The Bully Found My Photos, So Now I Kneel on Command novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Gravel

In the truck bed at the quarry, Judah kneels on Tate's order and takes him in his mouth, bites back, and watches forty photos disappear until the sheriff's lights come up the road.

The gravel bit through Judah's trousers into both knees, and Tate's hand was in his hair.

They were in the bed of Tate's truck at the old quarry off Route 8.

The tailgate was down, and the whole black pit yawned behind them.

Tate sat on the edge of the tailgate in his letter jacket with his jeans open and his cock out in the cold air.

He was thick and flushed and already wet at the tip.

Judah had not been able to stop looking at it for a full minute.

"You've seen it before," Tate said.

"Through a lens. From a hundred and fifty yards."

"Does it match the zoom?"

"Better," Judah said, and hated himself.

Tate's laugh was low and pleased.

"Open."

Judah opened.

He had never done this in his life, and he knew it showed, and Tate knew too.

The first slide of that heavy head over his tongue made his whole body go tight.

It tasted of salt and clean skin, and the weight of it pressed down on his tongue until his eyes watered.

"Teeth," Tate said, in a bored voice. "Watch them."

Judah pulled his lips over his teeth and took more.

The hand in his hair tightened and set the pace for him, slow and deep.

The head nudged the back of his throat, and he gagged.

"There," Tate breathed. "Breathe through your nose, preacher boy. Don't you dare pull off."

Judah breathed through his nose.

He kept his eyes up the whole time, because looking away would have been losing.

Tate's face was above him in the dark, the scar white at the corner of his mouth, his lashes low.

He was not bored at all.

His jaw was tight, and his thighs had begun to shake against Judah's shoulders.

"Look at you," he said, rough now. "Seven months you hid in the weeds, and you could have just come over and asked."

Judah hummed around him.

He felt Tate's whole body jerk at the sound.

"Fuck."

Judah did it again, on purpose, and sucked hard, and for one second Tate's head fell back and his hand shook in Judah's hair.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen through any lens.

Then the hand fisted and hauled him up off Tate's cock by the roots of his hair.

Judah's lips were slick and swollen, and his glasses had slid down his nose.

His own cock was so hard it hurt against his zip, and Tate's gaze dropped to it and stayed.

"Did I tell you to enjoy it?"

"You didn't tell me not to."

Tate's mouth came down on his.

It was not a kiss so much as a bite, hard and furious and wet, with Judah's own taste on Tate's tongue.

Judah kissed him back with everything he had.

He caught Tate's lower lip between his teeth, right on the scar, and bit down until he tasted copper.

Tate went completely still.

Judah let go.

Blood beaded on the pale seam of the scar, and Tate touched it with his thumb and looked at the red.

Judah waited for the fist.

Tate's eyes came up slowly, dark and glittering.

"Oh," he said very softly. "There you are."

"Don't call me a dog," Judah said, breathing hard, "if you want me to be nice."

"I don't want you nice." Tate licked the blood off his own lip and grinned with it.

He reached down and opened Judah's trousers with one hand.

Judah's cock sprang out into the cold, hard and leaking, and he made a sound he had never made in front of anyone.

Tate wrapped a warm, calloused fist around it and stroked him once, root to head, slow.

Judah's hips jerked.

"Please," he said, before he could stop it.

"Please what?"

"Again."

"No." Tate's thumb circled the slick head, and Judah's knees slid in the gravel. "Good dogs wait."

He stroked again, slow, and again, and every time Judah's breath began to climb he took his hand away.

By the fourth time Judah was shaking.

"You son of a bitch," Judah said.

"Say it again. Louder."

"Hatchett, I swear to God."

"Wrong name for the occasion." Tate wiped his thumb on Judah's good white shirt. "Get that tie off. Wrists."

Judah held out his wrists.

Tate wound the church tie around them twice and knotted it with a tug that sent a jolt straight into his cock.

"Forty," Tate said.

He took out the phone, and for a moment he did not look at Judah at all.

He looked at the screen, and his thumb moved, fast and sure, and forty photos went.

He didn't scroll the way he had in the bell room.

He went straight to certain frames and skipped others without reading them.

"There," he said. "That's for the bite."

"Which forty?" Judah asked.

"The ones I like least."

"That's a very strange thing to dislike," Judah said.

"Eyes front, dog. I'm not finished with you."

He put the phone away, took Judah's bound wrists in one hand and pulled them up over his own head.

He was drawing Judah forward onto his chest, mouth to mouth, with the cold gravel under both knees, when the whole quarry went white.

Headlights swung across the trees.

Tate's head snapped round.

A pair of high blue-and-white lights was crawling down the quarry road, slowly, and the shape under them was a county cruiser.

All the color left Tate's face.

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