12. Kendrick
Chapter twelve
Kendrick
Sleep is impossible. Spencer’s already lost to the world, curled against me with his head on my chest, a possessive hand curled around my hip, ensuring I don’t get away from him without him noticing.
Our entire relationship changed tonight. In a way we can’t take back.
I don’t understand him, or what he wants—I doubt he does either—and it doesn’t matter, because he can have it anyway. If he’d asked to fuck me tonight, I would have let him despite the fact I’ve never in my life bottomed or had any desire to. I’d offer myself up for him in a heartbeat.
Except he can’t take that step, because his dick isn’t participating in any of this. The rest of him is right there, whispering filth in my ear. He gives me the tip. Only ever the tip.
He mumbles in his sleep and mouths absently at my skin. My arm around him tightens instinctively. He doesn’t wake when I brush his blond hair from his face and glance my knuckles over his soft cheek.
The feel of his hand around my dick, the way he urged me on, the taste of him in my mouth, I’ll never be able to forget any of it. He’s a constant torture and the source of all my happiness. The worry that I’m demanding too much, that I’m making him uncomfortable with my desire for him, is always there as well. Barely under the surface and breaching at the most inconvenient times.
“Ken.”
I pause, waiting. Is he talking in his sleep, or awake?
“Why not sleep?” he slurs. Awake, then. Not even he can make semi-coherent sentences in sleep.
“I’m fine.” He sighs contentedly when I kiss his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”
“You too?”
“Yeah,” I lie. I’m not getting sleep tonight. Better that way. Nightmares follow me into my dreams, and a good night’s rest isn’t worth having him slip through my fingers over and over again. Losing him is my greatest fear, and six months ago it almost became my reality.
I can’t go through that again. I wish I could guarantee that it won’t, but we don’t exactly have safe desktop jobs. Not to mention, Spencer throws himself into dangerous situations like they’re party favours. It’s not an if, it’s a when, and that more than anything keeps me up at night.
“You’re not sleeping,” Spencer mumbles, poking me in the side.
“Neither are you,” I counter. If he were sleeping like he’s supposed to be, he wouldn’t know that I’m not.
“Can’t sleep with you thinking so loud. Are you scared?”
I can lie and say that I’m not, reassure him that everything is fine, and help coax him back into slumber. It’d be all too easy.
That’s not who we are. We’re messy and complicated, but we don’t hide. Not from each other. “Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, long enough I think maybe he’s gone back to sleep before he says, “Me too.”
My eyes close, and I drag him to lie over me, his comforting weight pressing me down.
Somehow I manage to fall into a deep sleep. One where nightmares don’t find me. Spencer, my guardian awake and in my dreams.
Unfortunately, “rested” isn’t the word I’d use when the alarm goes off at four thirty. Spencer says something unflattering under his breath and tries to burrow further into me. Unless he wants to rip off my skin and dive into my warm corpse, he can’t get any closer. If it means not having to get up, I’d consider it.
“Time to get up.”
“Not yet,” Spencer says stubbornly.
“I need to piss.”
He stretches a leg over my stomach, trapping me in. It presses on my bladder, which only makes the urge worse. Is he trying to be helpful or…? “You can wait.”
You can wait , he says as if my bodily function will obey his every command. “What do you want for breakfast?” Food should lure him out of bed.
Spencer twists further, his whole side against mine. I can feel his morning wood. While it’s good to know he can get hard around me, it’s not exactly in the most flattering way. The urge to rub myself against him is kind of pathetic. No, not kind of. It’s the most pathetic thing ever. I still want to do it anyway.
“French toast,” he says with a lazy smile. “Mmm, and hash browns.”
“ And hash browns?” Returning his smile, I thread my fingers through the hair at his temple. “Now you’re being greedy.”
“I’m always greedy for you.”
“Are you?” Sometimes I wonder if he truly understands what he means when he says those things. Or how they could be misconstrued. It’s more likely he’s doing it on purpose.
He props himself up on one elbow, one hand leisurely stroking my chest. “Yeah. I can’t stand it when you don’t look at me, when someone else has your attention. I want all of it, and they don’t deserve it like I do. They haven’t earned it. When you’re focused on something else, it means you aren’t focused on me. And I hate it, Ken. I need you.”
When he says things like that it makes me want to pick him up and take him somewhere where it’s just the two of us forever. Where I can spend every day doting on him, loving him, making him mine . Where nothing else can interfere or take my attention away from him. “I feel the same way, you know. When you aren’t looking at me, I’m looking at you, I promise.”
He kisses me softly and then tugs on my hair. “I love your curls.”
“You’re welcome to them,” I say dryly. They’re a pain in my ass. Growing them out only makes it worse and having them too short makes them impossible. I can’t win for trying.
“I don’t think they’d look as nice on me,” he muses.
He’d look good with anything, but I am partial to his current look, blinding blond and all. I love the way it feels running through my fingers, how it feels against my skin, when it’s dripping wet after a shower, when it’s sticking up in a hundred directions, even when he wears a cap for too long and gets hat hair. There isn’t a single thing that Spencer could do that would make me love any part of him less.
“Okay, time for food,” he declares loudly. The sight of his ass when he jumps out of bed and goes in search of his pants makes up for the sudden noise. He lingers, knowing that I’m looking at him before he does the awkward hop to get into a pair of my soft sweats.
My phone ringing distracts me from the show. The second I see the name on the screen, I groan and flop back onto the bed. Spencer stops with one leg in the pants and looks back at me in silent question.
“I think that French toast will have to wait.” Six wouldn’t call this early for no good reason.
“You guys might want to see this,” Six says as soon as I answer. “I’m sending the link to Spence.”
We share a glance, and then Spencer grabs his phone off the nightstand, flicking the screen on. He drops onto the bed so we can both see the screen.
Spencer whistles low. “I think we’re putting this guy at the top of the list.”
It’s a website. A dedicated fan page, all things Veronica Ferguson. Pictures snapped of her that likely aren’t consensual. Facts and information about her, some highly personal.
Spencer clicks over to a page labelled “encounters.” Not of the PG variety. They’re accounts of men that have slept with her. He grimaces. “Well, that’s fucking disgusting.”
“Have any of these men gone missing in the last year?” I wonder aloud. Is he compiling the list as potential targets, or because he’s a sick fuck that wants all the details that he can’t get himself?
“I’ll get Greer to check,” Six says. “He loves it when I boss him around.”
Instead of laughing, Spencer goes red. Curious.
“Get it for us today if you can?” It’s barely five, so we’ve got some time before he’s likely to be on his way to work. “We’re gonna pay a visit to the guy’s house, see what we can dig up.”
“You want me to get a watch on him, make sure he stays away while you poke around?”
“It’s more fun when it’s a mystery.” If he shows up, we can have a little chat. No harm, no foul. “Let us know if you find anything else.”
Six mumbles an affirmative and hangs up.
Spencer hasn’t moved from where he’s perched on the edge of the bed. Staring down at his hands, intense concentration on his face. The urge to lick over the downturned curve of his lips is like a physical compulsion.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“The fact you won’t look at me is a good start.”
He sighs, still not looking at me. Have his cheeks gone even more red?
“I saw them yesterday.”
Based on context, I try to piece together what he’s talking about. “Do you mean Six and Greer? Yeah, they were hanging around HQ a bit.” Greer doesn’t usually spend any considerable time, well, in any place. It’s rare for the workaholic to not always be on the go, but occasionally, Six will put his foot down and make him stay in one place. “So what?”
“No, I mean, I saw them having sex. In their office.”
He says it like it’s the first time any of us have walked in on those two. They’re not exactly discrete. “Were they doing something weird?” If it were anyone else, I’d be jealous that Spencer saw them. Those two don’t really count. They’re so gone for each other; I doubt anyone could make them turn their heads.
“What? No!”
And yet he’s still blushing. It takes one cajoling tug to get him to climb between my legs. Tipping his chin up, I brush the tips of my fingers across his jaw. “Talk to me.” Something’s clearly bothering him.
“It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“To get fucked by Six?” I ask, deliberately misunderstanding him. “I can’t say it’s on my bucket list, no.” Why is he bringing this up? He never has before. We’ve always been content to leave the status quo where it’s always been, neither pushing for more. Or for less. He’s latched on to this idea of sex, and I wish I knew why.
“I think anyone who says they haven’t at least thought about it is lying.”
“Does that mean you’ve thought about it?” I ask, sour acid clogging my throat. I love Six like a brother, but if Spencer has had even one thought about him in that way, I’ll kill him.
“Anyone who’s into men,” he’s quick to follow up with.
“That’s not the save you think it is. Do you think I’ve thought about it?” Six is pretty, but I haven’t once wanted to sleep with him, not even when all I knew about him was his looks.
Darkness flickers in his gaze. “Have you?” It’s an accusation wrapped in a question, and the absurdity of it makes me chuckle.
“It was your theory, Spence. You tell me.”
“You only want me.”
He’s right, of course. It doesn’t need to be said. I’ll never look at anyone else so long as he lets me keep touching him like this. “I guess that means not everyone has thought about it.” At least not how Spencer means it.
“I guess so.” He sways closer, like he wants me to kiss him. I can’t resist that kind of invitation.
“Why are you asking?” I murmur, our lips brushing.
“Asking what?” He sounds half drunk.
The soft skin of his neck distracts me. It’s hard to remember our conversation. “About Six and Greer.” It would be so easy to give in and let this get buried underneath my need for him. But he’s been so weird lately, and I need some answers.
“Sex. It’s what you don’t get.”
I don’t understand the statement or what the purpose of it is. “Your lack of interest in men isn’t exactly conducive to having sex.” I don’t want anyone else, and neither does he, so we’re locked in this stalemate forever.
“But you want it.”
He’s really pushing this. “No.”
“You’re lying .” He pulls away with a scowl. “You’re fucking lying to me.”
Christ. “Spence—” I reach for him, and he pulls away, standing. “Of course I want it. With you . Not with anyone else. I also know it won’t happen, and I’m okay with that. That’s not a lie, and it never will be. I knew what I was getting into when I let you close.” As if that would ever have stopped me.
“You can’t honestly tell me that it doesn’t bother you.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” I tell him honestly. “I want it because everything about you turns me on, and you already know that. That doesn’t mean I’m dissatisfied with what we have. What you give me is better than any sex I’ve ever had, and being with you, like this, fulfils me more than anything else ever could. Not having sex doesn’t detract from something between us.”
His lips tremble, like he’s trying to say something but doesn’t know how to. How long has this been bothering him? How could he ever think this isn’t enough for me?
“What’s with the sudden interest in sex? Where is this coming from?” An uncomfortable thought enters my mind. “Is this because you want to?” Even voicing the words is like pouring acid down my throat to eat away at my insides. “Are you asking me because you want to go out and sleep with someone?” There’s no way I’ll allow it. He can’t have both. He either has me, or he has that. I won’t allow it. I can’t . He’s mine, not some random woman’s. If he wants to get off, he has his left hand. And there are toys he can use if he needs to fuck something. I refuse to allow him to use someone else to get off. They don’t get to make him feel good, not when it’s a door closed to me.
“What? No!”
Genuine horror crosses his face, like the thought’s never occurred to him. It settles the jealousy roiling inside me. Somewhat. “Then what’s going on?” The thought that he may be thinking about it with me doesn’t enter. Or it does, but I refuse to let it take hold. That won’t happen, and thinking about it is only a lesson in torment. One I never pass.
“It feels like you’re pulling away from me.”
That’s… what? Where the fuck did he pull that from? “Spence, I let you jerk me off yesterday. And kiss me like it means something, when it doesn’t. How does any of that say that I’m pulling away from you?”
“Fuck off, it does mean something,” Spencer says angrily, lips twisted in a snarl. “I love you, and I love having your mouth on me. I don’t go around kissing randoms off the street!”
I slide out of the bed and pull him into my arms. He’s stiff but doesn’t fight me. “Spencer. I love you too. I’m not pulling away, and I can admit that I don’t know why you think that I am. I want you, in all ways. Whatever the problem is”—I tip his chin up with a finger underneath the curve—“we’ll work it out together.”
He melts against me when I kiss him, and I spend more time than sanity allows mapping his mouth and swallowing the small noises that he makes. So close to what I want it to be that I imagine I can taste it on my tongue, along with him.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispers brokenly.
“Never.” It’s not even an option.