Scared (5 page)

Frost snatched his thumb out and raised his hands. Slapped them down on Stephen's back—hard. “
I
don't
need
to do anything.
You
do.
You
need to shut the fuck up and take what I give you. Dry or not."

Never shut the fuck up, Stephen. Always complain.

Stephen moved to reach across the bed to the cabinet containing lube, but Frost held him fast. God, this young man was a defiant bastard.

So very good.

"
I
will do it,” Frost said, smacking Stephen's wrist and taking the lube from the drawer. “I prefer a soaked arse. Lucky you."

Stephen looked over his shoulder and watched Frost prime his own cock.

Fuck, I'm a fine man. Fine and big and—

A shiver went through Frost at the thought of his rod filling that hole. Stephen's shoulders sagged, and he shifted to where he needed to be, arse raised and balls clenching. Frost squeezed a pea-sized glob onto his fingertip, throwing the tube down then sliding his hand between them. He massaged Stephen's ring, inserted his finger, pushing in and pulling out with hard strokes.

"Do you like me priming your arse, Stephen?” he panted.

"No. Fuck, no. I
hate
you priming my arse."

"Good. Do you think you are ready for my cock now?"

Stephen whimpered. “I'll never be ready. I want to go home. Please, just let me go home."

Frost's cock hardened to painful levels.
If only this fool knew if he told me he liked it, I would let him go.

Frost laughed.

A thrill sped up his spine.

With deliberate care, so Stephen thought Frost gave a shit about stretching his arse slowly, Frost pushed his cock inside him, stilling every time he sensed Stephen needed a break for his sheath to adjust.

"This lube makes it much easier, doesn't it, Stephen?"

"No. It still fucking hurts. Please, take it out. Just
get off
me!
"

Frost had pushed in to the hilt. “Uh...no. You agreed to the terms."

"I didn't! Shit, you drugged me. Did something to make me agree. To make me sign and—"

"No.” Frost pulled out, leaving his tip inside. “We.” He shoved back in. “Did not."

Stephen started crying.

"I smell you, Stephen. Smell your hate. Do you hate me?"

"Yes. I fucking hate you,” he sobbed. “Hate all of you!"

That did it. Those words and his cock easing in and out of Stephen, sent Frost's desire spiralling. He reached down and fisted Stephen's flaccid dick, caught up in coming. Frost pumped faster, his one-handed grip on Stephen's waist and the young man's strangled groans setting Frost up for the ejaculation of his life. He grunted, growled, thrust harder, faster, and matched his movements with his hand on Stephen's cock.

Heart-stopping pleasure zipped from his balls to his cock tip—repeat, repeat, repeat—and Frost clenched his teeth, head rearing back as a forceful burst of cum shot from him. The heat of his semen joined that of the friction, and he keened, feeling the cords in his neck tighten and his heartbeat pick up speed. It was all so heady that he couldn't hold on to any one sensation. Heat from his body, the burn of his cock, the speeding pleasure jetting out, all combining into one massive, pleasurable tornado that took his breath away for a few heartbeats.

Frost gasped and shunted inside that hole with two shorter, sharper jabs before he slowed.

Heaven, that's where I've just been. Fucking Heaven.

Frost lowered his chest to settle against Stephen's back. He moved his hands from the other's waist, let go of that limp cock, and slid his palms up Stephen's chest to cup his shoulders, his embrace somehow sealing the deal. That Stephen was, indeed, his consensual lover.

Frost laughed, the sound echoing around the room. He pulled out, settling on the bed and bringing Stephen close in front of him in the spoon position. His giant arms enveloped the young man. He stroked Stephen's belly and kissed the top of his head. “You will remain with me until I tire of you."

"W-when will that be?” Stephen's words caught in his throat.

When you start to like what I do.

"You'll have to wait and see, Stephen."

"Oh, fuck. Oh, God, I hate you so bad."

Good.

Frost slid his hand down the cleft of Stephen's arse. Rubbed the undoubtedly sore hole so his lover hated him more. A haze of emotion settled over him, like he was where he was supposed to be. He didn't query it—didn't want to admit this little specimen turned him on more than any other. For now, sated, Frost closed his eyes to the reassuring sound of Stephen's steady sobs.

That's it, cry my little bastard.

Frost thought about the coming evening. He could have had Russell and Toby killed without his man, Croft, bringing them here, back down south. But...no, that would not have been pleasurable. After they'd evaded him for so long...shit, they deserved a bit of discomfort, like they had given him. He needed to know what they knew, Russell especially. After all, he'd seen Frost's face that night in the graveyard. And Toby had seen Frost's men in the middle of an abduction; also when they'd questioned him here.

That had pissed Frost off.

Russell saving Toby had pissed him off even more.

The murder of Toby's flatmate had been...unfortunate. That Sasha bitch had walked into the living room just as Frost's men arrived, earning a knife to the guts for her trouble.

Thinking about it, she'd done them a favour. Or would have done if Toby and Russell hadn't gone to the police. If Russell had done as he was fucking told and gone home, forgetting everything he'd seen. But no, he'd found Toby. Gone back to the grave and poked his damn nose where it wasn't wanted.

And now this was where they all were.

It had taken a while to find them, but Frost was a patient man.

That patience had paid off.

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Stephen listened to the sound of Frost's breaths as they lengthened. Each exhalation cooled his shoulder, and he shuddered. Sick of this place already. Sick of Frost. What the
fuck
had happened here? Since when did going out to get milk for his mum turn into
this?

Tears pricked his eyes. Yeah, he may well be eighteen, a man, but he sure as shit felt younger. Out of his depth.

His mum would be worrying. He never went anywhere without reassuring her as to whether he'd be late and when he'd be back. She fretted. Always had.

"I'm not asking where you're going just to be nosey, but because something might happen to you. At least then I can give the police some idea of your last known whereabouts."

Had she sensed this coming? Had she? Did she have some premonition that a sick bastard and his cronies would take him off the street and bundle him into a car, the milk carton trashed underfoot, white fluid bleeding onto the path?

Jesus.

She would have called the police. She would have kept on at them until they listened. That despite him being an adult, him not coming home just wasn't
like
him.

She'd be crying. Wouldn't have slept.

Just like him.

Stephen's eyes itched. How long could he keep sleep at bay, though? How long before exhaustion took hold and didn't let go?

Nausea had him retching. As did Frost's clammy arm across his belly.

Easing away slowly, Stephen managed to make it to the other side of the bed without waking Frost. Quietly, he padded toward the en-suite bathroom, his arsehole so damn sore that a fresh round of tears warmed his eyes.

He hadn't cried like this since he was a kid. When he'd trapped his finger between the door and the frame, and his mum had held it under a stream of cold water then kissed it better.

In the bathroom, he reached inside an opaque-glass shower stall and set the water to hot. He climbed inside, not caring that he stood on a beautiful black marble tray, that matching tiles were on the back wall. The water burned, but he needed the heat to erase Frost's touch from his skin. He cleaned his arse as much as he was able, wincing as his soaped finger slid inside.

God that hurt.

He didn't think he'd ever get
that
part of Frost out of him.

When will he tire of me? When?

This was only the second day. Was it only yesterday teatime he'd been taken?

Sliding down the glass stall, Stephen sat in the mercifully cool tray and used a whole bottle of shower gel, continually cleaning his skin and washing the suds away. He watched the lather disappear down the plughole and wished his emotions could vanish as easily. Steam filled the stall, the tangy, pleasant scent of the shower gel heady and strong.

Yet he could still smell Frost.

His phone. Frost had taken it away. Said he'd burn the damn thing so the police wouldn't be able to track it. Stephen imagined his mum ringing it every five minutes. Imagined her crushed expression as the phone clicked onto voicemail.

He hated Frost for what he'd put her through.

Then the thought came that she wouldn't have the milk for her beloved cups of tea. That his little brother, Todd, wouldn't have had any for his cereal this morning. There was no one else to go out and buy it for them. Dad, well, he'd left them years ago, and they didn't mix much with the neighbours. Mum wouldn't want to leave the house in case she missed Stephen when he came back. Todd was too young to go out alone, and besides, even if he was older, Mum wouldn't let him now.

What would they do without him?

"The milk's on the path, Mum. They smashed it up. I'm so sorry."

Tears spilled, as hot as the damn shower water. A sob tore from Stephen's throat and out through his mouth.

The sound echoed.

What had happened after Frost slipped a black muslin sack over his head in the car? He couldn't quite remember. So far, his memories had been disjointed, coming back out of sync, the last not bearing any relation to the next. He concentrated to remember them in order.

"They gave me something, Mum. Drugs. Something."

A drink. They'd taken him from the car after a long journey. His legs had gone to sleep, pins and needles making it painful to walk. Stephen was steered across what felt like grass. Something springy anyway. It was cold, a feisty breeze blowing through his T-shirt. What was underfoot had changed to a harder surface. Concrete maybe. The air changed. Became warmer. Smelled of furniture polish and bleach. He'd stumbled down what sounded like wooden steps. Someone pressed his shoulders, and he'd sat on a hard chair, the back of it reminding him of one from his school days. Rope bound his wrists behind the chair, his ankles to the legs.

Fear. He'd never felt it so clearly in his life.

The sack had come off. A blinding light, pointed right at him, made seeing impossible. All he could see was that circle of light surrounded by blackness. A blackness so deep and frightening he'd cried for a long time.

"I wanted you then, Mum. Called out for you, but you didn't hear."

He'd been left alone for what seemed like hours.

The click of a door opening came, and footsteps down the stairs.

Frost had spoken, his voice soft and creepy. A forceful whisper right beside Stephen's ear. “Welcome to your new home.” His footsteps echoed, and he fumbled in Stephen's jeans pocket and removed his wallet.

Stephen still couldn't see anything but the light and the blackness.

"Stephen Brookes. Charming name. Now, I'm going to give you a drink. You must be thirsty, hmm?"

He was, God how he was, but he recalled his mum's warnings of how people drugged drinks.

"Even your average bloke in a nightclub drugs drinks, son."

So if
they
could, it stood to reason
this
man could.

And he had. Forced Stephen to drink what tasted like lemonade. The bubbles had burned his throat. Made him cough. And something had pricked his arm.

His mind had gone fuzzy after a while. Questions came at him, rapid-fire fast, and he'd nodded, not knowing what he was nodding for. When the sound of a table being pushed across the room bit into his dulled senses, when a pen had been positioned in his hand, when they'd told him to sign his name or they'd kill his mum...

Yeah, he'd given his consent. Nodded so hard his neck hurt. Shouted that yes, yes, he'd do whatever they fucking well told him, so long as they left his mum alone.

"Good,” Frost had said. “And despite you thinking we're barbarians, we
will
leave her alone,
if
you stick to your promise. No sense in offing her for the sake of it. Leaves a nasty trail. Can't have that."

The shower water was cooling. Stephen wished it was hot again. Hotter than it had been. He still felt dirty. Used. He hated himself, his skin, his arse, every goddamn thing. He wasn't sure, if he got out of this alive, that he'd feel comfortable with himself again. Frost's touches were there even when his hands weren't. His scent was there even when he wasn't. Those cool breaths brushed Stephen's shoulder even now, when Frost slept in the other room. His voice circled around inside Stephen's head:
Do you hate this, boy? Do you? Do you hate me?

"Yes, God, yes. I hate you more than I thought it was possible to hate someone. More than my dad, and that's saying something."

"Oh good.” Frost's voice came to Stephen, muffled under the splashing water and the shower stall enclosure.

No. Please, no more.

"Get out,” Frost said.

Stephen looked up, squinting through the steam, which would be gone soon, since the water cooled more by the second. He stood, muscles screaming and eyelids drooping, and pushed open the shower door. It banged against the wall.

"Here. A towel for you.” Frost had dressed in jeans and a black Nike sweater, the red baseball cap of yesterday perched on his black-haired head. And those shoes, those damn pointy-toed shoes that didn't go with his clothing.

Stephen took the towel, knowing it was useless not to. He didn't fancy being hit like last night. His back was still sore from the punishment. Even when Frost had just...done what he did, he knew he'd pushed his luck by telling the man exactly how he felt. That he hated his touch, his cock up his arse. That it
hurt
. He'd expected another punishment, but none had come. Frost hadn't seemed to mind what Stephen had said. What was up with that?