The Hunter by L.J. Shen

Ireplaced the clock in Syllie’s office after everyone had left.

It was just the cleaning ladies and me, vacuuming, gossiping, ohh-ing and ahh-ing to the distorted Filipino station they blasted from a radio.

The clock was the easy part. Earlier today, I’d gone down to the parking lot and put a tracker on Syllie’s car. One of Da’s accountants had stepped out of his Model X Tesla when he saw me on all fours, fingering the bottom of Syllie’s Mercedes like some auto-fetish creeper.

“What on Earth are you doing?” he’d demanded, looking down his nose at me—testament to the fact that Da hadn’t claimed me as anything other than a glorified PA, minus the generous rack.

I had to think fast. “Getting high on fumes,” I said without missing a beat.

Yeah. That was the best I could come up with. Shut up.

“Is that a thing?” His saucer eyes widened.

Considering he was approximately a thousand years old, I figured he’d buy it. I pretended to wipe my nose with the sleeve of my blazer, grinning.

“Gives the best high. If you haven’t tried it yet, are you even living?”

“Will you teach me how to do it?” His plump face twisted in question.

Being the cool kid sucked balls in Boston. Plus, this particular cool kid didn’t even have any friends—other than Sailor, who was a potential fuck buddy, so I couldn’t get attached.

“Bet.” I stood up. “Sometime soon. Not now.”

What I really meant was when hell froze over.

Yeah, that seemed like a good fucking time to spend time with the old sod.

The day after the clock and the car came the real pickle: the glasses. Syllie rarely took them off. He was blind as a bat. When he finally parted ways with them, he put them on his desk and rushed out of his office. I may have asked the stuttering receptionist to call him urgently regarding some papers that had come about the new refinery in Maine. It was a dumb excuse, so I knew I had five minutes, max.

I bolted into his room, pocketed the original glasses, and placed an identical pair with the recording device in their place. It was some magic-ass wireless shit that streamed the recordings live. I rounded Syllie’s desk as he walked back in.

My heart dropped to my asshole. Maybe literally. There was a moment when I wondered if I was going to survive. If not, I dreaded the headline. “Young Heir Leaves Reluctant, Semi-Loving Family and Hot Roommate Behind.”

At least I’d always be remembered for my contributions to society: orgasms, one-liners I borrowed from George Carlin, and starting the bomber-jacket-over-tux-shirt trend at All Saints High.

Song of the day: “Hey, Look, Ma I Made It” by Panic! At the Disco.

“Sonny-boy,” Sylvester greeted me. “What are you doing in my office?”

He sounded chill as fuck. This was how much I didn’t chart as a threat to him. I’d been caught red-handed in his office, and he didn’t even raise an eyebrow. I grabbed the first thing within reach on his desk, a stapler, and started for the door.

“Just wanted to borrow your stapler.” I waved it in my hand for good measure. Oscar-worthy performance, I tell ya.

“Why?” He shoved his hands into his pockets. His face had random features that didn’t really gel. He was lanky and looked like the Caucasian version of Mr. Burns from The Simpsons.

I improvised some more. “Got a little carried away with one of the interns. Ruined her virtue. Also, her pencil skirt.” I exposed my white fangs, hooding my eyes. Syllie grinned back. Wide. After all, I was a “literal fucking joke,” always up for a tumble in the supply closet.

“That’s my boy.” He clapped my back, letting his hand linger there for a second too long. “I won’t tell on you,” he promised earnestly, his hand clutching his heart. “For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought your da was too harsh on you. You should live a little. Have fun.”

I raised my fist to his. We pounded it. He felt cool. My job here was done.

“Yo, if you wanna get high on gas fumes later, let me know,” I offered out of nowhere, turning to him while still walking out of his office. I thought about that idiot accountant from yesterday.

Syllie laughed. “Maybe, son. Maybe.”

Adults were trash.

Later that day, I was invited to a meeting about the Maine-based refinery Royal Pipelines was supposed to open this year, which was still under construction. Syllie rallied for Da, Cillian, yours truly, and himself to take a quick trip there in the next few months to examine it up close.

“We need to keep our finger on the pulse, get a better understanding of what’s not working. It’ll also give Hunter a chance to feel included.” Syllie spoke brightly, looking around Da’s desk.

My father, who still couldn’t look at the hedonist monster he’d created, said nothing, probably his way of trying to figure out if I was worth the hassle. I took minutes during that meeting, then mailed them to Da and Cillian, knowing there was a one-hundred-percent chance they weren’t opening my goddamn emails.

Hours later, I decided to take my lunch to the public library and cram in some studying time. Eating at the library was prohibited, so I concealed myself behind the autobiography shelves. Nobody fucking cared—not about what dead people did, and not about me.

As I debated whether it was technically possible to kill myself by smashing my head into the economics textbook, I heard a familiar voice three rows down, seeping from the Braille selections like poison.

“…in motion. You’ll have to put things together quickly. I’m shooting for next month, or the one after it. Soon.”

There was a pause. The other person was talking. What were the chances of Syllie going to the library to take a personal call? Good, I realized. The place was dead, and you wouldn’t find any of the Fitzpatrick men in the library unless it was a trendy name for a brothel.

Or so he thought.

“Father and older son pose more threat than the little one, as I mentioned,” he added.

Don’t be so fucking sure.

“Keep me posted. I’ll call soon.”

He killed the call. I threw my sandwich into the trash can, my appetite gone.

He was going to pay.

HHH: When are you coming home 2night? I got nudes.

HHH: News*. #DieAutocorrect.

HHH: (tho I got nudes too, if you’re interested).

Sailor: You know that means you type the word nude more than news, right?

HHH: I’m sensing you have a point somewhere in this sentence.

Sailor: How often do you sext women?

HHH: Is that a trick question?

Sailor: Nvm. Getting into PT in 2 mins.

HHH: How’s the Patriots’ dude?

Sailor: Good. Thanks for hooking me up.

HHH: Always happy to hook a friend up, unlike someone I know. *eyes peeking emoji*

Sailor: If I had a guilt trip every time you made me feel shitty about holding my side of the bargain with your dad, I’d be crippled with anxiety.

HHH: Sex is great for anxiety.

Sailor: Besides, I gave you Knox.

HHH: That you did. And I successfully deployed all the devices he sold me.

Sailor: I’m glad! I knew you could do it.

HHH: When did you say you were coming home again?

Sailor: Late. Got a meeting with Junsu after this, then I have that shoot for the sports magazine Crystal got for me. DoorDash away without me.

HHH: Ok. x

I ordered sushi that night.

Not good sushi, either. Sailor always knew what to get, where to get it, and who made the best food in the city. The apartment felt extra empty without her. I resisted the urge to FaceTime Vaughn or Knight as I placed my reusable chopsticks and LaCroix on the dining table, listening to a podcast about this hipster chick who lived a year in the Scottish highlands trying to figure out if the cryptozoological loch ness monster really did exist.

The doorbell rang. I opened up. It was a woman: Asian, real babe, with a heart-shaped face and long, purple hair that looked extra silky. Banging body. Sailor-small, as in miniature. She raised the thrice-knotted plastic bag between us.

“Lights are down, and reception is empty. This place is a ghost town. Did you know the electricity is off in the entire building? I had to take the stairs.”

I didn’t, but that meant that Da’s assholes weren’t on my case for the first time in weeks, and I wasn’t even aware. The CCTV was down.

“Nope.” I took the food from her, rummaging my pocket for the tip (people who didn’t tip DoorDash heroes twice were dead to me).

“Enjoy your meal, Rapunzel.” She winked, but didn’t make a move.

“Enjoy it with me.” I threw her a lazy smile.

“For real?”

“Forreal, forreal.”

Sailor was out. The building’s electricity system was down, other than in the actual apartments, I guess, because my lights were on. No one knew I had a chick in here. Bonus points, it had been a long-ass time since I’d shared a meal with something that wasn’t a textbook or Sailor.

“I’m Emily.” She stretched out her hand.

“Hunter.” I took it, pulling her in gently. She fell into my chest, giggling breathlessly.

“Whoa. This place. Are you loaded or something?”

“Cocked, too.” I was openly flirting. She was openly responding.

I closed the door behind us and took another LaCroix from the fridge. There was only one left, and Sailor was going to kill me, but whatever, served her right for not being here when I needed her. We ate.

Two hours later, Emily was still here. We watched Brick on Netflix because she said she was crushing on Joseph Gordon-Levitt like it was 1998. Honestly, I didn’t care for the movie. But the situation was nice. Natural. Our socked feet on the coffee table, munching on the organic dark chocolate the housekeeper stocked the fridge with.

It was the last ten minutes of the movie when she realized I wasn’t going to pounce her. Emily put her thigh on mine and wiggled her socked toes to touch my skin. I didn’t make a move, watching it play out, and knowing I was going to stop it—probably—but also feeling dangerously high on the two hours of freedom I’d been given.

“My bra is super uncomfortable,” she purred, pouting. “Can I take it off?”

“Is that even a question?” I asked groggily.

Hey, that’s just being a cordial host.

Emily reached under the bottom of her shirt and removed her bra with her shirt still on, throwing the lacy, white thing in my face. I let it sit there, draped on my head, for comic value, popping another chocolate square into my mouth.

“You’re such a dork.” She laughed.

Brick,my ass. She was interested in watching this shit like I was interested in bathing in acetone.

“Are you going to hit on me?” she asked, finally, her eyes not wavering from my bra-clad face.

“I’m a deadly sin you don’t want to commit,” I confessed.

“I’ve done them all.” She looked at me, straight-faced. “Do me.”

I shook my head, not believing I was doing this, but doing it anyway, because fuck, I needed the money, and fuck, a dirty fuck was just not worth it.

“Sorry, lovely. Getting fucked is not in your cards tonight.”

The door opened.

“Honey, I’m home,” Sailor sing-songed sarcastically. She froze on the spot when she realized I wasn’t alone. I sat upright, thinking, This is salvageable, until I felt the bra falling from my face onto the carpet.

Shitfuckhell.

Song of the day: “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen.

“CT, this is Emily.” I motioned to my guest, pretending this chick hadn’t been in the process of hoisting herself onto me a hot second ago. Swear to God, the idea of fucking her hadn’t even occurred to me. I mean, in the future—one-hundred-and-ten-percent yes. Right now, though? Too risky. My bloodline, my inheritance, my future depended on my ability to keep my pants on. Plus, I was putting a dent in the Sailor project. “Emily, that’s my roomie, Sailor.”

“Hi!” Emily jumped to her feet, waving and flashing a smile. Her tits bounced, bra-less, and her nipples were semi-hard. Sailor didn’t return the gesture. I paused the movie no one was watching anyway and strolled over to my banshee frenemy.

You could feel the atmosphere shifting, dipping in dark smoke. Emily picked up on the awkwardness. She scooped up her bra, phone, shoes, and car keys while shuffling around like a harassed ostrich.

I took Sailor’s duffel bag and disposed of it in the spare room for her. “How was the photoshoot, kiddo?”

They’d put Sailor in bright red lipstick and thick, neon blue eyeliner. Combined with her copper hair, it made her look like a sexy David Bowie cross-dresser. Her eyes were still on my face. Round and wide and bottomless and what the fuck have I done?

“I’m out of here,” Emily chirped to no one in particular.

I walked her to the door because I wasn’t a complete douche canoe, and because I was pretty sure she thought Sailor was my girlfriend. I squeezed her shoulder.

“I’ll call you,” I lied.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Hmm, would you mind taking the stairs?” I shifted my weight from leg to leg. “Ya know, cameras and stuff.”

“It’s a skyscraper,” she hissed.

“Oh, come on. Going down shouldn’t be that hard for you.”

Shut the fuck up, my brain yelled at me. I really had a way with words.

She dashed like a bat out of hell, leaving skid marks on the marble. I turned around, raising my palms at Sailor.

“I can explain.”

She said nothing. Just stared at me. Which was worse than being yelled at, somehow.

“We were just watching a movie.”

“Were you using her bra as glasses?” Sailor inquired dispassionately.

“Actually, the bra was a recent development. She wanted to mess around. I wasn’t game.”

“Why? It’s not like it’d have made a difference. Your father probably knows she was in the apartment through CCTV. That’s why you asked me when I was going to be here today, no?”

It seemed the electricity had come back on.

Sailor didn’t wait for an answer. She sauntered briskly to the bathroom. I followed her, feeling pussy-whipped, sans the pussy. The implausible tininess of her person in contrast to the impact she had on my life made me want to tear this place to its bones and watch it collapse, brick by brick.

“Wrong. I didn’t even know her until a couple hours ago. I ordered DoorDash, planning to listen to the material Knox sent me from Syllie, and she was the delivery girl. She said the electricity was down in the entire building. She came up the stairs because the elevators were down. Da doesn’t know.”

“That sounds like a great porn script,” Sailor mumbled, turning on the tap and trying to wash her face. She tried to claw the makeup off with her fingernails. She had no idea how to remove makeup, but pointing that out was going to make her maim me with her bow.

“It does, doesn’t it?” I stroked my jaw, thinking about the positions I’d fuck Sailor if we ever made a porno together. “Point is, nothing happened. I’m allowed to have female friends.”

“She is not your friend.” She air-quoted the last word, irritated with the stubborn makeup. She turned off the faucet, punching the marble counter and wincing.

“Jealously suits you, CT. Irish chicks look great in green.”

“I’m not jealous! I wish I’d stayed out so you could go all the way and screw up your life. You’d deserve it, too.” She was shouting now, throwing her hands in the air. She dashed for the door.

I blocked her way, full-blown laughing now, my arms on either side of the doorframe.

“Is that right? You’d rat me out, CT?”

“In a heartbeat,” she snapped. “Move along now, pretty boy.”

Another jab. Man, she wanted the Vitamin D.

“Bull. Shit,” I whispered, not buying it for a second. Even if I’d fucked Emily, her imaginary twin sister, and every girl in this building, Sailor still wouldn’t snitch on me. She’d be mad, fuming—and would probably transport every piece of garbage in North America into my room. But she wouldn’t ruin my life.

The realization made me feel triumphed.

I knew it because I knew her.

“I want to leave,” Sailor enunciated.

“Not until you admit you’re jealous.” Why the fuck did I even care? Ego? Blood sport?

Both, probably.

She threw her head back, her laugh rusty. “Even though I’m not?”

“Yeah. Pacify my petty ass. Tell me what I want to hear so we can get it over with.”

“No.”

“Coward.”

She raised her palm to slap me, swinging her hand, but I caught her by the wrist, pressing a teasing kiss to her palm, then licking it base to index finger. I covered half her finger with my mouth, licking and sucking it with a smile. Our eyes were glued together, as if in a trance. I could see her heart pounding through her shirt, and I wanted to squeeze it in my fist and tell her she’d already lost that game between us.

I’d had the pleasure of pleasuring many women in my life. But never had I seen a girl react to me the way Sailor Brennan did while her clothes were still on.

When I was done giving her finger a blowjob, I stepped aside.

“Fine. Run. You have three seconds.”

“Before?” she drawled, her hand still in the air. She’d forgotten to lower it to the side of her body. The zing in her eyes told me she wanted another round of mind-chess.

Enter Player 2.

“I hunt you down and fuck you hard. Not deal-related. Call it hare coursing.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the point, baby. You’re excused. Unless you don’t want to be. In which case, you run, I chase. Get out if you’re not game. Three.”

Her eyes darted from my face to the door. I studied her every move. We both knew this shit between us—the electricity that had nothing to do with what was going on in the building—was here to stay.

“Two. Leave.”

She took four quick steps to the door, during which my soul swiftly left my body, bailing on my ass and running with her. Then Sailor skidded to a stop, not going past the threshold. She raked her fingers through her hair, producing what I guessed was the mating sound of two deranged emus.

“Shit,”she choked, her feet glued to the bathroom tiles. “What am I doing?”

Me, in a second.

“One.”

She fell to her knees, her back to me, her head slacking forward in defeat. It was like watching National Geographic as a kid, when I’d asked Nanny Number Six why the cameramen and film crew didn’t help the innocent, unassuming zebra when the tigress caught it, dangling it by its neck like a heavy piece of jewelry.

Because this is nature. Only the strong survive.

I almost took mercy on her then.

Almost.

Then I remembered my own goddamn family had an eat-your-young mentality—and the other part Nanny Number Six had mentioned: the tigress’ side. It was hungry, depraved, and wanted to stay just as alive as the zebra.

Hunters needed to eat to survive.

His fingers curled around my topknot from behind, tugging it with an expertise that frightened me until it became a ponytail.

He pulled my head back, extending my neck. I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut.

I believed Hunter hadn’t touched Emily.

But she also served as a reminder of all the girls he would touch in the future. Our six months were going to be up before I knew it, and with them, his undivided attention. He would have other conquests to make, all of them in lands he’d yet to discover, with horizons he wanted to bask in. I was just a small island he was temporarily stuck on. Of course he wanted to sample its fruit.

Worst still, Hunter knew his effect on me, knew I would never rat him out. As much as I loathed how he attracted me, I also felt weirdly protective of him, especially where his father and brother were concerned.

I was going to keep Emily out of my weekly email to Gerald Fitzpatrick, cover up Hunter’s misstep, and pretend it never happened. Since the cameras were solely outside the apartment, and Emily reportedly came in and took off down the stairway, that shouldn’t be a problem.

“Open your eyes,” Hunter ordered sternly. His voice had a way of nestling between my legs, giving the organ between them a pulse.

My eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze. He was a lonely prince—untouchable, yet in need of a hug. Brilliant, yet deeply misunderstood. Sitting on a throne of broken expectations and disappointment.

I wondered if he’d ever know he was smart and brave and goodhearted.

I wondered if I’d be the foolish girl to let him in on that secret.

I realized he was right. I was the archer, but he was the true hunter.

“Admit it,” he croaked, his face descending to mine from over my shoulder, his lips drawing closer, inch by inch, the heat of him tangible, blazing a straight path through my reservations, mortification, and logic. “This is happening. It is happening, and you’re frightened. It’s happening, and I’m not a part of your carefully laid-out plan. You don’t know if you have the endurance, or the guts to see this through when it’s time to say goodbye.”

My throat bobbed with a swallow. It hurt, but he didn’t let go of my hair. “You can survive this,” he whispered into my mouth.

“This?” I groused.

“Us. I have a glass soul, baby. Pretty to look at, but it breaks easily, can make you bleed, and nobody gets attached to it.”

I parted my lips, about to tell him he was wrong, but his mouth closed in on mine, his kiss a drugging potion soaking into me—slow, erotic, and teasing. It was nothing like our first kiss, but somehow twice as bewitching. I felt his hand snaking to my front, skimming past the outline of my breast, moving down until it reached my groin. He cupped and lifted me up to my feet, holding me between my legs, still kissing me as his fingers dug through the fabric of my yoga pants roughly. He pinned my stomach against the bathroom wall, grinding his erection between my butt cheeks through our clothes. A desperate moan escaped me. He swallowed it with another dirty kiss. He kissed everything away.

He is not going to be here to kiss it better when he dumps you after the deal is over.

He shoved his big palm into the front of my pants, and I groaned, disconnecting my mouth from his and pressing my forehead to the cold tiles as heat swirled inside me.

“I’m not a virgin,” I said. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe I wanted to make sure he didn’t go gentle on me. I wanted the full Hunter experience, even if I knew I was going to regret it the minute we stepped out of this bathroom.

His cock jerked between my butt cheeks, his body molding into mine.

“Oh, yeah?” There wasn’t a hint of jealousy in his voice, only curious amusement.

I nodded, my forehead grazing the wall.

“How many?” he asked.

I wondered about the technicalities. Did we really break the celibate rule if Hunter and I just dry-humped? No. Not really. I mean, yes, it was wrong, but manageable. Besides, Gerald mainly hated how Hunter’s business was hanging all over the media. This would be our secret. Neither he nor I wanted it to leak past these walls. Hunter had his kingdom on the line, and I my career and reputation.

“One.” I gasped when his thumb and index found my clit, pinching it. The rest of his fingers slid past my wet entrance, gathering my need for him and rubbing it against my clit. His finger pads were warm, his stroke leisurely and skillful.

I felt like my insides were melting, one organ at a time. It wasn’t butterflies. No. More like moths, eating at me, consuming me completely.

Hunter kissed his way from my ear to my neck, down to my shoulder.

“Name.”

“Beau.”

“Ex-boyfriend?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you love him?” His fingers did things inside me I couldn’t explain. I just knew no one had ever touched me that way. My whole body shivered, down to my soul.

“N-no.” I couldn’t lie.

“Did you like it?”

The question surprised me. I didn’t think Beau himself had ever asked me that. I planted my palms on the tiles as Hunter yanked down my pants from behind in one go.

“We can’t have sex. We can’t break the rules,” I finally managed to say.

He laughed a devilish laugh, cupping one of my ass cheeks and squeezing hard. Hunter increased his speed, rubbing my clit and guiding his penis between my cheeks from behind. I knew he was watching what he was doing—my bare, white butt being poked around.

My legs began to tremble. I threw my head back, glad it was about to be over. The orgasm began to tickle its way up from my toes to the rest of my body.

Finally, finally, finally.

“Oh, Hunter.” I hated how right his name felt rolling out of my mouth. How moan-able it was. He stopped rubbing me off, taking a step back. It took me ten seconds to realize my orgasm wasn’t going to materialize. I turned around, eyes wide and accusing.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, feeling my face hot with confusion and desire. That had never happened before.

He leaned against the Jack and Jill counter, grinning, his hand shoved in his pants, playing with his very hard, very impressive erection.

“I want to get you off,” he popped the words carelessly, so calm you’d think we were talking about the weather.

“Then do!” I frowned so deeply my eyebrows hurt.

He laughed, a hearty, joyous laughter that rang around the room like a song. “See, but I want to get off, too. At the same time, I respect your inclination not to shit all over the celibacy rule. How about a compromise?”

I said nothing. I knew it wasn’t fair to expect him to get me off if I wasn’t going to reciprocate. But something about kneeling to Hunter felt intensely wrong. Here was a man who may have been a joke in his own family, but to everyone else, he was a deity, and I didn’t want to join his religion. I didn’t want to worship him.

Because I knew he was a god I could believe in.

“I will die before going down on my knees for you.” I jerked my chin up.

He raised his eyebrows, looking both surprised and thoroughly entertained. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re a manwhore with a sex tape. I’m not going to be another notch on your bedpost.”

It sounded ridiculous out loud, but the sentiment was clear. I didn’t want to be one of many, especially knowing he chose me only because he couldn’t have his pick.

“Yet you’d be happy if I got you off?” he asked, so I could face the hypocrisy of what I was saying.

I shrugged. “You’re the one who started it.”

So mature, Sailor.

Laughing, he approached me again, grinning like the cat who ate the canary. Lowering himself, he got rid of my pants gathered at my ankles, dumping them on the floor and leaving me completely naked from the waist down. Next, he reached for the front of my shirt.

“Just for the record,” he said tonelessly, beginning to pull the fabric forward, deliciously slowly, a smirk on his face. “Looking up at me from your knees is a great fucking angle, so you may want to reconsider.”

“No, thank you.” I swallowed, feeling my shirt rip. The slash of the cloth against my skin rang between the walls. He threw the ball of fabric behind his shoulder, lowering me to the bathtub step and prying my legs open with strong fingers. I watched in awe as he reached into my entrance again, gathered my juices, and rubbed them against my bare nipples. I didn’t know why I wasn’t stopping him.

I didn’t know why I even remained in the same house.

Now Hunter was the one on his knees, his elbow propped on the edge of the Jacuzzi, grinning up at me, like he was up to something. He rose, plastering his clothed, muscular body atop of my naked one, erasing my scowl with a kiss. I let him kiss me, feeling his fingers working their way between my open legs again. My body began to hum on cue, grateful for the attention.

Hunter kissed his way down my chest, took one nipple into his mouth, and rolled his tongue around it playfully. I sighed, watching him. He moved to the other nipple, this time tugging a little with his teeth as he rubbed my clit harder. My whole body felt hot and tingly.

His tongue rolled down my stomach, dipping briefly into my bellybutton in a teasing, ticklish swirl, then farther down between my thighs.

“Jackpot,” he murmured as he sucked my clit into his mouth, spreading me open with both his thumbs and stretching me to the max. He blew cold air into me, and I trembled violently with an impending orgasm before he shoved his tongue inside me in one punishing thrust. The pleasure was so profound, my butt scooted up the stair, and I let out a yelp.

“Ahhhhh.”

His tongue flicked my clit, then thrust into me again. My back arched, my entire body jerking.

Flick. Thrust. Flick. Thrust.

This prolonged my climax, which made me both grateful and enraged. But when the pinnacle of pleasure finally hit me, it was so gradual, so intense, every muscle in my body cramped, jolted, and thrashed. I quivered all over, my hands reaching for him, but he drew both my wrists to my sides, pinning me, not letting me touch him.

“Please,” I begged. “Please.”

He raised his body, pushing down his sweatpants and briefs, his raging hard-on right in front of my face. I writhed under him as his knees framed me from both sides, his erection in front of my face.

“Suck it,” he said simply.

I opened my mouth and took him in, feeling embarrassed and gratified as a result. I was breaking my own word—from only five minutes ago—because it felt good. Well, maybe not technically. I wasn’t the one on my knees for him. He’d leveled up with my face. But those were just semantics.

I wondered who the hell I was anymore.

“Coming in your mouth now,” he said before I even had a chance to suck. I realized going down on me alone had gotten him off. I gave him a slight nod, feeling his hand fisting my hair, guiding my head the way he wanted it while he came between my lips. Hot, thick liquid slid down my throat smoothly. I tasted it, salty and warm and sticky.

Hunter pulled his cock out of my mouth and put his thumb inside of it instead, swiping it over my coated tongue. He took the residue of his cum and used it to rub my cheek. Marking me. He tucked himself back in with his free hand.

“See, baby? One-hundred-percent domesticated. I may be a hunter, Sailor, but I think in your case, I’d like to keep you as a temporary pet.”

“I hate you,” I said quietly, feeling so hot with shame I wanted to explode.

He stood up, turned around, and waved his hand dismissively, his back to me as he walked out of the bathroom.

“You know, I’d have probably bought it if it wasn’t for my pussy breath. Also, you’re welcome for the protein shot.”