Page 31 of Hollow Heart

Swallowing nervously, I run my palm over the underside of my shaft, where Felix is pierced.

I imagine the tiny silver bar against my fingertips, as a memory from long ago reminds me what steel through a cock feels like against them.

I rock my hips as I build my rhythm, the sensation of euphoria building like a wave. Back and forth, back and forth.

I let my gaze focus on his oil-slicked skin, his vibrant tattoos.

His thick, pink, tattooed cock.

I try not to think about the fact it’sFelix.

Because that would be weird.

The man who acts like a spoiled child is so vastly different from the raspy-voiced singer in my ear, from the sinful looking man holding his cock, teasing me with his piercing.

They aren’t the same person.

They can’t be.

My balls tighten, and I know I’m close. I fist my cock faster, letting my head fall back, closing my eyes.

When I come, it’s full of relief.

My heavy cock twitches as I press my head against my shirt, cursing myself that I’ll have to do the laundry tomorrow.

I fumble for my desk drawer, my muscles feeling a bit like jello.

Good thing I keep a towel in here. Christ.

When I come back from the heavens and my cock has softened, I feel guilty.

Not because of what I did, but because Felix’s bright blue eyes stare at me in judgment as the last line ofCarnagerings out in my ear.

You think you can escape the devastation you leave in your wake

But you can’t fight the carnage, baby, because your carnage is mine to take.

CHAPTER 10

Felix

I turnover the vinyl case ofHollow Pointe’s most popular album. At least, according to the record store clerk, their debutLovin’ On The Runwas the mostpopular—but in his opinion their third album,Shot In The Dark, was the best.

I bought all fourHollow Pointealbums, if only because when I tried to search the band on Spotify nothing came up.

Seriously, what artistisn’ton Spotify?

That’s highly suspicious.

The sound is unmistakablyveryeighties, but it isn’t terrible.

The lead singer, Isaax Peregrine, has an almost operatic voice that seems well stated to heavy drums and blaring guitars.

I swivel back and forth in my lush, red hand chair—it’s one of my favorite items in my house—with my cat, Samson, purring away in my lap.

I swear he’s the only cat on Earth who can sleep through the loud music playing in my home studio.

I stroke his soft, warm fur as I scroll through my search results on my phone.

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