Straight Guys Shouldn't f**k Each Other (8)
Maddox still had me pinned to the wall, his chest was warm against my back while his voice was low and chilling in my ear.
“You wanted control last night? Thought riding Clarke made you top shít?” His hand gripped my jaw and forced me to look toward the chair.
Clarke sat there like a king. He was still clothed. He remained calm with one hand palming the front of his pants, the other resting lazily on the armrest.
“Look at you now,” Clarke murmured. “Bent over. Begging with your eyes. You’re not a top, Jerry. You’re a performance.”
Maddox chuckled. “A slút in denial.”
I should’ve hated this.
I should’ve pushed back.
But all I could do was ache harder, my lips parted and my breath was shaky, because they saw right through me and stripped me
