CHAPTER 17

Then ETHAN MIKASON forced two fingers into him and drove them to the bottom of his throat. "Swallow every last drop. I want to see that throat full of cum."

As he did, he swallowed inadvertently around his fingers. His groan landed on his skin like a fucked-up caress.

The taste was different when it was only his cum previously. It was more fucked up, as well.

Sick.

Because he hated other people's touch and fluid, he could not manage to feel an emotion of disgust for his taste as he swallow all that he gave him the fuck up.

He couldn't help but lick and swallow.

The damn fucking drugs. It must have been.

And then ETHAN MIKASON suddenly withdrew his fingers from his mouth and stood up.

He still stared at him through a weird haze, his mouth parched and his body a hot, sweaty, and semen-soaked mess while ETHAN MIKASON loosened his wrists.

They flopped onto either side of him, limp, with no strength whatsoever.

ETHAN MIKASON's long fingers tapped against his cheek. "You were good today."

Something strange happened.

It started deep inside, down low, and like wildfire, the ember spread, racing through his chest, his arms, until he could barely breathe.

He blinked as ETHAN MIKASON came into the bathroom with careful steps.

What in the fuck was that feeling…?

His every nerve burned with heat, his skin stretched taut and flushed with heat, and his head was puffed up with confusion. They both had the same medication but he felt as if he were the only clown here.

He raised his large body up, shaking his head when he stood and the room started to spin.

Doesn't matter whether he died in a mishap. He simply wasn't around to find out what the fuck he was going to do next.

This guy was far more dangerous than his profile makes him out to be. Not because of what he did exactly—although what he did was at least unpredictable and frightening—but what actually frightened him was the way that he reacted to what he did.

Folding up his boxers and jeans in one hand, he stumbled toward the door, ripping off a jacket from the hook along the way and zipping it up.

Revenge could wait.

He had to keep the fuck at bay before he got sucked into the clutches of that unsettling man.

ETHAN MIKASON

JAX ended the amateur stalking business after he busted out of his apartment that night.

And busted out.

He watched the security tapes, and the little monster struggled into walls by the dozen, almost fell over, and held onto the elevator to remain upright.

He was bruised and battered, his face flushed and streaks of semen in his messy hair. His jacket struggled to enclose the tatters of his hoodie and the scratches he plastered across his chest.

He might have saved a few videos for…later use.

Yes, he should likely be confused about some sort of desire that he had to fuck a guy and dick him down onto the mattress as he twisted in pleasure and agony.

It's not natural, okay?

For a man like him, who is in mid-thirties hovering around to think that another man's cum is more delicious than five-star cuisine. Or that thinking about him squirting that cum into his mouth with that naughty and shocked look on his face makes him hard.

Straight men do not fantasize about other men's dicks or cum.

Or do they?

Really, who cares?

He didn't believe that sexuality had to be kept in check like some of the idiots in his group. He still thought women were sexy and didn't much care for other men.

Other than his little beast that stood him up that night. He didn't even let him clean him up.

And he didn't usually mind doing that, cleaning up his sexing partners, he meant. Maybe he just wanted to play with him a little bit more.

But he escaped before he could.

Pity.

That was four days previously.

He still had a couple of days remaining until he bumped into him in class, so he hadn't managed to keep him in sight.

A blunder he attempted to rectify last night when he sent him a text.

Him

Did you notice by any chance a brown woolen coat when you were leaving? WENTZ

How do you have my number?

You feel like you're the only one who's got adequate access to resources? Classic brain-dead rich kid.

I don't know why you like taking the opportunity to insult me whenever you get the chance, but I'm asking you for the last time to leave me alone. I'm done with your games.

He scowled at the text.

He can't be done.

That's not how this is done.