Page 19 of Rent: Paid in Full
One second, everything is normal. The curtains are drawn and the door to our room is closed. There’s music playing on Ryan’s scratchy phone speaker. Something electric and grungy, but other than that, everything’s normal. Ryan’s angry, and he hates me. He’s looking up at me, and one side of his top lip is pulled into a sneer, as usual. His towel is wrapped around his waist where it belongs.
Like I said, everything’s normal.
The next second, the towel’s on the floor.
9
Ryan
“Hey, Siri, set atimer for two minutes.” Miller’s voice is relaxed and calm, friendly even, as if soliciting his roommate is a common occurrence for him.
Be that as it may, it’s far, far from normal for me. I can confidently say it’s about as far from normal as I’ve ever been.
Which really does beg the question:what the actual fuck?
Why is my towel around my ankles?
And why on God’s green Earth am I standing naked with Miller fucking MacAvoy looking at me like he’s hungry and I’m the last snack on the planet?
My breath catches when the full horror of what I’ve done dawns on me. I turn to the side, both hands over my junk, trying to find a position that shows as little as possible. He’s undeterred. He takes a long stride toward me and then another smaller one so he’s standing directly behind me. I clench every muscle in my body to stop myself from shaking.
Calm down.
Two minutes. It’s only for two minutes, then it’s over. It’s already been a few seconds, so it’s less than that now. How bad can it be?
Just breathe, and don’t move.
Keep blinking. And don’t show any sign of fear.
I feel Miller’s gaze on my back, drilling into my spine, slicing through muscle and bone, reaching into me worse than the fist ever has. Reaching in harder than I’ve ever felt. Thick and hot. Runny. Spilling down the small of my back, tracking lightly over my ass.
“Mm,” he says softly.
I jerk, cringing as if I’ve taken a solid blow to the kidney. It makes him smile. I can’t see it, but I can feel it, and right now, that’s worse.
He leaves me like that for a long time, a long-ass motherfucking time. He leaves me like that until I’m painfully aware of every inch of my skin. Every dent and curve of my body. I feel it all. Hot and pulsing and breathing. Crimson from shame and discomfort.
Jesus Christ, how fucking long can two minutes possibly be?
“Turn around.” His voice is soft and smooth, silky as it pours over me. Commanding in a way that makes me feel like something jointed and wooden. An inanimate thing. Strung up. Dancing to the whim of a far-from-benevolent puppeteer.
I turn stiffly, twisting my head slightly, looking longingly at the blond timber and high gloss of the door.
“Hands at your sides.”
It takes a second. Common sense, self-preservation, and survival instinct all scream their objections but ultimately fall on deaf ears. My hands drop flaccidly to my sides. Miller’s lips part, top lip twisting up on one side, a slow exhale puffing so close to my face I feel it against my cheek. His eyes travel down my face, down my neck and chest, burning like a laser when hegets to my pecs, leaving a humiliating trail of gooseflesh in his wake. His Adam’s apple travels up and down the column of his throat, front teeth scraping a pillowy bottom lip. Sucking it into his mouth and releasing it when it’s shiny and wet.
“Mmm,” he says as he takes in my right nipple and then my left.
My heart beats like a drum. A war drum. A warning. Hard, jarring pulses that make my ears ring and beg me to run and take cover.
Miller looks up at me again, frying me with a blistering gaze until my eyes skid off his like hot oil off water. He sinks to his knees. I step back as fast and far as I can. It isn’t far at all. I connect firmly with the desk behind me, ass cheeks tensing as they make contact with the cold surface behind me.
He crawls closer to me, eyes not leaving my body. He moves slowly. Sinuously. Feline movements that leave me in no doubt whatsoever that Miller MacAvoy is an apex predator with dubious intent.
“Y-you said no touching,” I whine, nasal and affected, hating the way I sound.
He kneels before me, sitting back on his heels and raising his open hands to the side of his head in surrender. Gentle lines carve little tracks into his palms but offer me nothing.