Chapter 3: The Wrong Choice
The kitchen was too bright, too clean. It smelled of lemon disinfectant and the lingering ghost of Diane’s perfume. Liam leaned against the fridge, the chill of the stainless steel seeping through his thin top. He’d changed. The denim shorts were gone. In their place was a short, pleated black skirt that barely covered the tops of his thighs. The crop top was black, too.
Tom stood at the counter, nursing a beer. His eyes tracked Liam’s entrance, a slow, thorough assessment that made the air feel thick.
“Going out?” Tom asked. His voice was neutral, but his gaze wasn’t.
“Maybe later,” Liam said, affecting a casual shrug. He walked to the island, making sure the skirt swished softly. “What do you think? Too much?” He did a little twirl.
Tom took a long pull from his bottle. The silence stretched. “Your mom thinks you’re trying too hard.”
“I’m not asking my mom,” Liam said, letting a edge of defiance slip into his tone. He turned his back, pretending to examine his reflection in the dark window over the sink. Then he bent forward, just slightly, one hand going to his ankle as if to adjust a strap on his shoe. The skirt rode up. The black lace of his thong was fully visible, a stark contrast against his pale skin.
He held the pose for a count of three, feeling the weight of Tom’s stare like a brand.
When he straightened, Tom was closer. He hadn’t heard him move. The man was just there, setting his beer down with a quiet thunk.
“You play dangerous games, kid,” Tom murmured. His voice was low, for Liam alone. It vibrated in the space between them.
“I don’t know what you mean.” Liam looked up at him through his lashes, a picture of feigned innocence.
Tom’s hand came up. For a heart-stopping moment, Liam thought he’d touch his face, his throat. Instead, he adjusted the collar of Liam’s top, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of his collarbone. The touch was fleeting, deliberate.
“Be careful,” Tom said, repeating the word from the parking lot, but now it was layered, heavy with meaning. “Or you might get more attention than you’re ready for.”
A thrill, cold and sharp, shot down Liam’s spine. “Maybe that’s the point,” he whispered back.
A door slammed upstairs. Diane called down, “Tom? You coming up?”
Tom’s eyes never left Liam’s. “Be good,” he said, finally. A command. Then he turned and headed for the stairs, his steps heavy on the hardwood.
Liam waited until he heard the bedroom door click shut. He moved quickly, quietly. He grabbed his keys, made a show of jangling them, and slammed the front door loudly enough to be heard upstairs. He didn’t leave. He slipped his shoes off, padded back into the silent living room, and waited in the dark.
He heard the low murmur of voices upstairs, then Diane’s sharp, high laugh. A few minutes later, the distinct, rhythmic creak of the bedsprings began.
That was his cue.
He took the stairs two at a time, silent as a shadow. The hallway was a tunnel of shadow, lit only by a small nightlight plugged in near the bathroom. The air here was different—warm, already carrying the faint, humid scent of what was happening behind the master bedroom door.
The closet. The one next to their room, stuffed with old linens and vacuum bags. He’d planned this.
The door groaned softly as he eased it open. He slipped inside, into total darkness thick with the smell of dust and fabric softener. He pulled the door until only a hairline crack remained. A sightline. He knelt on a stack of towels, his ear pressed to the thin wall.
Through the crack, he could see a slice of the bedroom: the foot of the rumpled bed, the discarded trail of Diane’s clothes.
The sounds were everything.
There was no romance to it tonight. It was brutal, efficient. Tom’s voice, a rough, guttural growl, asking questions that weren’t really questions. “You like that? You take it.”
Diane’s responses were broken, gasped. “Yes—God, Tom, yes.”
The slap of skin on skin was wet, rhythmic, punishing. The bed slammed against the wall with every thrust, a steady thud-thud-thud that vibrated through the floorboards into Liam’s knees. He could picture it. Tom’s powerful back muscles coiled, his hands gripping Diane’s hips hard enough to bruise, his face set in that same focused, hungry expression he’d worn in the grocery aisle.
Liam’s own breath came in short, sharp pants. His hand slid under his skirt, fingers slipping beneath the lace of his thong. He was painfully hard. This wasn’t like the other times he’d listened, curled miserably in his own bed, jealous and aching. This was different. He had provoked this. Tom’s intensity felt like a direct answer to his challenge in the kitchen.
“Tell me,” Tom growled, his voice strained. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” Diane sobbed, the word cracking. “I belong to you.”
A low, satisfied sound from Tom. The pace became frantic, the sounds degenerating into animalistic grunts and sharp cries.
Liam pressed his forehead against the cool wall, his own movements frantic and silent. He wasn’t thinking of Diane anymore. In the dark, with the scent of Tom’s sweat and exertion filtering through the walls, he replaced her. It was his back arching off the mattress. His name on that rough, possessive voice. His body being claimed with that single-minded ferocity.
The fantasy was so vivid, so consuming, that when Tom’s groan hit its peak—a deep, shuddering sound of release—and Diane’s sharp cry followed, Liam’s own climax ripped through him. It was a silent, convulsive wave that left him trembling, dampness spreading hot and shameful against the lace.
For a long moment, there was only heavy breathing from the other room, the creak of the bed as someone moved.
Then Tom’s voice, calm now, almost casual. “You’re amazing.”
Diane’s mumbled, spent reply. “You’re a beast.”
A low chuckle.
Liam stayed in the closet, knees weak, heart hammering against his ribs. The jealousy was still there, a bitter aftertaste. But it was mixed with something new, something triumphant and dark. He had gotten under Tom’s skin. He had fueled that performance. He was part of this now, a secret, silent third.
He waited until he heard the shower turn on before he crept out, down the stairs, and out the front door for real. The night air was cool on his flushed skin. He leaned against the house, lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and replayed every sound, every imagined image.
The game had shifted again. The warning in the kitchen hadn’t been a stop sign. It was a set of rules for a much more dangerous level of play. And Liam was more than ready to play.