EWB: Enemies With Benefits

by N.R. Walker

Shirtless, sweaty, hot. I hated that I noticed him. He was tall, lean, fit. His dark floppy hair, his pale skin and flushed cheeks. I fucking hated him for making me want him.

Off the field, he was the softest, gentlest man you’d ever meet. The only thing bigger than his smile was his heart. I was more a hold-a-grudge-forever kind of guy.

It didn’t hurt that Marshall Wise looked at me as if he wanted to kill me. I found it incredibly provocative. Arousing. And he’d always looked at me as if he hated me. Maybe he did.

“You! It had to be fucking you.” Then he started for me, and he probably would have killed me if he’d got to me, but he was stopped by a very large man whom I recognised from Marshall’s rugby team. Taka, I think his name was. He collected Marshall in much the same way I would assume a handler would manage attempting to put a feral cat in a cage. Marshall fought him the whole way out, but Taka was too strong.

He was going to fucking hate it, and he would absolutely lose his shit. I wanted to witness it.

And just like that, this game we played—where he hated me and I got off on it—entered new ground. And all I could think about during this very important transition meeting was how I’d been on my knees for him and how much I wanted to suck his dick again.

“You’re so angry.” His soft voice was far too close behind me, and when I turned around, he was standing right fucking there. In his expensive suit, smelling of expensive cologne. His jaw bulged. His eyes flashed with . . . something. Then his gaze dropped to my lips. What the fuck? “You’re damn right I’m angry,” I said. The way he was looking at me put me in a tailspin. Then I remembered him on his knees with my cock in his mouth, and my gaze cut to his. I would bet money his thoughts had gone to the same place.

“He’s the fag from the bar,” one of them said. Oh, so that’s what this was? A hate crime. There were four of them, and I liked my chances of taking two of them, at least. Bolstered by the shots of courage and lime, and with my back to the wall, I sized them up, raised my fists, and grinned at them. “Yeah. So tomorrow you can tell all your friends you got your shit clapped by a fag.”

“The fuck do you mean maybe?” I said. I batted his hand off my dick. “Like I’d fuck you anyway. I fucking hate you.” His eyes flashed with black fire and he licked his lips, still far too close. “Good. That’s what I’m banking on.” What the actual fuck.

“I want you to hate me. I need you to hate me.” Then he popped the button on my jeans and wrapped his fingers around my cock, pumping me rough and hard. “And when you fuck me with your monster cock, I need you to hate me as hard as you can.”

He pushed my head back down to the mattress, rough and strong, his big hand holding the back of my head down. His cock was buried so far in me, the pain of it was exquisite. “Stay the fuck down, you piece of shit,” he said. “You want me to fuck you like I hate you?” He pulled out and drove back into me. “Because I fucking do.”

He shuddered and groaned, but then he pulled out of me. I was bereft by his absence, hollowed out and empty. I wanted him to stay inside me. I wanted him to stay inside me until he was ready to fuck me again. I wanted his seed inside me. So he’d know he owned me, and he could treat me as if he owned me anytime he wanted. I wanted it to never end.

I was aware there were lines being crossed, and this had bad idea written all over it, and I also knew the scales of privilege were weighted in my favour. I knew all of that. And yet I didn’t want to stop.

“What—and I mean this with as much sincerity as possible—the actual fuck? You want me to hate-fuck you?” Hate-fuck. That made me smile. “Yes.”

“So that’s your proposition?” he asked. He was very obviously stunned. “You want me to . . . like Indecent Proposal or some freaky shit? What the hell is wrong with you?” “That list is quite long.”

“The power exchange is in your favour,” I said. It wasn’t exactly true, but I held his gaze. “You get to treat me like garbage. You can walk in here whenever you want, throw me down, put a load in me, and walk out.”

No strings attached, no questions asked, just sex and nothing more. Like friends with benefits—” With his hand on the door handle, he gave me a snarl over his shoulder. “We are not friends.” I smiled at him. “And that makes it so much better.”

I was considering saying yes. Actually, I was pretty sure I was going to say yes, I was just waiting for the voice of reason to overrule my dick. And waiting. But it never came. No, because instead of the voice in my head saying, this is the reddest flag to ever exist and this will end so badly there will be no survivors, the voice in my head was saying, you get to show that motherfucker what a piece of shit he is twice a week and you can own him with your cock and treat him like the garbage he is.

I liked watching him talk though. His carefully chosen words, his long, elegant fingers, his chiselled jaw, and sharp, dark eyes. Because I liked knowing that I’d been inside him, that I’d fucked him. That I’d fucked him so hard he came all over himself. And no one here had any idea.

To them, he was so cool, calm, and collected, so superior and commanding of respect. To me, he was nothing but a whore for cock,

I’d prefer Saturday night to be the night you fuck me because it gives me Sunday to recover.” “Recover?” “Yes. Your cock is a lot to take, and I want to relish the aches and pains.”

“I like rough sex. I like to be held down and fucked hard.” “Ah, yeah, I remember.” “What you did that night was perfection. It’s why I proposed this . . . arrangement.” “Pure sex.” “Nothing else,” he added coldly.

I’d like to be able to say you’ll remain respectful, but you don’t show me respect at work as it is, so if that were to change, people might suspect something is going on.” “I show you respect,” I replied. “You should hear the shit I don’t say out loud.”

To be honest, moving forward in this agreement—” I gestured between us. “—this is the longest conversation I want to have with you.”

I sat up straight in my chair and regretted it immediately. I didn’t quite hide the wince from the sharp reminder my arse gave me. “You okay?” “Yeah, overdid it at rugby training,” I lied. “Why on earth you volunteer to be pummelled into the ground by sweaty men, I’ll never know.” If only she knew . . .

“Nice sweater,” he murmured behind his cup of tea. “I didn’t realise the Steve Jobs look was in this season.” So much for his concern. “Thanks. It’s to hide the bruises on my neck you gave me.” I also regretted saying that the second it was out of my mouth, but his reaction almost made it worth it. He choked on his drink and coughed. “Are you serious?” I peeled back the tight-fitting neck and his eyes widened. “Holy shit.” I sipped the tea and ate another cracker. “Don’t be sorry,” I added casually. “Because I’m not.”

I dunno what’s more concerning. That I’m not sorry, or that I find it incredibly hot.”

I’m sure the bandage wrapped around my head made it look worse than it was, and I considered taking it off when someone decided they needed to wash their hands in my sink. I knew from his scent, from the way he brushed up against me, and the warm timbre of his voice who it was. “Who did that to you?” Marshall asked. He shook the water from his hands and met my gaze in the mirror. “Who was it?” That hatred, the barely contained loathing, was in his eyes all right. It just wasn’t aimed at me.

This was a deliberate hit. And it bothered me in ways I wasn’t quite prepared for. In ways I couldn’t quite rightly explain. Because just a few days ago, I’d caught a quick glimpse of the bruises I’d put on his throat and, as disturbing as it was, I found it hot. I’d marked his skin. Imprints of my fingers when I’d gripped his throat while I fucked him. While I owned him, owned his body in animalistic ways. Yes, it was fucked up. Me marking him? I was totally on board with that, and so was he. But someone else? Someone else hurting him? Yeah, that didn’t fly with me.

Before our agreement, if he’d copped a black eye from someone, I’d have found it funny and would have assumed he’d deserved it. I’d probably have offered to buy the guy who did it a beer. Now I wanted to kill him. Number four from Burwood. Second row. No one touched Valentine fucking Tye but me. God, it was so fucked up.

Enzo yelled at me again. “You make a lot of demands for someone who doesn’t pay rent,” I said to him.

I stood up and went to the freezer for some peas or corn. There were none. “Do you not have frozen peas?” “I hate peas.” There were exactly two bags in the otherwise empty freezer. Frozen mango pieces and a huge bag of edamame. I grabbed those. “You have freaking edamame and not peas?” “I like it.”

He put the bag of edamame back to his eye and gestured to Enzo, who was now a black loaf purring on my lap. “What the fuck is this?” “He likes me. Cats are a very good judges of character.” “He’s a traitor, and he crossed enemy lines.” I laughed. “Enemies with benefits includes cuddles with the cat.”

“This is educational. If I ever need to know how to beat the shit outta someone, or blow shit up, or drive in a car chase, or fly a plane while getting shot at, I’ll know how to do it.” “You do know how to beat the shit out of people,” he said flatly. “I’ve seen you play rugby.” I chuckled and picked up another slice of pizza. “I don’t hit people without good reason.” “You’ve tried to take my head off a few times.” “Yeah. Like I said. Not without good reason.”

“That might explain why you have no food here,” I said. “And why you went to work the other day without eating. Does that happen often?” He shot me a glare. “You’re awfully concerned about something that’s none of your business.” “But it kinda is my business. If I’m gonna come here and rail you twice a week as hard as you like it, I need to know you can handle it.”

He sighed, his voice flat. “You can leave whenever you’re ready. I don’t need you to stay.” “Oh, I’m staying. For no other reason than to piss you off.”

I gave the pizza crust to Enzo, earning another glare from Valentine. Then, to piss him right off, I patted him on the head. Valentine, not the cat.

“If you’re a good boy, I’ll suck your dick before I leave tomorrow.” He seethed. “I hate you.” “I hate you more. But that’s what I’m doing here, right?”

Enzo met me in the kitchen. He sat there with his tail wrapped around his little front paws and gave me a judgemental up and down. Pretty sure he knew what I did to his owner twice a week, and he was not impressed.

“Are you done?” “Annoying you? No. I could do it all day.”

Annoying him aside, he still hadn’t eaten anything, and this was clearly going to turn into a game of who could be more stubborn, so I played dirty. “Eat half a piece of pizza, or I don’t suck your dick before I leave.” He stared at me, then looked out the wall of glass to the morning sun and let out a sigh. “You should get a job as a police negotiator.”

“Are you finished telling me what to do?” he asked flatly. Sore eye or not, I really did want some dick before I left. “Nope. Telling you what to do makes me horny.”

And him sleeping in my bed . . . I’d never slept so soundly. Maybe it was just that I wasn’t alone, that for some strange reason I felt safe with him, which was ridiculous considering the things he did to me, things that I asked him to do to me. Perhaps the reason I felt safe with him, or the fact I trusted him, was a testament to how fucked up I was. But god, I’d slept well. Even in my sleep, I’d had vague recollections of the warmth of his body, his strong arms. Maybe that had been a dream.

“Seeing anyone?” Visions of Marshall Wise filled my mind. His body, his dick. The way he fucked me, the sounds he made when he came inside me. His hands on me, the way he held me, tight enough to mark me. But also, how he spoiled Enzo, and how my arsehole cat adored him. The way Marshall smiled. The sound of his laughter. Christ. “No,” I answered flatly.

“Rugby union. I’d like to joke and say you should see the other guy, but I didn’t even see him.” “Holy sh—” Harris said, clearly stunned. “Sorry. I didn’t even know you played rugby.” “I do.” “Did you win?” Carl asked with a grimace/smile. “My team? Yes. Me?” I gestured again to my eye. “Not so much.”

Was I in over my head? I was beginning to think I was. Would I stop seeing him? No.

“Your work crew are most likely watching.” “One hundred percent chance of that, yes. They’re probably taking bets to see if one of us throws a punch. Odds will be in my favour, just so you know.” Valentine rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t be fast enough.” I scoffed out a laugh. “Oh really? Fucking really? Should we take that bet?” “My place, tonight at seven.” “You wouldn’t stand a chance.” “Oh, don’t worry,” he said. “I fully intend to let you win.”

It was pretty clear he wanted me to stand at the side of the bed and fuck him from behind. So I wasn’t going to do that.

I wanted to stretch him thin, to iron out any knots and troubles, and hold him. I wanted to kiss him, make sure he ate properly. I wanted to make him smile. I wanted to fix him. So I held him tighter and fucked him slower. I lost myself to the warmth of his body, to the feel of him underneath me, to the sounds he made, to the gasps and moans. I lost all track of time. And maybe for the first time, I lost myself. All that existed was him.

“That’s not . . . that’s not what it is.” His eyes met mine. “So it’s like a work bromance,” he said, nodding. “But the b is silent.”