Little Demon in the Details

by Nordika Night

Maybe because I know what it’s like to be the youngest and most overlooked member of the family, or maybe because that lace riding up his ass crack is still on a loop in my head.

My heart is pumping, but I can’t tell if it’s from frustration, rage, or fatigue. Also, not sure why my dick’s a bit stiff.

“What’re you going to call me? Let me guess! Little boy?” “Haven’t decided yet.” “Sweetheart?” “Mm.” “You could always go with a classic. Most guys like you just call me babe. Or baby boy.” “I’m sure they do,” he says. “Probably also call you pet, brat, good boy, bad boy, and slut.”

“Are you slut shaming? Because being a cumslut is so much more than a personality.”

I’ve had two bi experiences, but never with men like him. My experiences start and stop at the athletic type, and Mercer is the farthest thing from a jock. He’s smaller than me by a lot; at least five inches in height and probably a sixty or more pound weight difference. He’s all bite and no brawn, but I don’t think that makes him a weaker opponent. Mercer has learned how to use his body as a weapon, a distraction, and a taunt, and I have no doubt he’s just as dangerous as I am. He’s slender without being delicate, firm without being overly toned, and graceful while being rambunctious. He’s the bull and the china shop. His dark hair is mussed up and messy on purpose, adding to his wild boy image, but it doesn’t overly fit his lingerie energy. Maybe he likes it that way.

Mercer is a little shit, so he pretends not to notice. He’s back to acting cocky and casual, his little meltdown forgotten for the time being. My fingers still tingle from being at the back of his throat.

His game is seduction and manipulation, but he’s not playing with this group of men. He’s playing with me, and his victory will only come after I get possessive of him. That’s not going to happen. Not externally. Internally, I’m slamming my cock down his throat to choke off all his taunts, making him weep pretty tears for me while I kill every man in this club who has looked at him.

Don’t forget me. Don’t ignore me. See me for who I am and notice me because I’m worthy. Look through the bullshit and accept all my broken. Someone. Please. See me.

“Open.” “Say please.” Not a chance. I grip his chin and squeeze until his lips pop open. I lean in until my lips are brushing his, revelling in the feel of his small body trembling with need on top of mine. “Better start begging soon, Mercer.” I lick his lips, and just as he leans in to take more, I shove the lolly back in his mouth and stand up. I set him on the bed and make a point of adjusting my dick right in front of his face. “Night, baby.”

It’s dark, but I can see the glow of his face, and I don’t trust it. I don’t trust it so much my mouth waters and I keep staring at how fucking hot that look is.

Those knife skills are also up there on the spank bank list. Goddamn. Feisty little hoodlum on the streets, lingerie wearing badass in the sheets. Literal perfection. I really hope he begs for sex soon.

When he turns around to show me all the ties, he looks over his shoulder to keep eye contact. I want to take a picture of him like this and jack off to it until it’s crusty and ruined.

“I knew you’d beg.” I rock a bit, drawing out more of his moans. “You’re my little slut now, Mercer.” “Fuck, yes,” he groans. “Fuck me like I’m your slut.” His legs release my hips, giving me full permission and free rein to do whatever the hell I want to him. He’s offering himself up as mine—mine to have, to use, to worship, to punish, to praise. Just mine. I’ve never seen a person more worthy of all my attention.

Everywhere. I want to bathe in it. I might have a cum kink, but I also have a Blake fetish. Not only do I want his cum inside me, all over me, filling me, but I want him all over me. I want his body against mine, his lips connected with mine, and his hands all over my skin. A desperation washes over me and I whimper, needing him everywhere.

I’m on the brink of too many things. Coming. Falling for him. Needing him for more than his body. I’m teetering on the tip of the dagger, and one wrong move will send my heart slipping down the blade.

“I’m not going to tame you, Mercer.” Something hot burns in my gut. It’s uncomfortable yet enticing. “Why not?” He cups my ass and lifts me up. My legs wrap around his waist, and his eyes, too close to focus on, stay locked on mine. “Because you thrive on being unhinged, and I never want you snuffed out. Because, in order to respect who you are, I first had to get to know you. Guess what I found?” He sets my ass down on the bench and pushes my wet, cold mouth to the material over his cock. “A smart, bratty little boy with so much fire, but no idea how to keep it burning. I’m going to make you burn, Mercer.”

“I respect you,” he tells me, making me whimper. “But I will fucking use you like you want to be used. I can do both. Understand?”

“Stand up as Mercer and I’ll fuck you, baby.” Incentive. Strength. Trust, because I know his promise has merit. Blake will wait in this room with me even if it takes me three days to stand on my own, and no matter how tired, hungry, and drained he is, he’ll fuck me because he told me he would. Blake has never lied to me. When I lift my left foot and plant it on the floor, my chest cracks open with memories of being pushed down. All the times I cowered on the floor because my parents didn’t want me to be seen. All the men I let degrade me because I thought it’d build a tolerance to disrespect and, sooner or later, I’d stop letting it control me. All the pitying looks and sad eyes from my sisters, who wanted to help but never did. It hurts. When I press my hand on the carpet to push myself up, I whine, crying for the boy who gripped his blankets and hid in the dark, trying to figure out what everyone hated about him so much. As I push up, I’m reminded of all the times I’ve been pushed back down. That sudden rises have deadly falls. That words are nice even if they’re lies, and sometimes, they only hurt later when you stop believing the lie.

“You’re going to ruin my life,” Blake says with a smile on his face. “And make it fucking fun. You’re going to be my brat when you want to be, my partner all the time, and my good little boy when you need to be reminded how fucking important you are. You know what I’m going to be for you?” I shake my head, crying again. Desperate to know what he’s going to be for me. Wondering if he’s as psychotic as I am, falling this hard this soon. “Everything. Yours. You fucking own me, Mercer. I’m not going anywhere.”

I blush like an asshole because holy shit, he’s a romantic murderer.

My life, and Mercer’s, flashes before my eyes. In this fragment of time, grid-locked into an instance where one or all of us dies, I know with absolute certainty that I’m in love with Mercer Bentley.

I take the phone from his grip and hate this. Everything about it. Everything about the way he looks dead is building something unhinged and lethal inside me. My breath shakes out of me, staccato and scared.

If this story doesn’t end with me killing Will Palmerston, I will flip my shit. Actually, if this story doesn’t end with Mercer taking his fucking power back and knocking his father down to the gutters where he belongs before I kill him, I will flip my shit even more. My mission in life just became Mercer’s redemption, and I will stop at nothing to help him get it.

One of these days, everything with his family is going to be resolved, and when it is, I’ll have to go back to my job. Leaving him for days at a time seems impossible and I have no idea how I’m going to do it—survive it. I’ve never been attached to anything before; not a place, a person, or a home. Mercer is all those things to me. He tied me down so fucking tight, I’m going to turn into the needy one.

“Fuck me like there are no buts, Blake.” Fuck me like you love me.

“I love you, Mercer.” “But?” “No buts.” He struggles not to get weepy, but in the end, he lets out a dramatic whine, covers his face, and doesn’t complain when I uncover it. “I fucking love you.” I kiss him. “Love me harder,” he demands. Any-fucking-time.

“I need you to do that thing where you smother me with your body and touch me all over while I sleep.” “You mean cuddle?” I scoff. “No.”

Well, he’s showing everyone that he’s no longer that boy. He’s no longer Ben Palmerston. He’s Mercer fucking Bentley, the man who came out the other side and rose to the top because of his own strength and willpower. It’s a sight to behold, and my dick is getting antsy about it.

“Okay. My problem is that Mercer is wearing something I want to rip off under this hoodlum look. My biggest problem is that there is a plug in the ass that belongs to my dick. My problem, fam, is that every second that plug sits there and I don’t get to pull it out and replace it with my cock, the higher the chances are Mercer won’t fucking survive my wrath. Happy, baby?”