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Chapter thirty-three

Daxton

E con is easily the worst class I’ve ever signed up for. Maybe it’s because I’ve let myself fall so far behind. Right now, my life is all about art, hockey, and Trayton King. I’ve neglected everything else. I warned the dean this would happen, but did he care? No. Not even a bit. I have to admit, though, the project has been pretty cool. I’ve created some of my best work and even started dabbling in watercolor, which I never thought I’d enjoy, but I’ve made some incredible art. Today was supposed to be Trayton’s interview, but I didn’t cancel directly. I saw Coach Denny earlier and explained that I’m behind and need today off. Trayton texted me, asking why we weren’t doing the interview. I haven’t replied.

Pretending I don’t like him is easy. It helps me get through the day. But every moment he’s in my thoughts, I ache, I feel sick. It’s intense pain mixed with fireworks exploding inside me whenever he’s near. I can’t let myself dwell on this. I just can’t. My head threatens a headache from staring at this document I can’t make sense of. Then my phone vibrates on the table. It’s Trayton video calling me. I frown at my phone and ignore it, trying to focus on the document, but my phone rings again. I glance around; thankfully, there aren’t many people around. I put my headphones on and answer the video call. A moan echoes through the speaker, and I drop my phone, scrambling for it under the table as the sounds continue. When I finally get a hold of it, it’s not Trayton’s face staring back at me.

It’s his dick.

His beautiful cock, glistening at the tip. Then the camera shifts, landing on a neat row of books that now frame his throbbing dick. My stomach churns as I scan the vast library, knowing he’s somewhere in its endless rows. “What are you doing?” I hiss into my headset, my eyes darting around.

“I came about the interview, but then I saw you—sitting at that table, deep in thought, biting your lip ring. My cock remembered what that mouth can do. I couldn’t wait to get back to my dorm.” A sigh escapes him, quickly followed by another guttural moan as his hand squeezes his head.

“You need to leave the library, Trayton. If you get caught…” I mutter, shaking my head while my own dick hardens in my pants as his hand speeds up. I can’t tear my eyes away, and when the camera shifts slightly and his face fills the frame, I almost combust. The intensity in his gaze, his hand still pumping, makes him seem almost lost in lust—drugged, with his lips promising endless pleasure and strands of brown hair falling seductively around his face.

“Fuck,” I breathe. He looks unbelievably hot. I curl my toes in my sneakers, fighting the urge to move.

“Dax.” Trayton breathes, his eyes locking with mine through the camera; that faint string I was holding snaps under the tension. Everything in me shatters as I leap from the table, my books and pens forgotten, eyes scanning each row of the library. Trayton’s moans, mixed with my name, keep echoing in my ears, his breath growing increasingly harsh.

“Where are you?” I grit out in panic as Trayton shifts the camera, his moans growing louder. Usually, the fear of being caught would overwhelm me, but I only want him—to see him break down for me, whispering my name over and over. I squint at the screen and glimpse books I’ve never seen before. I may not be a total book nerd, but I know this library well. That row is unfamiliar, so my legs kick into gear, and I sprint toward the far end of the library.

“I’m coming, Dax.” Tray’s husky voice fills my ears just as I stop at the end of the row. There, Trayton leans against a case of books. His head tilts up; his eyes lock with mine, and then he moans, calling my name in harsh gasps. His body convulses as sprays of cum hit the floor. I yank the headphones from my ears as I pocket them and my phone. I race toward him. The moment I reach him, his body shudders again, and I grab his face in my palms, crashing my lips onto his. Our tongues clash in a frenzied, aggressive dance. I slide my hand around the back of his head while his creeps up, wrapping around my neck. We wrestle for control of the kiss, but Trayton wins when his fingers tighten, and he tips my head back, his rough mouth forcing its claim. Our teeth meet as our kiss grows even more frantic until Trayton pulls away slightly, still one hand gripping my throat. His other one slides under the waistband of my jeans, caressing me as I moan, and I watch his fingers trace the length of me beneath the fabric.

“I want to taste you.” His words are quiet. Before I can even blink, he spins me around so my back hits the case of books behind me, then drops to his knees, unbuttoning my jeans.

“Tray, no,” I hiss, trying to push his hand away, but he overpowers me, smoothly pulling out my throbbing cock. All I can do is stare as I weakly plead, “Tray, don’t.” My eyes dart to the end of the row. When I look back, he smirks up at me.

“Let me show you how sorry I am, Dax.” Without further warning, his mouth wraps around my cock, and my head spins with pleasure. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. He works me deep, taking me until he gags around the head, and I can think of nothing but the overwhelming sensation.

My arms grip the bookcase behind me as I pant. “Oh my god, fuck.” I jolt at the shock of his tongue teasing around my piercing. Then he sucks on the head and swiftly makes fast work of swallowing my dick down again.

I lower my head as I watch him take my throbbing cock deep into his mouth, his eyes initially closed before snapping open and locking onto mine. In that fierce gaze, heat, desire, and raw desperation blaze back at me as he never once breaks our contact.

“You look so fucking good, Tray,” I murmur, my hands raking through his hair as I savor every moment. Droplets of saliva escape his mouth, streaming down his cheek, but he doesn’t falter—he turns into a deliciously messy display on the ground. My dick swallowed eagerly by his hungry throat.

Trayton King is on his knees, sucking my dick.

The sensation of his warm, wet mouth, his tongue relentlessly caressing my piercing and the tip of my cock, sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through my body. My entire being trembles, my balls weighted with desire as a tingling heat ignites every nerve, as though he’s draining my very soul. Sensing my shudder, he pulls back briefly, then takes charge with his hand, stroking me hard and fast. “Let me taste you, baby. Let me swallow every drop you give me,” he growls.

“Fuck, Tray.” I moan as his lips return to claim me, showing no restraint. He sucks, licks, and gags with an uncontrolled passion, his saliva mingling with my pre-cum as he works over me with the precision and intensity of a champion scoring in his game.

“I’m coming, Tray.” I’m hoarse as I grip his hair, my fingers tightening as I come, repeatedly grunting his name in pure ecstasy. His moans, the deep vibrations of his throat resonating against me, send me spiraling into a wave of euphoria. My body electrifies—my feet tingle, butterflies swarm every inch of me, and my stomach churns as if on an endless rollercoaster—until the rush slowly subsides, leaving me slumped against the bookcase.

Trayton stands before me, his thumb gathering the mix of spit and cum that glistens on his lip. Moving in closer, he presses his thumb to my open mouth. I exhale a deep sigh as my tongue wraps around it in a deliciously submissive embrace. With a sly flick, he hooks his thumb behind my teeth, drawing me in until his lips graze my ear.

“I’ll see you in the locker room in twenty minutes for that interview,” he whispers, kissing the side of my neck before stepping back, giving me one last tantalizing glance. With a smirk playing on his lips, he walks away, leaving me barely standing and reeling with the truth—I had Trayton King on his knees, yet I was never truly in control.

I set up the camera—apparently, I can’t say no to Trayton. I’m irritated with myself for even being here—he didn’t even ask.

“I’ll see you in the locker room in twenty minutes for that interview.”

Prick.

But after he practically drained every ounce of energy from me, I did exactly as he requested; I scrubbed my foot across the floor, trying to get rid of his cum stains, and gathered what little I had left from the table. And now I’m here, waiting for him to finish showering so I can get this interview over with.

Ten minutes later, Trayton appears and sits in front of the camera, wearing the most maddening smirk. His eyes sweep over me, lingering on my lips, and it almost feels like he’s devouring me with his gaze. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, recalling how irresistible he looked with my cock in his mouth—and I quickly remind myself that this isn’t the time for such thoughts.

His grin widens even further. My cheeks burn, and I can tell he notices because he chuckles. Damn him for making me feel this way. Damn him for draining me, for keeping me here like a helpless mess, and damn him for turning me on while his eyes remain fixed on my lips.

“Trayton.” I clear my throat, unwilling to let him watch me like that during the interview.

“What did you want to ask me, Dax?” His hoarse question echoes in the quiet locker room, yet his eyes never leave my lips. There’s so much I want to ask him—why he makes me feel this way, what he gains from this, what exactly he wants from it, whatever this messed-up situation is.

Our eyes lock, his eyebrow rising in a silent challenge.

“For the interview, Daxton. What did you want to ask me?”

Damn—yes, the interview. This is exactly what he does to me; my mind goes to mush in his presence.

“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat again, shifting in my chair as I try to get comfortable, though I’m far from it.

Our gazes remain locked, and his raised eyebrow dares me silently. But dares me to do what?

“What are you thinking about right now?” I ask, his grin morphs into something similar to the Joker, his eyes sparkling as they slowly travel over my body.

Suddenly, it feels like the temperature has risen—did someone turn off the air conditioning?

When his eyes meet mine again, they widen as he spreads his legs out, and all I want is to crawl to him on all fours and climb him like a tree. His thumb brushes against his bottom lip, drawing my gaze back to his—I know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Next question,” he growls. I nod, frozen like a deer in headlights, wondering how I can be this aroused so soon after he just left me completely spent. All I can imagine is bouncing on his cock where he sits, marking him as mine by spilling all over his chest.

God, I need a cold shower—and maybe an exorcism.

Clearing my throat for the third time, I ask, “What do you love about Devil Hawks?”

His reply comes instantly: “Why don’t you ask me something you really want to know? Not for the camera. For you.”

I’m momentarily stunned. First, he wanted this interview formal, and now he wants it to be just us, sitting here trading questions. I take a deep breath and then ask the one question I’ve always wanted to: “Do you believe in love?” His eyes dart to the camera still recording. He told me to ask what I wanted, and here it is. No backing out now, Trayton.

“No,” he answers flatly. “What does love mean to you?”

Is he serious?

“I’m leading the interview,” I protest.

“And I’m asking a simple question.” But it’s far from simple for me—a loaded fucking question.

“Love can mean so many different things. It might be one thing for you and a thousand things for me.”

“What does love mean to you?” he repeats. I try to give a straightforward answer, but of course, that doesn’t suffice—he wants to dig deep, to peel me open and see just how much more he can hurt me. And sadly, I let him—time and time again, so I answer truthfully.

“To me, love is the person I’d run to if I knew we had only one more day on Earth. It’s the person I’d want to lie with when everything crumbles around us—no fear, no tears, just us because that’s what it would be. Being content with them on my last day in this world.”

We sit in silence, staring at each other as if he’s processing it before slowly nodding.

“If I ever figure out what love means for me, I’ll let you know. But don’t hold your breath.” He turns to the camera. “Over and out.” Then he stands and walks toward his locker, leaving me sitting there, utterly stunned.

“You didn’t answer any questions—what the fuck?” I call, leaping to my feet and storming after him.

“Wasn’t feeling it,” he replies, his tone suddenly sour and flat.

“Wasn’t feeling it?” I shout louder. “Wasn’t fucking feeling it?” I throw my head back, laughing in a mix of disbelief and raw anger. The sheer nonchalance of his “wasn’t feeling it” stuns me, and I fix him with a searing glare as he stands there, eyes dark and explosive, daring me to push further.

“Because it’s all about Trayton—what he wants, when he wants it, and WHO he wants,” I scream. “Nobody else matters, do they? It’s their time, their effort, their fucking feelings on the line!” The words tumble out in a stream, not all perfectly on point but all fueled by simmering rage and desperation. “Trayton King, parading around Hawksview with those broad shoulders, those mesmerizing eyes, and that glorious fucking dick—he does exactly what he pleases, with no regard for anyone else!” For a split second, a trace of a smile crosses his face before it vanishes into a look of resigned defeat.

“Just sit in that chair and see how you like it when I hurl questions that make you uncomfortable,” he snaps. I laugh bitterly, shaking my head and spreading my arms wide in exasperation.

“You just did. You told me to ask you what I wanted to know. So I did…” My voice drips with challenge. “Ask me anything—make me uncomfortable—because if that big, egotistical Trayton King gives you an order, you obey without question.” I watch him, his eyes wide, shocked, and is that wonder, as I push him further. “You know, I wasn’t even planning on doing these interviews today—I’ve got other work that isn’t all about ice hockey,” I snap, my fingers cracking crisply in the charged air. “But you knew that, didn’t you—Coach would have mentioned it—yet you demanded I be here. Now you say ‘Oh, I’m not feeling it?’” I suck in a breath. I’m vibrating with fury, but underneath it all, I’m vulnerable too. “This isn’t the fucking Trayton show!” My jaw tightens as I continue, unable to tamp down the torrent of emotions. “So, what do you want to know, Trayton King? Do you want to hear that life is a miserable shitshow? That I despise it most days? Or perhaps”—I go wide-eyed, snapping my fingers at him—“that I’ve thought about dying more often than I’ve truly thought about living?”

“What?” he murmurs softly. I hadn’t meant to let all that spill out. It just happened in the heat of the moment.

“Forget it,” I mutter, the fiery urge to unleash my anger dissipating now that I’ve said it. It’s something I never intended to reveal. Trayton cautiously steps closer.

“Do you think about dying a lot?” he asks, his surprise evident. “Dax.” His gentle voice fractures something within me, and I take a deep breath.

“I’ve thought about it plenty,” I admit, exhaling heavily. “It’s not the idea of leaving this world that frightens me. It’s the fear of failure, the agony of it not working, that haunts me more. I researched the least painful ways. Taking a bunch of pills and drifting into sleep seems the least painful. But then I wonder, what if I don’t take enough? What if it fails? What would be the point? Just to end up in a hospital bed for days, feeling like absolute hell, only to return to school where people who despise me treat me like a freak. Back to a so-called home where torment and beatings await.”

“But why?” Tray snaps, desperation in his voice.

“Why?” I laugh bitterly. “Because I sit here, Tray, and I can assure you there’s not a single soul who’d shed a tear if I died tomorrow. No one cares about me. I have no one. I had someone once, and now he’s gone.”

“That’s not true,” he grits out, his jaw clenched.

“Yes, it is. Tell me, who really cares about me?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow.

“Me,” he says, his eyes locking onto mine, his face softening.

“What?” I must have misheard.

“Me. I care. I would be sad if you left this world tomorrow.”