Steven is a very flexible boy. His body twists and buckles under Angel's like an escape artist, though the last thing he's getting is away. He's so hot, so tight, so fucking impaled on Angel's cock that it would take a miracle to free him now. Every squirm, every whimper, just gets him stuck harder.

It's not about ripping him apart, although the faint tang of blood in the lube isn't exactly slowing Angel down. Angel wants to catch in Steven like a fishhook barb, easy to slide in, impossible to tear out. He wants to fuck his way inside Steven like a salmon swimming upstream, surge through his veins till he reaches the heart, and die.

It's no surprise, really, that Steven makes him think of water.

Angel remembers, even if Steven doesn't. Steven doesn't remember anything. Steven has an album full of loving, supportive parents who drive Volvos and help with college essays. Steven has a yearbook full of friends who call and drop by and crash on his floor and take him out drinking till three a.m. as if there weren't a thousand demons on the LA streets who itched to drink his blood. Steven has an ex-girlfriend named Tracy who went east to college instead of to UCLA, and he gets quiet when he says her name.

At the office, where Steven never visits, Angel has a file on her that's more pages long than she is years old. He knows she has a new boyfriend on the crew team. He knows what nights her classes go late, and what roof overlooks her walk home. Turns out he has a jet, as well as a helicopter. It would be simple.

Steven thinks Angel's not out at the office. He's cool with that, all jokes about internships and delivering Angel's mail aside. Steven doesn't think of himself as gay, thinks labels happen to other people. He met Angel at the beach one night. They started talking. Angel offered him a ride home and Steven gave him a long, slow look before he took it. It was Steven who slid across the vintage vinyl seat, who straddled Angel's lap and bit at his lip. Angel would swear it. Steven's a very flexible boy.

Steven's skin is pale and clammy no matter how many classes he skips to hit the beach. His hands are still too big for his wrists. His fingers scrabble for purchase on Angel's smooth broad chest and, as always, don't find it. He grabs Angel's upper arms instead ö Angel knows he likes to feel the muscles move. Angel wonders if Steven would like it if he got another tattoo there, a band of something intricate and shifting in the light. The boy would like holding his hand, being the one to comfort him for once. But all Angel can think to put there is "Connor", and Steven wouldn't recognize the name.

Steven looks up at him, half scared, half coy, through that hair that's always a half-inch too long, no matter how many expensive stylists Angel takes him to.

"Say it," Angel growls.

Steven's grin turns impish. "Make me."

"Say it." Angel grabs his wrists and squeezes hard enough to bruise. Steven gasps and his eyes darken but his cock just gets harder. This is what he comes for, the spice of danger in his safe little life.

"Fuck me, daddy," he pants, like the polite boy he was raised to be. "Daddy, please."

Angel comes and hates himself and comes and comes.

After, he puts on his pretty new clothes, Armani, too good for a college boy. Steven doesn't do it for the money, would've kissed him and grabbed for his cock with the same clumsy eagerness if he'd been a janitor, although the car didn't hurt. But Angel insists. He likes to give Steven presents. "Let me take care of you," he says, and Steven has learned not to argue. Angel's pout puts Steven's to shame.

Steven licks his lips and Angel stiffens inside. He could feel the boy trembling on the edge of some question or revelation all night, had hoped to head it off with dinner in a fancy restaurant, sex, the wine he could still taste.

Steven stops with his back to Angel, almost at the door. Please don't ask, Angel thinks. Whatever it is. Let this be enough, just for a little while.

ãI love you," Steven says, and when Angel goes to him, he can feel Steven's shoulder blades trembling under his hands.

The boy's hair smells of sex and sweat. Angel presses his lips against it. "Come on," he says, "let me take you home."
 

-Fin

Feedback