Page 2 of Kiss, Kill, Thrill Me, Daddy

“You were watching me,” he said matter-of-factly. “When I was dancing. After I was done.”

“Da,” I responded. That earned me a raised brow. “I could not look away.”

He stared down at his cock, then back at me, the corner of his lips curling. “I hope you don’t mind. I’m tipsy and horny and in the mood for a bit of revenge. Care to join me?”

“Revenge?” I asked, unable to tear my eyes away from his cock.

“Yeah. My boyfriends are assholes.” His hand slowly tugged upward, and he did this adorable move where he twisted his wrist on the upstroke, whimpering when his fist slid over the head. “Your voice is really cute.” When the words were out, his cock twitched.

“Youreverythingis cute.” I sounded like a punch-drunk fool, and I think we both knew it. The hearts in my eyes. The grin on my face. It felt like I was meeting my celebrity idol. As I took a cautious step forward, he met it with one of his own. He’s such a small man. Tiny is an understatement. He can’t weigh more thanone-ten, soaking wet. Even then, standing chest to chest, his eyes were barely level with my lips. “You’re quite small, little one.”

His breath ghosted against my neck when he nervously asked, “But I’m big where it counts, right?”

I stared at it for a moment before telling him honestly, “It is the most beautiful penis I have ever seen.”

There was a song playing through the speakers. An old track by a man singing that their love was too good to be true, and how he couldn’t take his eyes off of them. It felt right, in a way. Like the song had been written for this precise moment, shared between these two specific people. As the chorus played out, I leaned in, singing softly into his ear, “Oh, Pretty Baby.”

In less than five minutes, Tatum offered me a glimpse into a world I’ve known little about. I’ve always known I was bisexual, but up until then, I hadn’t had the chance to fully explore my sexuality. Whether it was down to fear or just a lack of opportunity, I’m not entirely sure. The farthest I’ve gone was playing with married couples. During those encounters, it always felt like staring at the other men’s cocks was strictly forbidden. Not with Tatum. Tatum’s eyes told me he wanted me to watch. To see him come undone at the seams. It felt like an explosion. A black hole, drawing us in and swallowing us whole. It felt like many things, but most importantly, it feltright.

“What’s your name?” he asked as he stroked his cock. My lips were ghosting his cheek, pulling out whines and whimpers each time we touched. To anyone else, I would have answered the way I always do. A formal offering of “Kincaid.” The name Abi hurts too much to hear. That’s why I surprised myself when I leaned closer and kissed his cheek, murmuring, “You may call me Abi, little one,” into his ear. “Will you come for me, little one?” I lowered my hand in front of his cock, giving him a target to aim for. The hand not holding his cock reached behind me, fingers threading through my hair as he pulled me closer. Our foreheads touched, and I whispered, “Come for me.” His head fell back, and he came with a whimper. I had towrap an arm around him to keep him steady, and his eyes followed my cum-coated hand as I reached into my underwear and slathered his load into my dick like lotion. His mouth was hanging open, but he didn’t object to the action. He had a bewildered look in his eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was allowing himself to do in the presence of a stranger. It was as if his body was running on instinct and his mind was simply along for the ride.

I’ve never allowed anyone to use my first name. Not friends. Not the family I’ve found along the way. I’ve told myself it’s due to trauma, and maybe that’s true in its own way. Or maybe I just wished to keep one thing for myself, after everything I’ve had taken from me. With Tatum, I don’t feel the urge to hide. In the bathroom, I wanted to share it with him. I wanted him to know it, and, for some reason, I wanted him to knowme.The man I’ve kept hidden, even from myself.

I was born Abdulov Konstantin. My father’s name. He was not a kind man. Shortly after my tenth birthday, my mother first noticed signs of my attraction to the same sex. Knowing what the future might hold for me in Russia, she stole me away and brought me to America. Once we were here, Abdulov Konstantin became Abi Kincaid. We spent months searching for safety, and my mother found that safety in her second husband. He took me in as his own, but I was never his. Not truly. Three years later, after my father tracked us down, I watched my mother and stepfather die. My name was the last thing my mother ever said. The fear in her eyes—fear of what my father would do to me once she slipped from this plane to the next—haunts me; never leaving, never fading in intensity.

It was the night I took my first life, and I rest easier knowing my father will never harm anyone again.

Now, I’ve rewritten my existence, wiping away Abi until all that’s left is Kincaid. I’ve always thought I was hiding that part of myself from the world. Now, I think I may have been saving it forhim.

The soundof the pantry door swinging open pulls my attention away from Tatum’s picture.

“If you could stop staring at the twink’s profile long enough to help me form a plan, that would be swell,” Fiona says, rooting through Scotty’s cupboard for something to eat. She pulls out a pack of ramen and scowls. “Who the hell eats this shit? It’s just empty carbs and toxic levels of sodium.”

“People who can’t afford anything else,” I say, zooming in on his profile picture. God, he’s beautiful. The platinum hair. His soft curved jawline. That ridiculous smirk reflecting back at me. I lick my lips at the sight of him, remembering the way his load felt in my hand. “Not everyone grew up in the lap of luxury, Fiona. People struggle.”

She sighs. “Obviously, I know that. I’m just saying. We’re stuck here until we can think of a way to find them. Excuse the fuck out of me for being annoyed that we’re living off a diet of starch and dehydrated noodles until then.”

I don’t know how much longer I can deal with this. I like Fiona, as a friend and as a fuck buddy, but our bond has always been more physical than emotional. We get along well enough. We’ve traveled the world, but she’s never journeyed into my heart. Now, with the looming threat of an untimely death, not even a quick midnight fuck can bring us back to the happy pair we once were. She complains, I shut down, and in the end, we both wind up with red faces and elevated blood pressure. I’m starting to think the only thing we have in common is Brody. Now he’s gone, and I don’t know who we are without him. I don’t know whoIam without him.

As much as I want to track down Brody and bring him home where he belongs, I think Fiona and I both know we’re running a fool’s errand. Even if we find him, there’s no way Brody willallow us to kill Scotty. I can’t blame him. I’ve only known of Tatum’s existence for a few days, and the thought of anyone harming him fills me with rage.

God, this profile picture will be the death of me.

“There has to be something we’re missing,” Fee says, opening the ramen packet and snapping off a small section of dehydrated noodles. When she pops the noodle into her mouth, the crunching sound is both loud and unnecessary.

“There’s nothing. We’ve searched every inch of this apartment.”

Her eyes are narrow as she opens her mouth, probably to unleash more venom, but we both fall silent as the sound of footsteps echo through the dark hall leading to Scotty’s apartment door. There are only two units on this floor, and from what I can tell, the other apartment is vacant. When I look up, Fiona is already moving, hiding inside the tiny pantry in Scotty’s small kitchen. I hop off the sofa and rush for the bedroom door, directly beside the couch. Crouching, I hide behind Scotty’s chest of drawers on the other side of the wall.

The door opens, then closes. I listen as footsteps grow closer, only to stall inches away from me. Scotty’s sofa creaks, and a loud exhale escapes our mystery guest. On the bed, Fiona and Brody’s dachshund, Daisy, is lying on her side, her sleepy eyes locked on mine. The day we arrived, she made Scotty’s bed her home, probably smelling Brody’s scent still on the sheets. I bring a finger to my mouth and shush her, and it almost looks like she nods, understanding the severity of the situation. With an extended yawn, she closes her eyes and falls back into a peaceful slumber.

On the other side of the wall, someone makes a call that rings once before being forwarded to voicemail. The automated voice drones out a phone number, alerting the intruder their friend is unavailable. Once it beeps, I hear the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

“Benji, it’s me.”

The little one. My little one.

He’s on the other side of the wall. So close I could punch a hole through the apartment’s drywall and touch his cherubic cheek, should I so desire. And, believe me, my desire to touch him is stronger than anything I’ve ever felt.

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