The Square Peg (28 page)

Shane couldn’t help it; a whimper escaped him. “Distracted you? Stuck a finger in your

ass? Would you be able to play then?”

“I’d try.” Shane was panting heavily, caught between Benedict’s cock and hand.

“If it’s what you wanted.”

“Do you think you’d succeed?”

Shane wet his lips. “Not sure. Finger up my arse might make me miscue if you

wiggled it at the wrong time.”

That got his face pushed against the table, until the taste of the cleaner Vincent

had used to wipe it down filled Shane’s mouth. It smelled of orange, but it didn’t taste

of it. “I might shove my cue up there instead.”

It was the idea of it that had Shane moaning, even as his mind shunted it onto the

list of things Benedict wouldn’t really do. At least, he didn’t think Benedict would.

“Even the blunt end’s not that thick,” Benedict said, with a hint of reproof. “Long,

of course, but not enough to stretch your hole the way I want to see it. We’ll have to

experiment with that. I’m curious how much you can take, both length and thickness.”

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Oh God. Shane squeezed his eyes shut, picturing Benedict with a notebook, jotting

down dimensions of butt plugs and dildos before shoving them up his arse and seeing

how loudly he screamed.

“You left me with a tricky shot to make.”

“Yeah.” He wasn’t going to apologize for that.

“You can watch me take it, but I think between shots, you can be on your knees,

and I really like this way of holding your cue.”

Dazed with lust, Shane let himself be hauled to his feet, then pushed down to his

knees, far enough away from the pool table that he could see the cloth, though the angle

wasn’t good. His hands were balled into fists in his pockets, the weight of the cue

resting against the crook of his elbows. It was still digging mercilessly into his spine. He

was going to have an interesting crop of bruises there.

Benedict didn’t even try to get out of the snooker. He made a deliberate foul, then

gestured for Shane to rise. It was difficult to do it with any grace, but Shane managed to

stand without falling over. Benedict withdrew the cue and gave it to him.

“You could probably win from here.”

“You think?”

Shane studied the lay of the table and shrugged. Benedict was right. All easy

shots, and the black was the easiest of all. Ignoring the ache in his back and the presence

of Benedict behind him, he pocketed the remaining stripes quickly. “Black in the top

right,” he said and bent over the table.

He was just ready to slide the cue forward when he felt the solid thwack of

Benedict’s cue across his arse. Predictably, Shane jumped and missed the cue ball

entirely—better than fucking up the shot, but it made him whirl round and glare at

Benedict.

“Problem?” Benedict asked, all innocence.

“Not from where you’re standing, apparently,” Shane growled.

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Benedict reached down and grabbed hold of the front of Shane’s trousers,

gripping his cock through the fabric. “It’s your turn,” he said, as if he was reminding

Shane of something he’d forgotten.

“Bit difficult to take it with your hand on me.” Christ, he was so fucking hard. He

hoped Benedict wouldn’t continue; the chances of him coming in his pants were

increasing every second.

“I think you can manage,” Benedict told him, not letting go.

“First you hit me with your fucking cue, then this,” Shane complained. “You really

are a wanker, you know?”

“Maybe, but I’m the wanker in charge, so stop bitching and take your shot.”

Benedict moved with him and unfastened the front of Shane’s jeans, standing

behind him. It was awkward to bend forward over the table to line up his shot with

Benedict’s hands all over him. He could barely concentrate, not when he’d been

aroused so long. He was being treated like a fucking toy, teased and tortured.

“You’re panting.” Benedict’s hand slid up to press against Shane’s heart. “This is

beating so fast. Are you scared, Shane? Or just turned on?”

“Nothing to be scared of.”

“I could leave you like this. That isn’t scary?”

“Please.” He hardly knew what he was saying. Benedict was pinching his nipple

now. Not the halfhearted fumbles other partners had gone in for. No, Benedict made it

count, gripping teased-hard flesh firmly and twisting or tugging until Shane’s nipple

was a blaze of agony.

“Please stop? Please go? You’re not very coherent, Shane. And you’re not taking

your shot. I might start to think you’re scared of what happens when the game’s over.

Your ass getting spanked, then fucked, remember?”

“Not likely to forget.” With an effort, Shane ignored the slide of Benedict’s hand

into his jeans, fingers spread, groping him casually, and took his shot.

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He miscued, but by some fluke, the ball came off the side cushion, and the black

ball went just where Shane had said it was going to go.

“Well, look at that,” Benedict said. “You win. So choose. My hand or the cue?

Don’t keep me waiting for an answer.”

Shane had already worked out what he wanted, thank you very much.

“Both. Hard as you fucking like.”

Benedict’s face didn’t change. He nodded. “Take off your clothes. Put them there.”

He indicated the nearest chair. “And bend over the pool table.”

It was possible Shane had never moved so quickly. He whipped off his T-shirt and

pushed both jeans and boxers to the floor, then realized belatedly he was still wearing

his shoes and had to kick those off to get rid of the rest of it. The thought of leaving the

whole mess on the floor instead of putting it on the chair as he’d been instructed was

tempting, but he suspected the night’s activities would already be pushing Benedict to

the limit of his patience.

Five minutes later, Shane’s estimate of who would be pushed to the limits had

changed utterly. He was leaning over the pool table in a position designed to keep his

erection from being crushed, and his arse was on fire with the force of Benedict’s blows.

Any doubts he’d had about being spanked had fled two minutes in; he was wincing

with every loud slap of Benedict’s hand and rapidly starting to slip into the space in his

head that he was aiming for.

The next blow drove a soft groan from him. He let his forehead drop down onto

the felt and closed his eyes, inhaling through his nose as he waited for the sharp contact

of Benedict’s hand. Benedict had spectacular hands. At that moment, Shane wanted to

kiss them, suck on the long fingers, let Benedict push those fingers inside his arse. He

shuddered as the thought of Benedict’s entire hand stretching him open was

accompanied by a slap so hard it made him cry out in surprise.

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There was a pause. Benedict rubbed Shane’s arse—not gently, more as if he were

testing for something, though what it might be, Shane had no idea—and murmured,

“I’m going to move on to the cue now. Unless you changed your mind?”

Shane knew this was a line in the sand, and knew just as surely he wanted to cross

it. He shook his head resolutely, but still felt Benedict hesitate before picking up the cue.

Time for a nudge. His throat was sand dry, but he managed to ask, “Are you

holding back because you want to fuck me or you don’t have the balls to give me what I

won fair and square?”

“Neither. I can fuck you now if I want, not let you come, then use the cue. My

choice. My rules. And when you’ve got them in your mouth, you’ll find out how big my

balls are.”

The fact Benedict could show a flash of humor pleased Shane, even though he was

dreading what was to come.

“I’m taking a moment to look at you,” Benedict continued. “You’re quite a sight,

ass up, bright red. Maybe I should cool it down a bit.”

Shane didn’t turn his head, stubbornly refusing to give Benedict the satisfaction,

but he regretted that a moment later when a handful of ice landed on his arse, the shock

of it against his scalding-hot skin taking his breath away.

“Patrick should’ve emptied the ice bucket. I’ll speak to him about that tomorrow.

He’s too flighty, that boy. You’ve let him get away with a lot.”

Water trickled down Shane’s thighs, warmed from its fleeting contact with his

arse. He drew in a shuddering breath and exhaled it in a scream when another handful

of ice was rubbed over his backside.

“Stop it! You sadistic fucker, it’s bloody freezing!”

“That’s such an accurate description that I’ll let you off being punished for your

disrespectful tone.”

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Shane opened his mouth to tell Benedict where he could shove the ice, the bucket,

and his tone, but the cue cracked against his wet, hot skin, and he cried out instead. It

was a blunt, harsh pain, the strokes heavy. Benedict was using the thick end of the cue

and putting his weight behind each stroke.

Shane wasn’t sure how many he could take, but they kept coming, measured

slashes, wood striking skin until the pain grew too great to bear.

He wanted to tell Benedict to stop—beg him for mercy—but he had no breath

with which to form words. His lungs burned, and his throat ached, but they were

nothing compared to his arse. The skin felt thin, fragile, as if the next stroke would split

it open. He was still hard, but it was more of an annoyance than a source of pleasure,

another ache to be endured.

And yet…he was enjoying it. If the next blow broke him open, he’d welcome it.

The pain buoyed him, cushioned him. It was their pain, not just his. Behind him,

Benedict’s arm had to be aching, sweat pearling on his forehead. He could hear the

harsh, panting breaths Benedict was taking, could picture Benedict’s flushed face,

intent, intense expression.

The pain was their creation.

One more stroke.

Shane went away then, just for a little bit, becoming the pain, and it was brilliant.

The world had gone white, and when the pool cue clattered to the floor, it came as such

a surprise that he would have jerked upright if Benedict’s hand hadn’t been splayed

across his lower back, anchoring him. Benedict’s fingers, slick and cool compared to

Shane’s heated skin, pushed inside him. Shane moaned, low and desperate. Benedict’s

fingers withdrew, which hadn’t been what Shane wanted at all; then Benedict was

tugging him upright, turning him around.

“Okay?” Benedict asked, lifting Shane’s face and studying it.

Shane nodded. He was wrapped in what they’d done and couldn’t possibly find a

single word. He leaned forward, begging silently for Benedict’s mouth.

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Benedict’s eyes were on his lips as if he wanted to kiss Shane every bit as much as

Shane wanted to be kissed, but instead he propelled Shane backward a few inches until

Shane’s raw arse came into contact with the pool table. “Lie back,” Benedict said, and

Shane did.

Christ, it hurt. At any other time it wouldn’t have been uncomfortable—might

even have been pleasant, if a bit odd—but with his arse having been both spanked and

beaten, it was like lying down on hot coals. Heat rose up around Shane like a pyre, and

when Benedict unzipped his trousers, rolled on a condom, and pushed inside him, it

was better than perfect. Shane could feel tears running down the sides of his face.

“God, don’t cry.” Benedict sounded as shaken as Shane was, his fingers brushing

frantically at the tears as if they were burning Shane’s face.

“Fuck me,” Shane growled. He wanted this. He was prepared to slam Benedict

down on the floor, the bar, or the pool table and ride Benedict’s cock until he was as

raw and open inside as he was on the surface if Benedict showed even a hint of backing

away. “Now.”

His back was arched painfully, and the felt was like sandpaper on his back. On his

backside, it was like sandpaper dipped in lemon juice, but he’d never felt better, apart

from the seething impatience filling him. A voice in his head was chanting
Now! Now!
,

and he wasn’t sure he wasn’t saying it aloud.

Benedict’s expression changed, indecision wiped clean away, passion replacing it.

“Be careful what you ask for.”

It was slow to build. The hammering Shane had braced himself for never came.

Instead, with Benedict’s hands under Shane, supporting him, easing the agony of his

arched back, Shane was fucked open, each deliberate thrust sinking deeper, the angle

ideal. Pleasure sparked across his skin, dancing fireflies that stung him, left him

burning up.

He felt his climax approach and knew nothing could stop it, not even Benedict’s

withdrawal. Though God help them both if Benedict even tried to pull out.

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Benedict’s movements quickened, losing their relentless rhythm at last. Shane