s*x in C Major

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The first thing Stefan knew was light.

Blinding, brilliant light. And it hurt.

In fact, everything hurt. His head was pounding. His stomach felt sore. His feet ached. And his jeans were digging uncomfortably into his skin.

Wait, his jeans?

Stefan unglued sticky eyes, and squinted through the blinding light. It was a wintry sun, streaming through a window above his head. He was in a small room, in a small bed, and completely alone.

For a brief moment, panic sliced through him. This wasn’t his room. And how—

He raked his memory, and came up short. The bus station. Rubbing one out in the toilets to the fantasy of that guy hate-f*****g him in the cubicle. Then he’d gone drinking. He had some hazy memory of vodka shots, and a lesbian couple having an argument, and bright blue eyes.

But he didn’t know how he’d got here.

Gingerly, he levered himself out of the bed. He’d not had s*x, he was pretty sure of that. And he was fully dressed—the only things missing were his shoes and coat. He even had both socks on. And he stank like a nightclub toilet.

Carefully, he cracked open the bedroom door. It only led onto a small landing, with two other closed doors and a flight of steep stairs disappearing downwards. The carpet was thin and the boards creaky. The window above the stairs showed a narrow street of terraced houses outside, bright red under a grey sky, and lined with badly parked cars. A bus was struggling to fit through the tiny stretch of road left available, and a couple of women in burkhas were pushing buggies single-file past closed front doors.

Stefan had no idea where he was.

Halfway down the stairs, though, he realised he wasn’t alone. He could hear a radio playing, and as he reached the hall, a door opened and a man appeared.

Stefan’s thigh tingled.

The hand that had squeezed it was hanging down by the man’s hip. Stefan’s memory scraped together a whisper by his ear, a sticky kiss, and a hand in his back pocket steering him down side-streets and alleys.

“You’re up,” the man said blandly.

“Um…”

“Remember anything?”

“Not much,” Stefan said weakly, and felt his face flooding with heat.

“Well.” The man leaned a hip against the door frame, and Stefan’s gaze flickered down. He was only wearing jogging bottoms, hanging low, and dark curls were visible just above the waistband. “Suffice it to say you shouldn’t get drunk in bars and tell strangers you’re trans and have rape fantasies.”

Stefan swallowed. “I—”

“It was stupid. And dangerous.”

The man’s voice was deep and steely, and Stefan found himself struggling to breathe. Or take his eyes off the long stretch of slight pecs and gentle abs that led down to those curls.

“I’m sorry. Sir.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. Stefan held his breath.

“Nothing happened last night.”

“We kissed.”

“You drunkenly lunged at my mouth,” the man said coolly. “It’s hardly a marriage proposal. Now get your coat and go.”

Stefan’s stomach twisted, and he suddenly—violently—didn’t want to leave.

“But you brought me home!”

“So you wouldn’t get picked up and raped for real by some pervert. Like I said, not a marriage proposal.”

Stefan scrambled for something. Some reason to stay, some reason to get what must have been offered last night.

“You—we kissed, and you touched my thigh.”

“Astounding. Out.”

“I owe you thanks! Don’t…don’t you want me to thank you?”

“You can say thank you, then you can go.”

“I could thank you some other way,” Stefan suggested, daring to step a little closer.

The man didn’t move.

“I owe you. For looking after me. “

He wanted—something. Anything. The man was tall and dark and dangerous. Stefan was in his house. He’d spilled secrets he should never have spilled at that bar, and he didn’t know the first thing about this stranger but that he lived in a narrow street of terraced houses.

The man could blackmail Stefan. Force him to do anything. And God, Stefan wanted him to do it. Wanted some kind of reward to be demanded.

Freak, something whispered in the back of his head, but Stefan didn’t want to listen to it. He only wanted to listen to the deep, slow timbre of a stranger’s voice.

“I don’t f**k drunks.”

“I’m not drunk now,” Stefan murmured, and reached out. The fabric of the jogging bottoms was warm and soft, and he cupped the weight in them. The stranger was heavy; he would have an impressive length.

He was athletic. Not built, like the guy from before, but still strong. The man could shove Stefan to his knees, no problem. Could choke him on that d**k and come on his face, then kick him out into the cold like that, for everyone to know what had happened.

“Let me thank you,” Stefan whispered.

The man raised his eyebrows. He didn’t move, either to pull away or pull Stefan closer.

“You stink of booze and you’re so hungover you’re cross-eyed. Not interested, and you’re not my problem. I don’t need another plaything.”

Stefan caught on the phrase.

“Another?”

“Out.”

“If—if I were yours, would you punish me for last night?”

The man finally moved. He caught Stefan’s wrist and yanked it away, slamming it—and Stefan—up against the wall. Suddenly, Stefan was pinned between plaster and person, heat at his front and a chill at his back.

“If you were mine—”

The words were hot rushes over Stefan’s lips. His world had narrowed to two blue eyes, so intense and hard that Stefan’s knees sagged and he whimpered aloud. His d**k throbbed, and he bucked his hips forward against the man’s cotton-clad groin.

And Stefan could feel something not entirely soft there.

“—I would lock you away for a week, and nobody would touch you—not even yourself—to get your stupidity under control.”

Stefan’s jaw sagged.

“But you’re not. I have a plaything already.”

Stefan’s lips ached. His blood was humming. He could feel a hardness pressed up against his thigh, and there was a hollowness inside that demanded it.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Punish me. Please.”

“I have other toys.”

“I don’t care,” Stefan whispered. “I don’t care, please, you can use me and just chuck me aside again, I need this, I need you, please—”

The fist in his hair hurt. It pulled at his scalp in a searing pain. The teeth that bit at his lips scraped and tugged blood free, and he whimpered as air was dragged from his lungs. The hot tongue that pushed past his teeth was demanding; he felt as though he was being ripped inside out, as though this stranger could—would, should—just shove past everything and own him, force him, keep him, use him—

Then he was shoved towards the door, dizzy and cold.

“You’re drunk,” the man said. “There’s your coat. Get out.”

Stefan staggered, and tried to clutch for him. But his wrists were caught, the grip bruising, and then cold paving slabs were damp under his socks, and his coat and trainers were chucked down onto a damp lawn.

And the front door slammed.

Stefan’s head was spinning, and he fell over trying to put his shoes on. It was cold. Another bus trundled by, schoolchildren gawking out of the windows. And Stefan didn’t care. He wanted none of this outside world—he just wanted to force his way back inside and enrage the man enough to f**k him bloody. To be punished, to thank him for taking Stefan home, to learn his name and his c**k and the way he looked when he came, deep in Stefan’s arse like Stefan was nothing more than a warm body for him to use…

Then Stefan shrugged his wet jacket on, and paper crumpled.

A note in his pocket.

He fumbled it out with shaking hands, and the last breath was driven out of his chest as though he’d been punched.

Call me when you’re sober

Daz.

And a phone number.