saying; he just had to be saying something. You didn’t just stand there and let someone tie you up without saying something. “Because I can’t think of what—”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Rrrr-rip!
A cold sweat sprang out across his forehead. He twisted his face again. His quick breaths bounced back at him. His stomach and hips were pressed against the wall. He was grateful for that wall. It hid the bulge in his jeans.
Rrip.
Oh my fucking God.
This was really happening.
The intruder’s grip tightened against his wrists as he lifted Brian’s arms away from his back.
Light-headedness threatened to buckle his knees as the first sticky length of duct tape touched the back of his wrist.
Please do not do something completely embarrassing like faint.
He pressed his forehead hard into the wall, its solidity reassuring.
The intruder brought the tape around, crossing the inside of his other wrist, coming back around to the first, until the length of tape he’d pulled free from the roll had been used up and the roll itself stopped against his arm. Gripping one of Brian’s hands, the intruder yanked at the roll of tape: pull, wrap, pull, wrap, Brian’s wrists becoming more securely held together—and his knees more jellylike—with each pass.
Dylan’s grip was strong and strange and strangely intimate.
Brian swallowed and braced his feet against the floor—anything to keep himself upright.
With a final squeeze of Brian’s wrists, the intruder pulled away.
He tried to twist his hands free.
Fingers clamped around the back of his neck. “Let’s go.” The intruder’s grip guided him around to face his dining table, one of those square, birch Ikea deals, with three chairs pulled up to it. He wished he’d worn a baggier shirt. He felt like he was all cock. It wasn’t as though he’d never had a hard-on when Dylan was in the same room before, but never in direct relation to something Dylan was doing. He just hoped Dylan didn’t take it personally.
Brian had warned him there was a thrill involved.
The intruder grabbed a dining chair one-handed, turning its back toward the nearest wall.
He wasn’t told to sit, just dragged around by the neck again and pushed into the chair. He leaned forward, half because of his bound wrists and half to cover the bulge trying to crawl down the thigh of his jeans.
The intruder turned and took two steps away, rolling his shoulders, sliding the roll of duct tape off his wrist.
Brian’s eyes were drawn to the gun jutting out of the back of his waistband, an old Western revolver with a yellowing plastic grip. He had to swallow a laugh as he realized, one, that it was a cap gun, and two, that he knew that cap gun. Just one of the many things, like the Easyrider books, he’d come across in Dylan’s basement bedroom when they were teenagers. Dylan must have dug it up when he was cleaning his stuff out of Patty’s basement last week.
Dylan—the intruder , Brian corrected himself—slid the gun from his waistband. With a clunk , it landed on the table. Ripping fresh tape from the roll, the intruder walked up to the chair.
From his bent-forward position, Brian had to tilt his head to look at Dylan. His voice creaked out a word: “Please.” A word Dylan could take however he wanted.
Black jeans and the lower half of the hoodie filled most of his field of view: abdomen, hips, one hip cocked as the intruder stood there holding the tape, sticky side facing Brian. Waiting.
Brian turned his face to the side.
The intruder closed the last of the space between them and pushed Brian up straight, one hand shoving him against the seat back. Holding him, he began taping Brian’s torso and upper arms to the chair.
Brian pulled in one measured breath after another, his chest pressing against the tape as the tape secured him more and more tightly. His face was hot, burning. His mouth didn’t have a lick of spit left. He clenched his teeth and tried to struggle.
The intruder tore the
“Shut the fuck up.”
Rrrr-rip!
A cold sweat sprang out across his forehead. He twisted his face again. His quick breaths bounced back at him. His stomach and hips were pressed against the wall. He was grateful for that wall. It hid the bulge in his jeans.
Rrip.
Oh my fucking God.
This was really happening.
The intruder’s grip tightened against his wrists as he lifted Brian’s arms away from his back.
Light-headedness threatened to buckle his knees as the first sticky length of duct tape touched the back of his wrist.
Please do not do something completely embarrassing like faint.
He pressed his forehead hard into the wall, its solidity reassuring.
The intruder brought the tape around, crossing the inside of his other wrist, coming back around to the first, until the length of tape he’d pulled free from the roll had been used up and the roll itself stopped against his arm. Gripping one of Brian’s hands, the intruder yanked at the roll of tape: pull, wrap, pull, wrap, Brian’s wrists becoming more securely held together—and his knees more jellylike—with each pass.
Dylan’s grip was strong and strange and strangely intimate.
Brian swallowed and braced his feet against the floor—anything to keep himself upright.
With a final squeeze of Brian’s wrists, the intruder pulled away.
He tried to twist his hands free.
Fingers clamped around the back of his neck. “Let’s go.” The intruder’s grip guided him around to face his dining table, one of those square, birch Ikea deals, with three chairs pulled up to it. He wished he’d worn a baggier shirt. He felt like he was all cock. It wasn’t as though he’d never had a hard-on when Dylan was in the same room before, but never in direct relation to something Dylan was doing. He just hoped Dylan didn’t take it personally.
Brian had warned him there was a thrill involved.
The intruder grabbed a dining chair one-handed, turning its back toward the nearest wall.
He wasn’t told to sit, just dragged around by the neck again and pushed into the chair. He leaned forward, half because of his bound wrists and half to cover the bulge trying to crawl down the thigh of his jeans.
The intruder turned and took two steps away, rolling his shoulders, sliding the roll of duct tape off his wrist.
Brian’s eyes were drawn to the gun jutting out of the back of his waistband, an old Western revolver with a yellowing plastic grip. He had to swallow a laugh as he realized, one, that it was a cap gun, and two, that he knew that cap gun. Just one of the many things, like the Easyrider books, he’d come across in Dylan’s basement bedroom when they were teenagers. Dylan must have dug it up when he was cleaning his stuff out of Patty’s basement last week.
Dylan—the intruder , Brian corrected himself—slid the gun from his waistband. With a clunk , it landed on the table. Ripping fresh tape from the roll, the intruder walked up to the chair.
From his bent-forward position, Brian had to tilt his head to look at Dylan. His voice creaked out a word: “Please.” A word Dylan could take however he wanted.
Black jeans and the lower half of the hoodie filled most of his field of view: abdomen, hips, one hip cocked as the intruder stood there holding the tape, sticky side facing Brian. Waiting.
Brian turned his face to the side.
The intruder closed the last of the space between them and pushed Brian up straight, one hand shoving him against the seat back. Holding him, he began taping Brian’s torso and upper arms to the chair.
Brian pulled in one measured breath after another, his chest pressing against the tape as the tape secured him more and more tightly. His face was hot, burning. His mouth didn’t have a lick of spit left. He clenched his teeth and tried to struggle.
The intruder tore the
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