wrist to put his hands on the floor. When he did, the intruder let go of his hair. His scalp throbbed.
He wiped his forehead against the side of his arm.
It was a short way to the table. As he neared it, the intruder grasped his hair again—”Up.”—and yanked.
He winced, grabbing the edge of the table.
The black backpack from last time sat unzipped on the coffee table. His own belongings—MacBook, notepads, pens, coaster, bills he needed to pay—had been removed. He glanced around, but they’d been completely cleared out of the area. He wondered how long Dylan had been here, waiting for him.
“Up against the table.”
He shuffled till his thighs met its edge. A curve of dull gray peeked out from the open mouth of the backpack. He was hit with a tactile memory of duct tape welding his wrists together behind his back, and his throat went dry.
“Jacket off.”
It wasn’t zipped; he shrugged out of it, the air cool against the hot dampness of his shirt. The intruder tossed the jacket on the couch. “Empty your pockets.”
He drew his wallet and phone out, set them on the table. In his front pockets he had a few coins and some lint, which he set on top of his wallet.
“Hands on the table.”
As he complied, the intruder sank to his knees behind him. The gun’s muzzle dug against the back of Brian’s neck, sending shivers up his scalp.
The intruder began frisking him with his free hand, feeling up his side, in his armpit, across his chest, down his stomach. Brian’s heart raced. How far would he go? Panic was creating more room at the front of his jeans, thank God. The intruder’s chest bumped his back as he stretched his arm down to pat one of Brian’s front pockets.
Brian closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. The Verve discography, starting with the “All in the Mind” single in March 1992…
The intruder swept his hand across Brian’s belt, then down to palpate his other pocket.
And then in June…
Dylan’s hand passed businesslike over Brian’s crotch, bringing a hot rush of blood to his face.
And then in June…
Without even a squeeze, the intruder pulled away, using the same hand to go up his other side. Brian let his breath out as his other armpit was felt up, his shoulder, the length and breadth of his back, the leather of the glove sliding easily across the cotton of his T-shirt. His belt pulled against his stomach as the intruder shoved his fingers into Brian’s waistband, then loosened as they came back out to go over the outside of each back pocket, between his legs, down the inside of each thigh.
His cock was responding to the intimate yet impersonal sweep of the gloved hand, and the fact that he couldn’t for the life of him remember what The Verve had released in June of 1992 wasn’t helping.
And then he wasn’t being touched at all anymore. At some point, even the gun had moved away. “Find what you were looking for?”
“Put your hands behind your head.”
He straightened, bringing his arms up. The intruder was right behind him, close enough for Brian’s back to bump his chest.
He laced his fingers together behind his head. Air licked the bare skin at his waist, where his shirt rode up.
The intruder scooped Brian’s phone, wallet, and coins off the table and into a pocket of the backpack.
Brian’s chest tightened as the gloved hand zipped the pocket shut, closing some of his most crucial belongings within it. The intruder set the backpack on the floor and came around behind him again, pressing against Brian’s back, reaching around his waist, feeling for the buckle on Brian’s belt.
Shit.
He gripped the back of his head as the intruder worked his belt open.
Shit shit shit . He tipped his chin up, his eyes sweeping the ceiling, wondering—worrying—where this was going.
With two tugs, the belt zipped free of its loops, leaving the ghost of a friction burn around Brian’s hips.
The buckle jingled as the intruder took hold of one of Brian’s wrists,
He wiped his forehead against the side of his arm.
It was a short way to the table. As he neared it, the intruder grasped his hair again—”Up.”—and yanked.
He winced, grabbing the edge of the table.
The black backpack from last time sat unzipped on the coffee table. His own belongings—MacBook, notepads, pens, coaster, bills he needed to pay—had been removed. He glanced around, but they’d been completely cleared out of the area. He wondered how long Dylan had been here, waiting for him.
“Up against the table.”
He shuffled till his thighs met its edge. A curve of dull gray peeked out from the open mouth of the backpack. He was hit with a tactile memory of duct tape welding his wrists together behind his back, and his throat went dry.
“Jacket off.”
It wasn’t zipped; he shrugged out of it, the air cool against the hot dampness of his shirt. The intruder tossed the jacket on the couch. “Empty your pockets.”
He drew his wallet and phone out, set them on the table. In his front pockets he had a few coins and some lint, which he set on top of his wallet.
“Hands on the table.”
As he complied, the intruder sank to his knees behind him. The gun’s muzzle dug against the back of Brian’s neck, sending shivers up his scalp.
The intruder began frisking him with his free hand, feeling up his side, in his armpit, across his chest, down his stomach. Brian’s heart raced. How far would he go? Panic was creating more room at the front of his jeans, thank God. The intruder’s chest bumped his back as he stretched his arm down to pat one of Brian’s front pockets.
Brian closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. The Verve discography, starting with the “All in the Mind” single in March 1992…
The intruder swept his hand across Brian’s belt, then down to palpate his other pocket.
And then in June…
Dylan’s hand passed businesslike over Brian’s crotch, bringing a hot rush of blood to his face.
And then in June…
Without even a squeeze, the intruder pulled away, using the same hand to go up his other side. Brian let his breath out as his other armpit was felt up, his shoulder, the length and breadth of his back, the leather of the glove sliding easily across the cotton of his T-shirt. His belt pulled against his stomach as the intruder shoved his fingers into Brian’s waistband, then loosened as they came back out to go over the outside of each back pocket, between his legs, down the inside of each thigh.
His cock was responding to the intimate yet impersonal sweep of the gloved hand, and the fact that he couldn’t for the life of him remember what The Verve had released in June of 1992 wasn’t helping.
And then he wasn’t being touched at all anymore. At some point, even the gun had moved away. “Find what you were looking for?”
“Put your hands behind your head.”
He straightened, bringing his arms up. The intruder was right behind him, close enough for Brian’s back to bump his chest.
He laced his fingers together behind his head. Air licked the bare skin at his waist, where his shirt rode up.
The intruder scooped Brian’s phone, wallet, and coins off the table and into a pocket of the backpack.
Brian’s chest tightened as the gloved hand zipped the pocket shut, closing some of his most crucial belongings within it. The intruder set the backpack on the floor and came around behind him again, pressing against Brian’s back, reaching around his waist, feeling for the buckle on Brian’s belt.
Shit.
He gripped the back of his head as the intruder worked his belt open.
Shit shit shit . He tipped his chin up, his eyes sweeping the ceiling, wondering—worrying—where this was going.
With two tugs, the belt zipped free of its loops, leaving the ghost of a friction burn around Brian’s hips.
The buckle jingled as the intruder took hold of one of Brian’s wrists,
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