Lords of Pain (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University
Lords of Pain: Chapter 18

Friday is my early day, no late classes. I’m surprised when Tristian meets me outside the building, leaned back against the wall of the open corridor, sunglasses perched on his nose. Other people cast him glances as they pass, and I know it’s not just because of his reputation or standing as a Lord. Standing like this, his blond hair shining in the sunlight, throwing the sharp edges of his jaw into relief, he looks like the picture of perfection.

And he’s looking right at me. “Lady.”

Swallowing, I ask, “Did your lunch get cancelled?” This morning, he’d told me once again that he had a lunch date. With the same two people. It’d been a relief at the time—two whole days without any very public lunchtime ‘encounters’—but now I’m mostly curious.

Is there some loophole in the contract around my fidelity clause for him, too?

“Hm,” he hums, peering at me over his sunglasses. “That’s how you greet your Lord?”

I look around, noticing all the eyes on us. It’s different when I’m alone. People see my wrist cuff and seem to give me a wide berth. But when one of the Lords is near, it’s like everyone is watching, waiting for a show.

Tristian, I know, likes giving them one.

With that in mind, I go to him, reluctantly winding my arms around his neck. He doesn’t dip down to meet me, making me strain up on my toes to press our mouths together. For his part, the kiss is unhurried, one of his hands coming down to land on my backside, giving it a squeeze that probably looks fond. His tongue is hot and lazy against mine, but no less insistent.

“Good girl,” he says, giving my ass a light smack, keeping me close. I can feel him against my hip, half-hard and growing harder the more he crushes me to him. “To answer your question, I thought about it and figured you could join us for lunch today.”

Us. I don’t know who that involves, and I don’t ask. It’s pointless. I’m beginning to sink into the acceptance that I’ll know what comes when they want me to know. It’s a sobering realization to have, knowing that this is shaping me, molding me into someone compliant and quiet.

But it’s for the best.

The look Tristian gives me as he leads me away—sharp and satisfied—tells me he notices.

I spend most of the drive preparing myself, heavy with dread and restless nerves. He said he had lunch plans with two other people. It’s not the guys. I have to assume it’s with two women. Maybe this is the loophole he’s found in my fidelity clause; bringing me along, making me participate in some way. Maybe he’s even going to want me do something with them. That’s completely outside my wheelhouse. Then again, maybe he just wants people to watch the two of us. That’s definitely in Tristian’s wheelhouse. This could be it. This might be my last drive as a virgin.

Part of me is relieved. All of the Lords are awful in their own way, but if I had to choose…

I could do worse than Tristian.

I’m so anxious that I don’t even realize it when the truck stops, let alone the building we’re parked in front of.

His hand rests on my thigh, thumb caressing the skin just below my skirt. “You ready?”

“Listen, Tristian,” I start, hands wringing in my lap.

I have this whole speech about how I’ll be good for him—I’ll go along with it, I’ll be compliant in the agreement we’ve made—but that I’m begging him for kindness and understanding and—

One glance at the building makes my words die in my throat. “Wait. What are we doing here?”

The sign says we’re at the Forsyth Hills Elementary School.

He reaches into the back seat, pulling out a bag from a local deli. “It’s Friday. I have a standing lunch date with the two most important women in my life.” He gives me that slow, loaded grin of his. “I figured now that you’re my Lady, you all should meet.”

I seriously have no idea what he’s talking about, but at least some of the fear has dissipated. I don’t think he’d push me into a threesome at the elementary school.

He rings the bell and the buzzer sounds, unlocking the security door. He then strolls over to the check-in desk and grins at the older woman. “Here I am.” In all my glory, goes unspoken, but I can still hear it in the tenor of his voice.

She grins broadly when she sees him. “Tristian! Twice in one week, my goodness. The girls will be beside themselves!”

“One lunch just wasn’t enough this week, what can I say?” He scribbles his name on the sign-in sheet and adds mine underneath. “How are you today?”

“TGIF, and all that.” She hands him two stickers, and he peels off the back of one, placing mine on my chest. It’s a circle that sunnily declares, “Forsyth Hills Visitor.”

He gestures down the hall and I follow, still trying to get my bearings. Something about seeing Tristian in the narrow hallway feels surreal. He looks so much bigger here, impossibly more imposing. Up ahead, I see the double doors with the word ‘cafeteria’ on a sign overhead. The strangeness of it all stops me in my tracks.

I grab Tristian by the arm. “Before we walk in there, care to tell me what’s going on?”

He pauses, cradling the bag under his arm, and if I didn’t know better, I’d almost say the way his face scrunches is bashful. “I have ten-year-old twin sisters. Every week, I come and eat lunch with them.”

“Oh,” I respond, blinking in surprise. The photographs from his room pops in my head. I thought they were of the same girl, but maybe not. Plus, the bad pottery. The knick-knacks. Signs that Tristian cares about someone enough to disregard appearances. “That’s, um, really nice of you, I guess.” And totally out of character.

He sighs, pulling me aside, hand cradling my elbow. “Look, Rath and Killer are my boys. They know me better than anyone ever could or will. They’ve both got fucked-up families they have no problem leaving behind, so that’s how they see me. Family.” There’s something in his eyes as he looks toward the doors, solemn yet at ease. This is important. This is a vulnerability. “But these two girls are my real family. However screwed up my parents are, I won’t let these two get caught in it. They’ve been through a lot for ten-year-olds, and they think I’m Captain fucking America. They think I’m a protector.” He gives me an intense look, face hardening. “And it’s going to stay that way.”

I swallow, trying to imagine anyone counting on Tristian to protect them from anything. “Then why bring me here?” I’m probably the last person who can sing his praises.

His mouth forms a tight, tense line. “I don’t usually bring in outsiders when I’m dealing with my family. Not even the guys. But we’re having a bit of an issue, and I thought maybe you could help.”

“Help?”

His jaw clenches. “Some little bitch in their class is causing them grief. Picking on them, bullying them. And I thought…” He makes a vague gesture at my body. “Well, you know.”

“That I would know how to handle being bullied?” I give a dark laugh, hardly able to believe it. “You brought your glorified sexual assault victim to teach your little sisters about…what? Standing up to assholes? Bringing them down? Shaking it off?” I shake my head. “Jesus, Tristian, Shakespeare couldn’t write this kind of irony.”

I can tell it’s not lost on him, because Tristian has this way about him. It’s this thing where he might have a great poker face, but at the end of the day, he’s a complete fucking brat. “I would deal with it myself, but a twenty-year-old man going savage on a fifth grader isn’t going to fly.” At my incredulous expression, his eyes narrow. “Don’t give me that shit. You owe me, Cherry. I figured you’d prefer me cashing in like this. I know you’re taking a child development class. Don’t you want to go into social work or something? This is more up your alley than mine.” He looks away, grimacing. “And, it may make me look weak, but it kills me, not being able to help them.” I can tell he means it too. It’s in the way he won’t meet my gaze after the confession, the subtle tinge of pink on his cheeks.

Tristian is willing to look weak—willing to show me this truly significant vulnerability—if it means protecting his sisters.

I’ve done my best to keep my heart out of this. It’s enough that I’ve handed over my body to these guys, and honestly, a big chunk of my brain. But my heart? That’s mine and I’ve tucked it away behind barbed-wire and padlocks and solid, metal walls. But hearing Tristian say that about his sisters? Well, fuck. He just knocked a chink in all of my defenses. Even if I wanted to say no to him, I couldn’t say no to two little girls going through something difficult.

“Fine,” I assent. “I’ll do what I can.”

Naturally, he doesn’t say thank you. He just opens the door, revealing the roar of children’s voices and laughter. The cafeteria is busy and large, but he seems to pick out his sisters instantly, waving across the room. My eyes follow, landing on two identical blonde girls excitedly waving back.

He smiles, a grin lighting up his face. It’s such a strange thing to see. Where his gaze is usually chilly and hard, here it becomes warm and bright. Just before we reach the table, he leans down, whispering, “If you make me look bad here, you’ll be repaying your debt another way, got it?”

Bristling, I offer a curt, “Got it.”

“Tristian!” they squeal, hopping up and giving him a hug. He places the bag on the table and draws them both into a tight embrace. He hugs them like he means it, planting two loud, exaggerated kisses on their cheeks.

“How are the two prettiest girls in the world?”

They both giggle, even though their curious gazes jump to me. When he releases them, he looks up at me and says, “Girls, this is Story. Story, meet Izzy and Lizzy. The two prettiest girls in the world.”

The Mercer genes sure are something. Izzy and Lizzy really are just as pretty as their brother. Their blonde hair is just as fine, styled flawlessly into matching French-braided pigtails, blue eyes staring guilelessly back at me. They’re the picture of little girlhood—a palette of pinks and cuteness, right down to the little purple flowers embroidered on their cardigans.

“Hi,” I say, a smile coming easy. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Izzy seems shy, reaching up to pat at the bag Tristian’s carrying. “What did you bring for lunch?”

Lizzy adds, “We’re hungry.”

Tristian takes a seat and the three of us follow suit. “Sandwiches on whole wheat. Tuna, avocado, and pickled onions for Izzy. Lots of good omega-3 in here,” he tells her, giving it a tap. “Apple, turkey, and Brussels sprouts for Liz, because you need more vitamin C.” He takes a third sandwich out, placing it in front of me. “A bahn mi burger for Story. Plenty of nutrients for energy.”

I look at the burger dubiously. “Energy?”

He casually explains, “You start the day with a lot of energy, but you crash at noon.” He says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I can tell because you get cold and stop fidgeting with everything.” He nods to where I’m hugging my middle, even though I’m wearing a sweater. “You could avoid it if you skipped the coffee and got more B-12 with your breakfast. I’m working you up to it, don’t worry.”

I stare at him, warring between how creeped out I am, but also…weirdly touched by the thoughtfulness. This whole arrangement is starting to get to me. “Thanks.”

I think.

I might not be fidgeting, but Lizzy sure is. She’s holding a plastic fork, spinning it around and around. “Is she your girlfriend?”

Tristian freezes, eyes jumping from her to me. “Is she my…?” He clearly didn’t see such a question arising, mouth working around a series of aborted replies. “Well, you see…”

I decide to save him. “I’m a friend, who’s also a girl. So, I guess I kind of am.” Lizzy frowns thoughtfully, but she seems to accept it, nodding along.

Izzy thankfully changes the subject. “Why’s your name Story?” she asks.

I laugh, caught off guard by the question. “It’s kind of lame, actually. My grandma always used to call my mom her sweet little poem.” I don’t tell them that this eventually became more of a sarcastic insult than anything. My mom and grandmother never got along. I only ever met her once, and I was too young to remember much except the tension. “So when my mom got pregnant with me, she said she decided to write a story because poems were too short for happy endings.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to stuff them back. Pretty bleak message for two sunny ten-year-old girls.

They watch me pensively, absorbing this. “Some poems have happy endings,” Izzy argues.

I nod back. “Yes, some do. My mom eventually got one of her very own.” It’s still awkward to think about, what with Daniel and Killian, so I hastily divert the topic, unwrapping my sandwich. “What about you? What do Izzy and Lizzy stand for? Izzica and Lizzifer?”

They both laugh, which is a relief. “Isabel and Elisabeth!” they say in such a perfect unison that it’s impressive.

Izzy lays out her sandwich, not even scrunching her nose at it. If someone had presented me with either of those monstrosities as a kid, I would have thrown a fit. “Did kids ever make fun of your name because it’s not like others’?”

“Sometimes,” I say, surprised at the question. “But I liked that it was unique. It didn’t bother me.”

Lizzy points across the room to a girl with dark, curly hair. “It bothers me. Shelly Baker calls me Lizard Face.”

Ah, this must be the bully.

I take a moment to size this Shelly Baker up. She’s surrounded by a whole group of other girls, plus a couple boys, laughing and poking at something on her lunch tray. It’s hard to hold much against a ten-year-old from this vantage, but Izzy and Lizzy seem sweet—a stark contrast to their brother.

Her voice lowers, eyebrows scrunched moodily together. “She also makes fun of Izzy for being in the slow group for math.” It’s glaringly obvious that this is the true source of Lizzy’s scorn for Shelly Baker. She can handle being made fun of for her name, but someone poking fun at her sister’s learning abilities? That’s a step too far.

The Mercers are very protective of one another.

Frowning, my mind strays to Rath. Dimitri. I’d spent all of last night thinking up ways of teaching him to read without making it into a whole thing. Defensive is too gentle a word for him when it comes to his reading skills. “That’s really mean. Math is hard, and plus, I’m sure Izzy is better than a lot of people at something else.”

Izzy immediately straightens. “I’m good at softball!”

Lizzy agrees, “Way better than Shelly.”

“See?” I smile at them, picking at my burger, trying to think of something profound to impart. “The thing about bullies is that their main currency is your reaction to them. If you don’t give them a reaction, they’ll stop bothering.” At their skeptical expressions, I nod. “Yeah, that seems pretty hopeless, I know. Because bullies are also really good at knowing what gets a reaction.”

“Are girls mean to you?” Izzy asks, seeming to warm up to the discussion some.

“Sometimes, yes.” I think of Charlene, and how to explain to these two innocent children that girls are easy compared to the boys. “In my experience, when a girl is being mean, it means she sees me as competition. It’s one of the worst compliments you can get.”

“What did you do?” Izzy says, staring up at me with sad eyes.

I take a furtive look at Tristian, who’s watching me back. I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but I know that this is a complete sham. Because I don’t do anything except make it worse for myself. I roll over. I comply. “I can tell you how I wish I handled it,” I offer, a white heat blazing in my chest. “I wish I’d fought back harder, even when it felt pointless. I should have not cared so much, and then maybe I wouldn’t have been so easily hurt. I should have asked for help, from someone worth trusting. Someone who cared.” It’s an idle, wistful thing. No one’s ever cared. Not about me. But maybe about these girls.

“You should have a big brother,” Izzy decides, nodding with such confidence that it almost makes me laugh despite the black thing gripping my heart. “Big brothers make everything better.”

I give her a smile that feels rusty and wrong, thinking of the tapestry of bruises currently occupying my skin. “Not all big brothers are as good as Tristian is to the two of you. You’re very lucky to have each other.”

Tristian suddenly clears his throat, voice deceptively cheery. “Hey, we better get started on these sandwiches.” I watch as the three of them begin eating, but my appetite is long gone, snuffed out by the lump that’s settled in my throat. Tristian must notice that I’m not eating, because he nudges me with his elbow, voice low. “Eat what you can.”

Mechanically, I raise the burger, determined to only bite off as much as I can chew.

For once.

Lunch is nice after that. Even if I’m still lost in a fog of self-pity, I still do my best to put on a good face for Tristian. But the truth is that I’m worried for them—for the life they’ll have in this world. Right now, they’re so sweet and open, laughing with their big brother about some mobile game they’re all competing in.

It’s interesting to watch Tristian with them, so absent of the cold artifice I’m used to. He’s relaxed here, just as confident but far less intimidating. He’s attentive, asking about their homework, interrogating them on the state of their bedrooms at home, making sure they eat enough. I can see little girls all around the lunch room, eying him dreamily, and I know that plenty of them are jealous of the sisters for having such a cool, handsome, and sweet brother.

It doesn’t begin really smarting until the ride back to town.

“What will you do later?” I wonder, breaking an abnormally solemn silence. He hasn’t said more than three words to me since we left.

“Later?” he asks, sparing me the barest glance as he accelerates through a yellow light.

“Later,” I flatly confirm, staring out at the scenery. “When some asshole forces one of them to their knees and shoves his—”

The truck jolts sharply. “Don’t you fucking dare finish that sentence!” he barks, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “They are ten!”

I shrug, unaffected. “They won’t be forever. Those things happen.”

“Not all girls are like you,” he answers, giving me a hard look. Quieter, he adds, “Not all guys are like me.”

“More than you think,” I argue. “Ask any woman. Most have had some kind of experience at some point in their lives. Hell, I’m only nineteen and I’ve yet to meet a guy who didn’t…’ I trail off, snapping back to reality enough to feel uncomfortable.

“That’ll never happen,” he says, jaw tight. “I’ll fucking kill every guy on Earth if I have to.”

I look at him, searching his face, but he mostly just seems annoyed. I want to know, though. I want to know how he reconciles protecting one girl as he’s hurting another. I want to know what he tells himself to make it feel okay.

He flips on the stereo, drowning me out, before I can gather enough courage to ask.

The brownstone is scrubbed clean when we arrive home.

It’s taken all of yesterday and the whole morning to get it back together following the party. The stink of beer and cigarettes have vanished under a fresh lemony scent. Everything is back in its place.

I enter the kitchen and replace Ms. Crane sliding a casserole dish into the oven.

“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, eager to take my mind off the lunch. “I know I wasn’t much help yesterday with the party clean-up.”

Ms. Crane flaps a hand at me. “I’m used to picking up after pigs, girl. These little frat fucks are barely house-trained. But I have a secret to making it all go by quick.” She reaches into the pocket of her knitted cardigan, revealing the top of a flask. “My little helper.”

Blinking, I awkwardly offer, “Well, the house looks great. You’d never know there were a hundred people in here.” I wrap my hand around my backpack strap. “If you don’t need anything, I’ll head upstairs. I’m supposed to help Rath with something tonight.”

“No,” she says, halting me. “That maggot-faced asshole’s jacket came back from the cleaners today. Take it to his room. Sick of hearing him bitch and moan about the way I hang his stuff. These three are fussier than a house of toddlers.”

“Of course,” I say, happy to do anything productive and helpful that doesn’t involve opening all my wounds in front of the person who helped give them. It doesn’t hurt that I know Killian isn’t home right now. I carry the jacket, still wrapped in the cleaner bag, up the stairs to the second floor.

I stop in front of Killian’s door and gently knock, my pulse ratcheting up at the possibility of him answering. I’m paranoid enough to consider that Ms. Crane is in on the mind games the boys are playing, and not too foolish to barge in on him unannounced. The ache in my arms and legs is warning enough. As I suspect, though, he’s truly not home. It doesn’t stop my heart from pounding as I carry the jacket over to the closet and, after deciphering his system, hang it carefully inside. As always, I’m struck by the tidiness of everything, all wrapped up in the way his warm, distinct scent lingers in the air.

I close the closet door and face the room, eyes landing on the mahogany desk against the far wall. The surface is neat—books stacked by size, notebooks and folders organized upright. It’s the exact opposite of his rage-fueled assault on me the night before. His laptop sits in the middle, screen open, but dark. Blood rushes to my ears as I walk over to it and run my shaky fingers over the keys. The screen lights up and the prompt appears for his password. Curiosity gets the best of me and I start typing.

Lords

Incorrect password.

ForsythU

Incorrect password.

After trying every variation of the school mascot I can think of, I swallow and add in four letters.

Story.

Nope.

Glancing around the room, I suddenly spot the framed photo on the dresser. What was his mother’s name? Debra? Darla. I type the name in and press return.

Password accepted.

My heart lurches when it opens, spreading out the icons on his desktop. Like everything else in his room, it’s painstakingly organized.

Curiously, I go to his folders and skim the files, but the only thing I replace are papers and essays written for school. Scrolling down further I replace a folder labeled ‘LDZ’ and click the mouse. There are dozens of other files, including one named ‘Lady Applicants’, and ‘GAME POINTS’. Game?

Ugh.

Football crap.

There’s another folder, though, interesting only because of the name—‘South Side’—and the fact that clicking on it gives yet another password prompt.

Before I can start trying more passwords, footsteps echo on the staircase.

“Shit,” I mutter, exiting out of the tabs. I make sure the laptop is exactly the way I found it before darting to the door. Peering into the hallway, I hear the quick pace of footfalls continue up to the third floor. I step out of the room, shut the door, and don’t breathe again until I’m behind the locked door of my room across the hall.

I catch my reflection in the mirror across the room and push up my sweater sleeve to look at the bruise on my arm. It’s twice as bad as it was that morning. If Killian caught me snooping around his room…I shiver and pull down my sweater. I don’t even want to think about the consequences.

Later, I run into Rath and Tristian on the stairs. They’re both out of breath, shirtless, clad in only loose gym shorts and sneakers. Their chests are shiny with sweat and I pause a moment on the landing, caught off guard by the sight of their muscles, all slick and bulging. Rath has a dark line of hair below his belly button, disappearing behind the obscenely low-hanging shorts, and my gazes fixes to it like glue.

I jerk my eyes away, face heating. “Uh, hi.”

Tristian’s rolling a basketball in his hands, a thread of amusement in his voice. “My, my. Look at her blush.”

Rath pitches forward to speak near my ear. “My eyes are up here, Story.”

I clutch the books I’m holding to my stomach. “You guys coming or going?” I’d told Rath we’d spend the night working on his upcoming oral exam, but maybe he’s bailing. Part of me hopes that’s the case.

“Just finishing up.” Tristian says. “Rath owed me a rematch.”

“Too bad you lost again,” Rath says, grabbing the ball from Tristian and deftly spinning it on top of one finger. “You’d think you’d learn.”

“You would,” Tristian says, “but I’m a notorious glutton for punishment.”

He winks at me and continues up the stairs. Dimitri starts after him, but I grab his sweaty arm, holding him back. “Are we still meeting tonight?”

He brushes the hair out of his eyes. “I don’t see the point.”

“You said you’d let me try.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead bites out a terse, “Fine. But I need to shower first. You can wait in my room.”

It’s not exactly the stamp of approval, but I don’t let that discourage me. If he can’t pass this test—or worse, if he tries to replace some way to cheat—the Counts might hold it over him, and then poor Ms. Crane might become forfeit. Even without what I’d overheard the afternoon of the party, I’ve been watching enough to know that Ms. Crane is treated well. Sure, the guys throw barbs at her, but no harsher than the ones she lobs back. Tristian’s are as close as they ever get to having actual heat behind them, and even he’d jumped to her defense.

Something tells me the Counts won’t treat her as kindly.

I follow him, carrying the books up to his room. It’s still as messy as it was the last time I was here, books and instruments, record albums and music sheets piled haphazardly. The black piano is the focal point of the room.

“I’m just going to lay out a few things, okay?”

“Whatever,” he says, walking into the bathroom. The door shuts and a moment later the shower turns on. I shift anxiously before the leather sofa, flipping through the books apprehensively.

I don’t know what level he’s at, which is a problem. Most of the books and flash cards for teaching this stuff are aimed at children. Rath would blow a damn gasket.

We just need to get him through his oral exam, is all. After that, we can take things into a more legitimate direction. He’d told me he read the material—through an audiobook—so at least he knows it. He needs to write the report, and then present it thoroughly, if not verbatim.

As I’m pondering Rath’s skills of memorization, the shower turns off. When the door to the bathroom opens, the room fills with a warm, steamy, soapy scent. Dimitri walks into the room, drying his hair with a towel, shirtless once again, clad in only black skinny jeans that hang low on his narrow hips.

Jesus. He’s beautiful, with those dark eyes and angular features, damp hair falling unkempt around his face. His lips are a dark pink, adorned with those two shiny rings, and in this moment, when he’s not looking at me like I’m a toy to play with, body loose and relaxed, I really can understand why women are attracted to him.

He hangs the towel on a hook on the back of the bathroom door and grabs a black T-shirt out of his dresser. “So,” he says with no enthusiasm, “how do you want to do this?”

“Well,” I say. “I brought up some snacks. Would you like something?” I’ve noticed he has a bit of a sweet tooth—the heaps of syrup he pours on his pancakes and the bottles of soda he carries around all day are a good tell. Ms. Crane keeps the pantry well stocked with baked goods and treats, so I’d thought to bring some up with me, along with some drinks.

He glances at the spread I’ve arranged by the couch, face blank. “A beer, I guess.”

I grab one and pop off the top. Handing it to him, I begin, “Okay, let’s get started.”

He takes a seat on the bed across from me, tipping the bottle back as I talk. The lighting in here is different from any of the other bedrooms. Rath keeps it low and moody, a lamp illuminating him into a dark silhouette against the chaos of his room.

I’m about ten minutes into explaining a carefully crafted set of mnemonic devices when he suddenly speaks.

“Where’d you get that sweater?” His eyes have drifted somewhere below my neck, glued there, heavy-lidded.

I pause, confused. “It was just in my closet.” When he takes a slow drag from his bottle of beer, I slowly begin again, “So you can memorize the paper we write, which isn’t exactly learning, but it’ll get you—”

“Are you wearing a bra?”

Startled, I take a glance down at my chest. “Of course not.” That’s against the rules. He knows that. I fan the book open in my lap, struggling to keep myself from squirming. “Like I was saying…” As I talk, he gulps down the rest of his beer, Adam’s apple bobbing as it goes down, and this time his eyes are definitely fixed to my boobs.

He interrupts me again. “I should put on some music.”

Fed up, I fling the book aside. “What you should be doing is paying attention! Come on, Dimitri, I know you can memorize this stuff if you just got your head in the game.”

That makes his gaze harden. “Get my head in the game. Right.” Scoffing, he leans over to grab another beer. “This is all your fault.”

“What?” I glare at him. “How is any of this my fault?!”

He rakes a hand through his hair, expression flustered. “You come in here in that sweater,” he explains, gesturing to me. “You expect me to pay attention when your nipples are pointing at me?”

Blushing, I stutter, “That’s not my fault!”

“Yes, it is.” He rises to his feet, pacing, shoulders tense. “You put that stupid fucking fidelity clause into the contract, and now I can’t get any goddamn action! I haven’t had a good nut in forever. I’m a guy, Story. My brain doesn’t have any clarity until I’ve come my brains out nice and proper.”

I gawk at him, at a complete loss for words. “Uh…”

“Killian has his pregame rituals, and god knows Tristian probably busts one every time he looks in the mirror. But me? I’m going fucking crazy here. I’m round-the-goddamn-clock horny.”

Stiltedly, I wonder, “Can’t you just…uh, you know?” He looks almost fascinated by the lewd gesture I make, stopping in his tracks to watch my fist go up and down.

“What do you think I was doing in the shower?” He rolls his eyes. “It’s not the same.”

“Oh.” I deflate, watching him warily.

“But you’re right,” he adds, dropping back onto the bed, flopped out on his back. He scrubs his palms over his face. “I have to pass this fucking exam. I just can’t focus.”

Fiddling with the corner of the page, I can’t help but bitterly wonder, “Why haven’t you made me do something about it yet?” It hasn’t escaped my attention. Killian and Tristian have taken their pleasure from me.

But not Rath.

He drags his hands down his face, turning to curl a lip at me. “Please. Tristian and Killian might get off on all that, but I can get it from girls who actually want me. Why bother struggling with someone who doesn’t?” Shifting his gaze to the ceiling, he adds in a quieter voice, “It’s not the same if they don’t want it. It’s basically like jacking off, except maybe even worse.”

I watch him, taken off guard by the confession. That’s nothing like the Rath I remember from back in high school—the guy who definitely got off on me doing something I very vocally didn’t want to do.

Maybe he’s changed, though. Maybe being in college with new girls—more girls—has shifted his views on it. Maybe Dimitri Rathbone is actually turning into someone who’s not a monster.

Suddenly, he perks, levering himself to his elbows. “Maybe we could have Martin alter the contract. Only once or twice. Just so I can concentrate when I need it. Like how Killer has his pregame fucks, right?”

I stare at him owlishly, pointedly not saying how terribly that ritual had gone for Killian—and me—last time. “I…I don’t know?”

He groans, head lolling back. “Shit, they’d never go for it. This whole thing is useless.” I frown as I watch the defeated curve of his shoulders. “Maybe everyone is right. Maybe I’m just fucking stupid.”

“You aren’t stupid, Dimitri!” I insist, feeling suddenly angry at the word. “You play music like nothing I’ve ever heard. You’re beyond good, you’re practically a genius! You just need to get through this.” But I can see that I’m not getting through. He’s already given up, attention clearly fixed on the piano across the room, fingers fidgeting as if he could feel the keys beneath them.

“What if I,” swallowing, I try to work up the courage to voice the thought running through my head, “wanted to.”

His forehead puckers, eyes finally meeting mine. “Wanted to what?”

I know my face must be beet red. It feels so hot that I press my palms to my cheeks, stomach flip-flopping. Shakily, I offer, “I could…suck you.”

He raises a slow eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you want to give me head?”

Grimacing, I look away, embarrassed. In many ways, he’s right. The thought of doing it makes me vaguely queasy.

It also makes me feel hotter.

It makes me curious.

“I don’t…not want to. I want to do what it takes for you to pass this class,” I try, ignoring the way he’s looking at me—baffled and slightly annoyed. “If you’re this distracted all the time, we’ll never get anything accomplished.”

“I don’t know…”

“You’re cute and everything,” I continue, talking myself into it, “and who knows. If I’m not being forced to do it, maybe it’ll be different,” I wager, sounding far more even than I feel. “Maybe I’ll like it.”

Or, at the very least, not have nightmares about it three years later.

From my periphery, I think I see him smirk, but when I turn, his face is just as passive as ever. “You want to suck my dick?”

Mashing my lips together, I give a single, uncertain nod.

He doesn’t look impressed. “Begrudging nods aren’t really the vibe my dick’s going for. Thanks anyway.”

I pull in a burning lungful of air, willing my stomach to settle at the words I offer. “Dimitri. I want to…suck you off.” At his blank stare, I elaborate, “I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it, so you might have to be patient. But I mean it. I do. Want to. Especially if you think it will help and technically, I am the one that put that no-sex rule in the contract.”

He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes straying back down to my chest. “Alright,” he decides. “If you want to.”

Still, it takes my body a moment to actually get into motion, standing from the sofa and rounding to the foot of the bed where he’s sitting, legs spread, dark eyes tracking me from beneath his long lashes.

I rub my palms nervously against one another before slowly sinking to my knees. His thighs are warm and firm beneath my hands when I reach for him, uncertain, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t tell me to do something else.

So I run my palms up and down, stomach fluttering with nerves when I feel his muscles flex beneath the denim. I can’t tell if it’s impatience or just his way of moving with me, into me. Taking my time, I ascend to his waist, avoiding the obvious bulge right in front of me, and reach for the button of his jeans, popping them open. The sound of his zipper lowering sends a strange, sudden spark of electricity into the pit of my belly. I watch the teeth separate, curious about this flash of…anticipation? Is that what this is?

It isn’t until I reach forward to hook my fingers into the waistband, giving the jeans a tug, that Dimitri responds at all, lifting his hips for me.

I lean back on my heels at the sight of him uncovered, finally following that line of dark hair beneath his bellybutton to the thick, hard cock waiting below. My exhale escapes in a slow gust, and for a moment, I have no idea what to do.

Then it twitches.

I reach out slowly, hesitantly, running my fingertips along the taut, velvety shaft. Dimitri makes a noise, deep in his chest, gritty and low. That’s what gives me the courage to finally wrap my palm around it, just like I’d done for Tristian the other day.

“That’s it,” he sighs, reaching forward to touch my hair. His fingers weave into it, curling around to the back of my head, and I make the mistake of meeting his gaze, seeing how dark they’ve gotten, how soft his lips look. My own mouth parts on an exhale and his eyes dart down to watch. “You want to suck me, baby?”

I edge closer, giving a small nod. “Yes.”

His hand tightens in my hair, pushing me toward where it’s fisted in my hand. “Go on. Give it a little taste.”

Closing my eyes, I open my mouth and give the tip an experimental lick. It’s not much. I barely even have the taste of him on my tongue. But his thigh tenses beneath my hand. Waiting. I go a step further, pushing the tip all the way in my mouth. I give it a slow, gentle suck before releasing him, testing the waters. His hips buck slightly, chasing the warmth of my lips. I can tell from the growing weight of his hand on my head that he’s getting impatient and eager, so I finally sink my mouth onto him.

“Fuck yeah,” he sighs, fingers kneading my head. I can feel the heat of his eyes on me, watching, voice low and rough. “That’s it, baby, make it nice and wet. You like that?” I hum in response and he groans, hips surging up. “You can take it deeper. Come on, I know you can.”

I’m still reeling from the taste of him, salt and flesh, and the shape of him against my tongue. I want to explore it, replace out what it is about this that’s sending a parade of tingles right into my core.

As if reading my mind, he asks in a coarse whisper, “Making you wet, isn’t it?” He gives a shaky chuckle, hand pressing me down a little harder. “You’re such a squirmy little thing when you’re horny. I bet you’d look so good all tied down, wriggling all over the place, so fucking hungry for a dick that you wouldn’t even feel embarrassed about the way you look.”

His words bring a renewed heat to my face, but they do even more for him. He swells in my mouth, hand pressing harder and harder. I’m no blow job queen. The only one I’ve ever given was to Tristian that night, but in my sugar baby days I read and watched a lot of videos. I do my best to emulate, using my tongue and lips, sucking and teasing the salty head when his hand lets me rise.

He probably sets the rhythm more than I do, but I’m secretly grateful for it—this gentle instruction, free of violence and spite and greed. The more he does it, the more I want to show that it’s working. That I’m good. That I can be good, if I just had a little damn kindness about it.

Dimitri seems to understand, giving me praise in low, ragged, bitten-off curses. “Fuck, just like that. Your mouth is so fucking hot. I’m going to fill it up, make you choke on me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Swallowing my come, tasting me all night.”

I know that’s what he wants, and I know because of that I’m going to do it—swallow him down. But it’s almost like he’s asking. It’s almost like he cares what I want.

“I’d give you permission,” he says, voice sounding more breathless. “And you’ll use it, won’t you? You’ll go to bed tonight and finger yourself thinking of this.”

I suck him with vigor, humming along to his filthy sentences, uncaring of the spit dripping down my chin. I know it’s coming when he gets bigger, harder, surging in my mouth. I knee forward in anticipation, willing myself not to panic when his hand pushes me down, driving his dick in deep.

He comes with a long, tremulous groan, hand fisted tight into my hair. It’s different from that time with Tristian. This time, I can taste him, the heat and the tanginess of his semen. I can appreciate that quiver in his abs as they flex, hips jerking up as his shoulders give a single, hard shudder. I can hear his gasp, and know it’s over, know that it’s okay to slip away and give a hard gulp, swiping a hand over my mouth. This time, I can see him flopped out on his bed and feel something other than nauseous at the sight of his satisfied expression.

This time, I have a purpose, and I feel less like a toy and more like a Lady.