I meant to see if he was still awake and tell him we could take a taxi back home. He didn’t answer when I knocked on his door three times so I let myself in and planned on leaving if he was asleep.
But he wasn’t in his room either, and just when I was going to try his home office, I heard a grunt—or more like a growl—from the bathroom, as if he were in pain.
I must’ve been on drugs when I slowly pushed the door open. Or more accurately, I was showing symptoms of the “Daniel disease” and was inexplicably worried that something might have happened to him.
Something is happening to him all right, but it’s not the dangerous type I was concerned about.
Or maybe it is dangerous but in a completely different way.
The rough, unapologetic way he touches himself is nothing short of an exhibition of domineering masculinity. The type that should revolt me and send me running for the hills.
The type that’s been plaguing my nightmares and giving me sleep paralysis. When I open my eyes, the demon I find sitting on my chest always has his face. With that twisted sneer and mocking eyes.
But there are no demons now. Don’t get me wrong, no angel is in sight either. The scene in front of me is my worst nightmare mixed with my best dream.
And I choose to hang on to the dream.
To the twisted reality.
My legs won’t move anyway, not when my full attention is honed in on the way Daniel pumps his cock up and down with savage intent that makes me clench my thighs.
His muscled biceps contract and his hips jerk with the power of his movements. It’s like he’s angry at his cock for being hard, angry at what he’s doing.
Angry that he has to get himself off.
Anger is the last emotion coursing through me, though. There’s confusion, and it’s due to other feelings. The longing and the desire I can’t and shouldn’t be experiencing.
The desire to slip my fingers inside my knickers and do something I only do once in a blue moon.
The desire to grab my embarrassingly aching nipples and pull until they’re as painful as the expression on his face.
I must’ve released a gasp at my own thoughts because Daniel’s head jerks in my direction, his eyes locking on mine.
They’re darker, more hooded, as if the night sky abandoned all of its stars and decided to be bare. Crisp. Open for me to see.
His hand pauses on his cock; I’m not looking, but I catch the scene in my peripheral vision. The only reason I’m not staring at his cock is because I couldn’t look away from his magnifying gaze even if I tried.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His words are cold, cutting, but not enough to jar me out of my messed-up state.
“I…uh…I was…”
What exactly was I doing anyway? I’m pretty sure there was a reason I came in here in the first place.
“Looking for a live porn show? Working part-time as a Peeping Tom? Picking up voyeurism as a side gig? Which one exactly?”
“No…I just…” My eyes slide down to his fist on his cock and then I quickly avert my gaze.
“You can look. If you’re so disgusted with me, you wouldn’t have a reaction, would you?”
My head whips up to his face. “Disgusted with you?”
“Isn’t that the reason you’ve been avoiding me?”
“I’m not disgusted with you.” The reason I’ve been avoiding him is because of this inexplicable rush of tingles and unhealthy heart rate.
It’s because I couldn’t trust my reaction around him anymore.
A feral gleam shines in the depth of his gaze. “Prove it.”
“W-what?”
He steps out of the shower, his muscled chest glistening with droplets of water that travel down his abs, over the V-line, and down to his still very hard and very unsatisfied cock.
There’s a tattoo on his right pec, a script that’s too small for me to read.
“Prove you’re not disgusted with me.”
“Why should I?” I try to keep my attention on his face no matter how tempting the other view is.
“Because I’m challenging you to prove it, Nicole.”
My muscles lock at those words. He’s challenging me.
Such a low damn blow. He knows I don’t cower in front of a challenge, don’t look the other way from it.
In fact, our whole fucked-up relationship, or lack thereof, was because I couldn’t say no to a challenge.
I couldn’t lose.
My feet are floating on air as I approach him, my head held high. I’m a lot of things, but as he said, a coward is not one of them.
The art of pain is an abstract form of vengeance.
That’s what his tattoo says, in bold, neat letters that should belong in a museum.
My heart lunges, thinking about the reason he had this inked on his body.
The reason he’s keeping it with him forever when he doesn’t seem to be a fan of inking his body otherwise.
Once I’m standing in front of him, I reach my hand out and touch his chest. A zap of electricity goes through me at the contact, but I force myself to stare at his eyes.
“There. I’m not disgusted with you.”
“Touching me doesn’t prove anything.” His lashes fall over his light eyes. “Getting on your knees does.”
I bite my lower lip, but it’s to suppress the need to smack him upside the head. He has me where he wants me and he knows it.
“Either suck my cock or get the fuck out, Nicole.”
I fake a smile. “Repeat that nicely and I might.”
“Nicely?”
“Oh, right, you wouldn’t recognize the meaning of that concept even if you were slammed head first with it, so here’s some middle ground. Add a please.”
“A what?”
“A please, Daniel. A word people use to ask for something.”
“Not fucking happening.”
“Then I guess you should go back to your solo jerking-off session,” I say sweetly, gliding my palm over his muscles. “It looked kind of violent, so you might want to be careful with that.”
I hesitantly remove my hand and turn to leave, equal parts thankful I dodged a bullet and disappointed that it ends here.
“Please.”
The low, strained word explodes in my ears and freezes my limbs. I slowly spin around to find Daniel glaring at me as if I’m an opposing counsel he wants to smash under his shoe like a cockroach.
But the lust from earlier still shines in the depths of his eyes.
“Repeat what you just said,” I blurt, still not believing my ears.
“Fuck no. I did my part, you’ll now do yours.” He cocks his head toward the space in front of him. “On your knees.”
I hesitate for a beat, then lower myself before him, my knees scraping on the hard tile floor.
“I want you to lick me first, then choke on my cock like a filthy little slut. And make it good, otherwise you’ll lose.”
“And if I win, you’ll grant me something,” I say, half calm, half shriveling, and dying due to his dirty talk.
“You already have a job. That’s your something.”
“Aside from that, and don’t use the job to get your dick sucked unless you want a sexual harassment complaint.”
“That’s a lot of crude words in one sentence, Miss Prude.”