Boy in the Club a boy & billionaire novel - Rachel Kane Page 0,85

my waist. My cock pops out, fully hard. I know I have to ignore that. I know I can’t touch it. The pants join my shirt, after a brief struggle to get my shoes off without touching them. My hands return behind my back.

I am naked, kneeling before this man. This man, who is stroking his cock, looking down at me with a sort of greedy triumph.

“Do you know what you look like?” he asks me.

I want him to tell me. I want him to devastate me. Say the most awful thing you can. Humiliate me. Put me in my place.

My throat won’t let me swallow. I am not sure I can breathe. My eyes won’t even lift up to his face. As high as I can go is his cock, which is aimed at me still, its tip leaking his juices. I am thirsty for it, I want to put my mouth on him, suck until he fills me, until I can drink him down and he can cure this parched desert.

“Tell me,” I whisper, and my voice is so small I’m not sure he can hear me. My shoulders slump forward. I am ready for the attack. I am ready to hear the worst things about me.

“Kintsugi. That is what you look like.”

I shake my head. I don’t know what he means. But I can’t look away from his shaft, from the way his thumb plays with the head, now smearing his precum on himself, shining in the brightness of the room.

“We used to display it upstairs, with the other ceramics, pottery, porcelain. When something valuable like that breaks, you have a few choices. You can leave it broken, throw it out, file an insurance claim. You can try to repair it in a way that keeps the repairs hidden from view, trying to make it like new again. Or…you can make it into a kintsugi piece. You repair it with lacquer mixed with gold. The cracks are immortalized. You cannot miss them. You know the piece is broken…and yet its beauty comes from those breaks, joined together with gold. Do you understand what I mean, Finn?”

“I— I—” I can barely breathe.

“The breaks are the beauty. The flaws are what creates it. The gold is there to draw the pieces together and yet always remind you of their history.”

I want to close my eyes and cannot. The tears have arrived without warning, hot and sharp, burning as they pour over my eyelids, down my cheeks. I can taste their salt as they wash over my lips.

“Colby,” I whisper, “no.”

“No?”

I shake my head sadly. “The scars make me ugly. I’ve always been ugly. A monster.”

“Your scars are a map of where you have been. Not a statement of what you are. They’re a history.”

If you only knew. If you only, only, only knew.

“Finn, you asked me what I want. What I want is you.”

My breath enters me so sharply, all at once, all the oxygen I have needed during this entire conversation, and I start to look up at him, but what I see is him looking down at me with such softness in his eyes, such tenderness, I’m half-blinded by my own tears and I don’t know what to do—and then he is gasping as well, his grip on his cock stiffening, and he groans.

His cum arrives like a waterfall, pouring down, on me, on my face, my chest, on my own cock, falling onto the floor like rain. I am bathed in his seed, and I open my mouth to try to catch it, but he is so far away, I can only manage to catch some small drops on my tongue, while the rest finds other places, my hair, my cheeks, my chest.

I wish he would come forever. I wish I could kneel here and drown in it.

I lean forward, my hands planted against the glass, and I press my face to the floor. All those people down there. If they looked up, what would they see?

“Tell me what you want,” he says.

“I want you.”

“Only me? No one else but me?”

“Only you,” I say. “I know it doesn’t make sense, I know I shouldn’t, I know—”

Before I know what’s happening, he is pulling me to my feet. Pulling me close, his cock still dripping between us, and I can see it’s getting on his pants, on his shirt. Soaking in. Like that first night we were together, when I was wearing that silly loincloth and getting