Page 82 of Hunted: Season Two

“I’m acting like I know what it does because Ido. Because I’veusedit. Brad wasn’t the first creep to ever come into my life.”

“He’s gonna be the fucking last,” leaves me split seconds prior to shouting. “Aha! There you are, fuckers!” Hastily grabbing two black gloves is executed in tandem with me asking, “What exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Get him outside to the hose, and I’ll go get some colder water from upstairs to help with the flushing,” our woman instructs while I hustle back to where he’s flailing around. “Fresh air is a major factor.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t-”

“Ou!Ou!Ou!” shrieks The Kid, heel of his palms digging into his eye sockets. “Fluckitdurns!”

“Let him rub it,” she sighs in obvious defeat.

“Hey,” I gingerly start, prying both hands away from the infected area, “you gotta knock that shit off, Kid.”

“Butlitwurns,wolan,” he airily argues.

“Be grateful it’s your eyes and not your dick?”

The joke has him twitching a smile that – much like seeing Rabbit’s – brings me relief.

Again.

This is a shit show.

But at least it’s fucking manageable.

Fixable.

“Just…uh…let me drive.” It’s impossible not to push for another smirk. “You know that shit you hate to let me do.”

“Iloneatemit.”

“Kid.”

“Idustmiketobribedoo!” escapes yet rather than squeaky, its light and scratchy and raspy.

“See why you shouldn’t argue with me,” I playfully scold and begin leading him around the vehicle he was working on by my glove covered hands.

Grunts of unhappiness are the most he offers; however, even those are bit much for the boy who can’t quite breathe.

Getting to the outside wall of the shop isn’t difficult, and thankfully, neither is getting the hose turned on or the water flowing.

“On your knees.”

There’s no hesitation to do what he’s told.

And that lack of hesitation has my cock stirring at what is undoubtedly the wrong time.

I’ll admit it.

I’ve had my dick sucked at what somemightlabel as inappropriate times, but never while someone is fucking injured.

Although, this does remind me of our round in the shower last night.

Minus his murmurs of misery.

“Out of the shirt,” I instruct only to once more be pleased by his prompt execution. “Tilt your head back.”