Page 22 of Mean Machine

Brooklyn kept thrusting, rolled his hips, felt Nathaniel relax, respond to him on that most basic level. Push back, breath controlled by their movements, every gasp when he thrust confirmed Nathaniel was loving it. And so was Brooklyn. His clawing mellowed, arousal melting something inside him, and he relented. He pulled Nathaniel up and pushed his knees under him, hand grasping his cock.

“Too….” Nathaniel groaned, then tightened and came. With barely more than a touch. Brooklyn thrust harder and faster to get off too, turned-on beyond belief that Nathaniel had just lost it like that. Where was the man who’d played mind games so effortlessly?

Right now, he was quivering right under Brooklyn, taking every thrust, every touch like he deserved punishment, until the pleasure crested. No thought of pulling out, he bore Nathaniel down into the mattress again and came deep inside. He’d wanted that. Badly.

He enjoyed feeling Nathaniel’s chest expand underneath him, the play of his muscles, something like a tremble coursing through his body. The smell of male lust all around them. Brooklyn closed his eyes, listening to Nathaniel’s breath, and rested there, still inside him, for a while, until the sweat had dried.

He pulled out and rolled off to lie on his back. A quick dash into the bathroom to get rid of the condom. When he came back, Nathaniel’s face was half-hidden by the pillow, the dark eyebrow relaxed. No frown. No pain.

Then Nathaniel inhaled deeply and turned his head. Lips opened. “You’ve wanted to do that for a while.” No question.

Should he deny it? He should probably tell him it was nothing personal. That he preferred fucking to being fucked. “I don’t get much chance.”

Nathaniel chuckled. “Nobody else sending the guard away?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Brooklyn sat at the side of the bed, over the covers, his back against the headboard, at once tired and restless. “What do you think? I’m not my own man.”

“No, you’re not.” Nathaniel reached up and traced the muscle of his thigh. “There’s a lot of rage.” His fingers dug into the muscle. “I’d be the same way, in your position. It amazes me that people assume anybody would just submit to being effectively owned by a corporation.”

Brooklyn closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. “Still, you paid money to see me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Nathaniel rubbed his face and sat up, then turned to look at Brooklyn. “I’d make it up to you if I knew how.”

And that was really the core of it all. Nathaniel paid for this, expecting to be fucked. No surprise, no force, nothing but a fantasy, and one Brooklyn shared. He’d wanted it, and he wanted it again, maybe even soon.

Life was too bloody complex like this. He couldn’t make sense of Nathaniel or this situation. Nathaniel wasn’t one of those perverts that bought control of him and paid handsomely for it. None of them cared in the least about what he said or thought. None cared if he felt anything. If he enjoyed it. But the most nefarious thing was that he agreed to it in the hope to one day claw his way back out of the hole. If he was capable of beating men to shit in the ring, surely he was able to put up with the rest. If it took a few years off his stewardship—if it opened the path to retirement before he hit eighty, surely it would all be worth it?

“Why?”

Nathaniel sighed. “We’re back at the why question. What about this: I wanted to meet you. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted you. I’m gay, Brooklyn. You’re very much my type. And I thought you’d enjoy it too. Treat you well—for a change.”

“But why meet me?”

Nathaniel frowned, but it looked compassionate rather than displeased. “I was curious. I heard of this up-and-coming champion. I happen to have connections. But even more, I heard about your case. Your conviction. I have come to the conclusion that it was wrong and should be overturned.”

“Great. You’re the only one.”

“They made an example of you, Brooklyn.”

“She’s fucking dead, okay? Dead. And I killed her.” Brooklyn got off the bed, the surge of rage a red haze in front of his eyes. He shook his head, tried to control it. He could kill in that. He felt the rage like a living thing beating against the insides of his skull, an almost painful pressure against his throat.

“Yes, you did.” Nathaniel watched him, but there was no judgement. No forgiveness. Just accepting the facts.

Brooklyn wanted to beat the neutrality out of him. Make the man hate him, despise him. Hurt him, and hurt him bad.

He fought it down, couldn’t entertain the thought or the memory. Only remembered a bloodied head and legs that kicked, uncoordinated, automated. And his own horror when he understood what was wrong. Three years served so far—was that even beginning to dent what he owed to society? No.

He stood there, aware of Nathaniel getting up too. Nathaniel left, and a while later he walked past the open door in a bathrobe, still tying it around his waist. The calm presence in the suite was even bearable. Les would have tried to touch him, but how ironic, the guy whom he’d fucked knew when he needed a moment to himself.

You’ll regret you were born, Marshall.

Mr Marshall, as a policeman you need to adhere to higher standards of conduct, so you will be judged to the full extent of the law.

“You said they made me an example?”

“I believe they did.” Nathaniel came into the bedroom with two steaming mugs, set one down near Brooklyn, and leaned on the doorframe.

“Explain.”

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