Page 10 of Win You Over

Remington

I look at my watch again. It’s past seven.

Holden said he’d be here by six thirty at the latest. When the clock hits seven thirty, I type out yet another message to him and then sit back on my bed and scroll through my phone, polishing off a bag of sour grape candy as I do.

If Holden’s not going to show, I guess I’ll come up with other plans for the evening.

When the video loads, I’m surprised to see he’s not alone.

There’s another man on screen with him, holding a blue silk paddle.

The one guy – a twenty something twink, with light blond hair – is on his knees on the bed, his ass up, a purple diamond ended butt plug sparkling between his cheeks.

The guy behind him lifts the paddle and lands it across his rosy cheeks, making his body tremble and a whimper fall from his lips.

The sounds from both guys, and the image of the smaller guy taking a lashing over his perfectly round globes, have my body heating and my cock thickening behind the confines of my grey sweats.

He turns his face towards the screen and smiles wickedly at the camera, as if he knows exactly where my mind is going.

His eyes are wet with tears, and when his partner spanks him again, he groans loudly.

My cock twitches in response, begging me to play.

Stripping off my top, I rub a hand over my abs and then up to my nipple.

The nub is hard and sensitive and I take it between two fingers, pinching and squeezing, sending bolts of painful pleasure through me.

There’s something about pain, the stinging sensation of it, the way it radiates in waves of ice and fire, that gets me hotter than ever.

My body ignites like fireworks under the right amount.

I haven’t found a partner who enjoys it as much as I do, but fuck am I good at inflicting it on myself.

On the screen, the partner has removed the butt plug and is laving his tongue over the twink’s hole, while his other hand smooths over the red blossoming marks on his perfect ass.

My hand slides down my stomach, ghosting over my happy trail before pulling the waistband of my sweats beneath my balls, freeing my aching cock.

Then, with my eyes on my screen where the men are both moaning deliciously, I take myself in hand and stroke, twisting on the up pull.

My eyes roll back when I swipe my thumb over the tip, collecting the drop of pre-cum there, which I smooth along my shaft, adding to the glide of my hand.

My breaths quicken and I force my eyes open to watch as the bigger man slams his cock into the twink, who lets out a keening wail before burying his face into the sheets.

My balls draw up tight and lightning bolts shoot through my groin, hurtling me towards the edge. Leaning forward, I spit on my cock and work myself over faster and harder. My heart races, beating loudly in my ears and drowning out every other sound.

Movement catches my attention as my bedroom door opens. My eyes widening as Holden walks in, looking harried and flushed. Our eyes lock and I can’t hold back, cannot stop my inevitable plunge over the cliff.

“Holden…” I moan his name, throwing my head back.

Cum erupts from my cock, shooting over my naked stomach, some hitting me on the chin.

When I look back at the door, Holden is still standing there.

His whiskey brown eyes, dark, narrowed on me, his lips parted.

His tongue darts out to lick them, leaving them wet and glossy.

“Heard of knocking?” I say, my voice raw, coming out in panting breaths.

I stay in that position, my hand still on my now deflating cock for three, four heartbeats.

My body flushes with sensation, my legs tingling with the afterglow.

I tuck myself away, then climb off the bed, rubbing my cum into my skin before pulling on my t-shirt.

Holden fumbles with his bag, takes out a pen and pink sticky notes. His hand shoots across the paper, before he rips it from the pad. Keeping his distance, he stretches an arm towards me and I take the messily scrawled note.

Your mom said to come up. I did knock, but you didn’t answer. Should I go?

His cheeks are rosy pink and he’s chewing on his bottom lip, eyes darting to the door, then to my desk before falling back on me.

“Nah, you’re good. I’m all done.” I pull out both chairs from my desk and sit down, then gesture to the free one. Holden walks slowly towards me, his chewed lip a shade of pink that matches his cheeks, then takes a seat.

Don’t you want to shower or something?

He writes, pushing the note towards me.

“Do you want me to shower?”

He shakes his head, his floppy dark brown hair falling into his eyes. He pushes the strands back, tucking some behind his ear before putting his pen to paper again.

I don’t care what you do. I'm sorry I interrupted your self-care.

I laugh. “Self-care? Fuck off dude. Let's call it what it is. I was watching porn and jacking off.” He bites his lip again, but otherwise doesn't react. “Why are you so late, anyway? You were meant to be here over an hour ago. I got bored waiting for you.”

Holden scribbles down his reply.

My phone died because my charger broke, and then I missed the bus. It’s been a pretty shit day.

Opening my desk drawer, I pull out a charger and hand it to him. “Here, have this one.”

He shakes his head and pushes my hand away.

“Don’t be stubborn, it’s a fucking charger.”

I don’t need your charity.

His writing is messy again, ink smudged over part of the sentence.

I’ll get a new one once I’m paid at the end of the week.

“Jesus, you’re a pain. Take the charger, Booker. Call it an apology for watching me lose my load in front of you.” His eyes move to my bed, his cheeks that pretty shade of pink again. “Seriously, take it. I’m not using it.”

He’s weary of my offer, but takes the charger from my hand. Necessity winning over whatever sense of pride he holds onto so tightly.

Holden runs a hand through his dark brown locks and along the back of his neck. When he meets my gaze again, he opens his mouth and utters a quiet, “Thank you.” It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak - it's soft and so beautiful.

“You are most welcome.” I can’t help the way my lips curve into a grin.

I think Holden Booker is warming to me.

“Have you read this?” I ask, holding up a copy of Death on the Nile.

“Yes,” Holden says quietly. While I don’t know exactly why Holden rarely speaks, a few internet searches have given me some ideas.

My deep dive tells me that if it’s anxiety stopping him, being comfortable in his environment can help.

I preen a little at the thought that these few words he’s spoken today mean I make him feel comfortable.

Settling with my back against my headboard, I flip to one of the many highlighted pages.

“This is my favourite, and I think it’s her best work, next to The Mousetrap.

That play is incredible. My parents took me to see it when we went on holiday to London.

” I flip a few more pages, smiling as I read a paragraph that I’ve not only highlighted but written notes next to.

“But this book? This is my ultimate comfort read.” I show Holden the back cover, which has a coffee stain and is slightly torn.

“I’ve had this copy for over ten years. It’s one of the few things my mom brought with her when she left home. ”

I look up at Holden and he’s studying me, his head at an angle, his legs crossed, one ankle resting on his knee as he leans back in the desk chair. His laptop is open behind him, our assignment up on the screen, waiting for us to return from our break and finish analysing Walt Whitman’s words.

“I’d love to write like this. To create a story full of mystery so intricate, it keeps readers on the edge of their seats until the last page.

Everything about it is ingenious – from the cast of characters to the detailed setting.

And you know, she didn’t imagine the setting.

She went to Egypt and wrote the book there.

All of this,” I point to my shelf of books “she accomplished while reportedly having dyslexia. She never let that slow her down.”

My hand drops to my knee and when I stop talking, I notice how quiet my room is. My eyes lift to meet Holden’s. He’s still watching me, a small grin playing on his lips. Heat floods my cheeks.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I have a tendency to go off on a tangent about things that interest me.”

Holden grunts, reaching behind him for pen and paper. The sound of a marker scraping over paper fills the silence. When he’s done, he holds it up to me and I bark out a laugh.

NERD , he’s written in big bubble letters.

“You don’t know the half of it!” I say, closing my book and placing it on my bed, then roll onto my stomach, feet bent, head turned to face Holden.

“Are you fighting this weekend?”

He nods, then points at me.

“Well, obviously I am. Undefeated, remember?”

His lips purse into thin lines as he reaches for his neon sticky notes again.

You won’t always be.

“And who is going to beat me? You?” Holden nods again, his nose wrinkling with the action, which only makes him look like an angry, murderous kitten again. “It’s cute you think you could.”

Why do you do it? It’s not like you need the money.

His handwriting is messier than usual, like he’s pushing his feelings through the plastic of the pen and into every word on the paper.

“Booker, Booker, Booker,” I muse, lifting myself off the bed and stretching, one hand over my head and the other rubbing over my stomach beneath my tee, the fabric lifting and cool air brushing my skin as I do. “Not everything is about money.”

He grunts at my reply but doesn’t move to write anything on the pad of sticky notes still in his hand.

“I fight because I like to win and because I’m good at winning.” Turning my back to Holden, I move to my shelf, running a finger over each of the trophies standing proudly on it. “State kickboxing champion for five years running. I only quit because I was tired of all the rules.”

I turn back towards him and take a few steps closer, closing the gap between us. He looks up at me as I tower over him. He doesn’t flinch, just keeps his eyes locked with mine.

“No rules, no judges, no coaches to impress. That’s what I like.

I don’t give a shit about the measly prize money.

Most times we spend it on booze. Once, we spent it all on strippers.

” I lean in a little closer. “I love the pain and the rush of adrenalin. The thrill of the takedown. The high of the win. Fighting the way we do gets my dick hard. And as much as I love fighting you – actual fucking highlight of my day – I have no intention of losing to you.”

He puffs out a breath, kicks his chair back and stands to face me. We’re nose to nose, evenly matched in height but not brawn. Irritation radiates off of him in palpable waves and he swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the slightly stubbled skin of his throat.

Without stepping back, Holden takes out his now charged phone, types something, and passes it to me.

That money isn’t a joke. Not to me. Surely, you can find some other way to get your dick hard?

“You know I can. You’ve seen it firsthand for yourself. But I. Don’t. Want. To,” I say slowly, watching as he studies my face, his eyes narrowing on each word.

“Anyway,” I wave a hand to dismiss the tension in the room. “How about we finish up here, then call it a night and grab a soda in the den? I have a pool table if you wanna try to beat me at something else? Maybe I'll give you an ego boost and let you win.”

His nostrils flare, but because I like his brand of pissed off so much, the loudest thought in my head is that I want to touch his cheek.

It’s pink with a light five o’clock shadow and I have an overwhelming urge to know how it feels against the pad of my finger.

The part of me in charge of self-preservation, though, has me tucking my hands into my pockets.

Holden looks over my shoulder at my bedroom door, then shakes his head.

My shoulders slump in disappointment. It’s like two steps forward, three steps back with him.

We’ve been holed up in my room for three nights now.

I thought we were making progress on the friendship front.

But as he gathers up his things and leaves without so much as a wave, I’m struck with the thought that Holden Booker may well be the one person in his town who doesn’t want to know me.