Page 59 of The Legend Next Door
“Do you want me to tell you what to do?” I ask.
This time, he nods hard and fast, many times, like someone or something is shaking him.
My hand traces the line of his shoulder, forefinger and thumb parting when I get to his neck. I slide my hand under the visor of his cap. I take hold of his tension and strangle it gently. “Do you want me to tell you what to do even if it involves making you kneel for me?”
“Yes,” he says quickly. His voice is soft and breathless, but there’s a certainty in it that’s cast in stone. It’s a certainty I need. A certainty that shakes something beautiful loose. “I want that.”
I use the grip I have on him to lift him to his feet. He stands before me, wide-eyed, hands shaking at his sides. I grab a throw pillow from behind me, dropping it onto the floor between my feet.
“Kneel,” I say.
He drops like his strings have been cut. Like whatever was holding him upright is no longer there.
I breathe it in.
The power.
The privilege.
The sight of this gorgeous boy on his knees for me.
Ordinarily, I’d play with him. I’d tease him and test him. I’d touch him and turn him on till he moaned.
I don’t do that now because he’s already moaning. Not moaning exactly. He’s making a soft mewling sound that he’s trying to bite back by clamping his lips together.
Whimpering.
He’s already whimpering.
For me.
My blood runs thick from the sound. The sight. The rightness. It congeals in my veins, slowing everything in the room and speeding it up. Arousal roars through me. Rips through me. Tearing me open and dragging me to my feet.
I’m hard. Everything is hard. Molten metal solidifies and holds me up as I fumble with my belt. My movements are fast, uncoordinated and jerky, desperate, as the strap springs free of the buckle. There’s a soft whistle of leather whipping through belt loops.
Before me, Jeremiah swallows hard. His eyes are dark, pupils blown out so wide I see flames in the shadows. He looks up at me, watching my every move. Waiting. Waiting for me to tell him his fate.
“Open your mouth,” I say when it’s decided.
32
Jeremiah Blake
Apulsingveinmeandersdown Ben’s arm, down the back of his hand, all the way to his pointer finger. It’s prominent, blue-green, cloaked in a sumptuous layer of skin. He picks at his top button. Carefully. Delicately at first, and when that doesn’t have the desired effect, his jaw tenses and he uses both hands to rip his fly open. A string of buttons come loose and part to expose a hefty bulge.
A dream bulge.
It occurs to me dimly that this particular bulge might be the reason I was put on Earth.
If I could move, I’d reach up and help him. I’d drag his pants and underwear down all the way to his ankles so I could see as much of him as possible. I’ve done it before, helped men out of their pants. I’ve done it lots of times, and I’d do it again, except nothing about this time is like any of the other times.
I can’t move, for one thing. Ben hasn’t told me to. I haven’t tried, but I don’t need to. I know I can’t. I know it’s impossible. I’m paralyzed, and I’m not at all upset about it.
There’s been a shift in me. An exchange. A give and take that happened on the back of a nod and a single word.Yes.Things that were mine, things that have always been mine, things like power, will, and control, are his now.
I know it, and he knows it.
My mouth is ajar, jaw wide open because he told me to do it. I haven’t swallowed in ages. I haven’t looked away or blinked either.
