Page 62 of Hired Help

I believe him. Even if he returns to being the boy I know later, right now he’s a vicious sadist who means to keep his promises, his threats.

“Yes,” I say, my throat so tight my vocal cords ache to push that one syllable free.

“Before or after the dance?”

My world has shrunk to the tiny cage of my face, his face, the knife. There’s nothing else but the threat, both spoken and unspoken. The realisation he might hurt me for lying but will definitely hurt me for telling the truth. “Both.”

A sound escapes his throat, a keening noise like an animal suffering a fatal shot but not yet exhausted enough to fall to the ground.

The sound makes my chest ache.

But the blade presses more firmly against my skin. Colours flash in my eyes in time with my heartbeat, swamping my vision whether my eyes are open or closed. His fingers sink into my hair, pinching, blunt nails scratching at my scalp. “Get on your knees.”

That twinge of arousal fires again, bringing a flash of heat to my core. “Harrison, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

His hand twists in my hair, tugging strands out by the roots. “Get to your knees. I won’t ask you again.”

He pins me so firmly against the wall that when I try to bend, his pressure keeps holding my torso in place. It’s not until he shifts back, releasing my hair, that I can sink to the floor, eyes fixed to his, searching for the scraps of the boy I love. Craving that connection.

The hand with the blade presses it flat against the wall above my head. With the other, he fumbles at his fly. I take over from him, my hands shaking as I unbutton him, pulling the zipper down.

When I pull out his cock, it’s already erect, throbbing so hard the head judders in time with his pulse.

“Open wide,” he whispers, and I hold him near the base, turning my face aside from the angry red blushing his tip as my throat closes, anxiety shrinking it to nothing, needing just a moment to gather myself.

But he doesn’t give me time. His hand twists into my hair again. “Didn’t you hear me? Open your fucking mouth.”

I do, gasping in a breath as he shoves himself into me, driving hard so the head bumps against my upper palette, hits the back of my throat until I gag, chest heaving with the spasms, but he still doesn’t stop, doesn’t quit. I close my eyes, picturing Daegan standing above me, hearing the gentle tease in his voice while his massive cock chokes me, constantly reminding me I’m in control.

And I take control now.

My head tilts as I open my throat, moving to take more of him, swallowing even as my oesophagus closes and tears stream down my face, saliva dribbling as my throat muscles clench and clench again, my body’s protective instinct trying to force out the obstruction and utterly, utterly failing.

The colours flashing in my eyes turn darker and a high whine pierces my eardrums. My attempts to inhale and swallow cause the muscles to ripple along my neck, along my windpipe.

I grab his arse, pulling him closer while my other hand cups his balls, squeezing gently, then moving to his base as I slowly suck along his length, moving far enough back to draw a breath, pumping him with my hand while I pause, then guiding him deep into my throat again.

“Fucking hell, Brooke.”

There’s a scrap of the old Harrison in his voice and I shift on my knees, trying to tilt my head back, trying to make eye contact.

Between the tears gumming my lashes and the lights fading to black, I can barely see him. When I blink, there’s an instant of clarity, of watching his mouth hang open, eyes narrowed, an expression close to rapture.

I pick up speed, finding my rhythm. Harrison’s hand loosens from my hair, stroking against my cheek, the sweet gesture somehow harder to bear than his threats.

In penance, I take him deeper, holding him inside like I’m trying for a record.

When I withdraw, I come off him completely, using my hand to keep the same pace, my saliva providing all the lubrication needed.

“No one said you could stop,” he whispers, hand cupping my skull while he eases his cock back into my mouth.

The urgency is gone but the gentleness is a lie; his hand relentlessly pulls me forward while his hips thrust him deeper into me, filling my throat and then stopping, holding me there while his eyes close to slits and a low moan escapes his mouth.

“Anyone would think you’d been getting lessons,” he murmurs, laughing at his own joke. “Did you tell Dad who you were studying so hard for?”

His fist twists in my hair as the words reignite his pain. He holds me steady, thrusting rougher than before, the carelessness setting off ecstatic ripples through my body.

“Hold it right there,” he groans, the fingers cupping my head turning to steel clamps as he plunges into my mouth, picking up speed, the movements so relentless it feels like his cock is clawing at my tongue, my soft palette, bruising the tender area at the back of my throat.

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