiss as his lips slide off my cock, eyes wide as he looks up at me from his position on the floor.

His lips are swollen, a deep, glossy red, and his eyes… his eyes are black. There isn’t a trace of green left, just pure, endless midnight.

I grab the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and guide him back to my cock. I need his mouth on me again. Fuck, this is too good. Better than any fucking dream. Nightmare.

His lips wrap around my cock again, and I watch him. I watch as his eyes go heavy in lust, and then they flutter closed like he’s in pure ecstasy. I watch as his hand snakes down to rub at himself through his jeans. And I watch as his eyes flicker up to me, and all I see is pure hunger. And something else… relief in the way his shoulders relax and the way his eyes open and lazily close again.

Like this is what he’s been wanting, what he’s been craving, and he’s finally, finally getting it.

Well, fuck him for wanting this. And fuck me for wanting him right back.

I stand, my spine curved and fingers tangled tightly in his hair at the nape of his neck, making sure his lips are still wrapped around my cock. I tilt his head back, catching his eyes this time. I pin them with my sharp gaze, and he keeps them open, blinking rapidly despite the watery sheen glazing his eyes.

“Let me show you how much I hate you.” My voice, rough and low, cuts through the heavy breathing and the suppressed moans vibrating in Daxton’s throat. I pull my hips back slightly, then thrust forward, filling his mouth completely. The gagging noise that escapes him fuels me, and when his hands push against my thighs, it only drives me to plunge deeper.

I look down at his eyes, swimming in unshed tears, and press against the back of his throat, holding myself there. His throat convulses around the tip, sending waves of pleasure that make my eyes roll back in my head. I look down at him again; his eyes are still on me, tears now streaming down his face. “Cry for me, Daxton,” I growl. He closes his eyes, more tears spilling over. “Fuck yes.” I groan loudly, then slam my dick into his mouth one last time as he chokes, gasping around my dick for air. My balls tighten as my stomach flips, and my whole body erupts in goose bumps. I empty myself down Daxton’s throat. He gags but swallows what he can, some of it dripping down his chin.

I release his hair, and he immediately pulls back, breathing heavily, staring down at the floor. I tuck my dick away and sit back down on my bed, my chest heaving. I stare at his tear-streaked face, his cheeks flushed red, his breath still coming in ragged gasps. His lips look swollen and bruised.

He looks fucking wrecked. And that’s when I realize, in this moment, he needs to leave. He needs to go right now. Before I do something stupid, like ask him to stay.

I stand up from my bed, crossing to the door, and quietly flip the lock. The sound is barely audible, but it snaps him out of his daze. His head jerks up abruptly, and I can see his eyes are bloodshot red. I linger by the door, the tension between us thick in the air. “Let me know if Mike likes my taste,” I taunt. His nostrils flare, and he clenches his jaw tight as he rises from the floor.

“Fuck you,” he rasps, his voice hoarse and raw, yet it brings a twisted smile to my lips. Daxton grabs the handle, his shoulder brushing against mine as he swings the door open and strides out. My mind is a flurry of conflicting emotions, screaming at me to stop him, to ask him to stay. As I watch him walk down the hallway, a sense of dread creeps over me, knotting my stomach.

I hate him. I shouldn’t feel this way. I should be relieved he’s leaving.

“Daxton,” I call after him, stepping out of my dorm room. He freezes mid-step but doesn’t turn to face me. When I remain silent, he finally glances over his shoulder, his eyes dark with anger as they lock onto mine.

I should beg him to stay. I should promise not to expose his secrets about his past life.

But I don’t.

Instead, I do what I do best. “Jamie sucked dick better.” His eyes widen in shock, and he shakes his head in disbelief before storming off down the corridor, his footsteps echoing off the walls.

I want to grin, to revel in the satisfaction of fucking with him.

But instead, a hollow feeling settles in my chest.

I feel almost… sad.