Chapter 22
VAL
Roman lets out a long, gasping moan as his cum sprays the tiled wall of the walk-in shower. His cock jerks in my hand, pulsing against my fingers as I stroke the cum from his balls.
I sink my teeth into his shoulder and groan as my dick erupts inside him, spilling my own cum deep inside his ass as he squeezes it tight around me.
“Fuck…” I groan, my fingers dragging down the tile on either side of his head before dropping my arms. My chest presses to his muscled back as my arms circle him, both of us shaking and panting.
“You fucking kill me…” I growl against his skin, biting his shoulder again, loving the way it makes him tremble and whimper.
This is the fifth—no, sixth—time I’ve fucked Roman in the last week and a half.
It’s becoming a bit of a delicious routine.
He texts something totally innocent like “Checking if you have enough food in the fridge”…as if we don’t live in a city where I could have literally any cuisine delivered to my door in fifteen minutes.
But when he does, I play along and say “I’m not sure. I might starve to death” or something equally dramatic.
An hour later, he shows up with a bag of groceries that so far have a pretty shitty track record of making it into the fridge before I’ve got his clothes off and either his cock down my throat or mine reaming his ass.
Aside from rehearsal, I’ve never been big on “routine”. But this?
This, I could get fucking used to.
The steam from the shower curls around us as I nibble on his shoulder, grinding against him, the last spurts of my cum emptying into him. Slowly, I ease my dick out, grinning at the way he pushes back, trying to keep me inside.
I groan, stepping under the spray of the hot water and shoving my hands through my hair, slicking it back.
Roman ogles me in that way I fucking love but stays right where he is.
I’d tell him there’s plenty of room for both of us, but he’s made it pretty damn clear the last three times I’ve dragged him to the shower with me that he’d rather wait than squeeze against me and rinse off together.
I mean, he hasn’t said that in so many words, but I’m not blind.
Almost to test my theory, I shove my hair back again and suddenly close the distance between us. He tenses up as I grab his face and kiss him deeply, letting my tongue probe his mouth.
Roman’s mouth shuts, forcing me out. I pull away, a slight frown pinching my brows which he obviously sees. I go to kiss him again. But this time, he actually puts his hand on my chest to stop me.
“Since when do you have a problem with kissing?” I mutter.
But I already know the answer: the sex part is over, and when it is, Roman becomes averse to any intimacy at all.
No cuddling. No touching. No closeness.
No kissing.
“I don’t,” he shrugs. “I'm just…waiting for you to finish so I can clean up.”
“Be my guest,” I say with a flourish, stepping aside and gesturing to the water sluicing down.
“Thanks,” he grunts, slipping past me and ducking under the water.
“So, really. What’s your deal with kissing?”
He frowns as he glances back at me. “I don’t have a problem with kissing. We’ve been kissing for the last forty minutes.”
“So, you don’t have a problem with kissing when I'm fucking your sweet ass, is what you’re saying.”
Roman’s face turns as red as you’d think it would after me saying something like that. It’s seriously cute, even if I’m annoyed.
“Obviously not,” he mutters, rinsing the soap off his grooved, perfect body.
“And when I’m not fucking you?”
“Huh?” He shoots me a look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sure.
“You’re fine getting deepthroated and fucked by a man. But kissing one is way too gay for ultra-straight Roman—”
“C’mon—”
“Who comes like a firehose when he takes it up the ass—”
“The fuck is your problem?”
I shrug, letting it go—for now.
“Nothing.”
I’ve known guys like this before. Hell, I was that guy at one point.
“Down low” or “straight buds”…guys who’ll fuck another guy, but then shy away from any sort of intimacy that comes after, as if that’s the “gay line” they can’t or won’t cross.
The mental gymnastics required to tell yourself that fucking another guy or getting fucked yourself isn’t gay, but that snuggling with and kissing that guy after is are…
well, a real thing, even if they’re fucking stupid.
I step out of the shower without another word, toweling off as Roman finishes up. When the water shuts off and the door swings open again, I test another theory. I stand there waiting for him with a clean towel, the one I just used hanging on a hook next to the shower door.
Roman’s face heats as his eyes drop to the clean, dry towel in my hands. Then he turns and pulls the other one off the hook and wraps it around his waist.
Jesus fuck.
“So, dinner will be here in twenty,” I shrug. “Why don’t you grab a pair of my sweats and make yourself comfy on the couch.”
The predictable panicked look that spreads over his features is almost funny.
Almost.
“Relax,” I smile. “I’m just fucking with you. I know you’d never stay for a meal, or, God forbid, sleep over.”
Roman scowls at me as he dries off. “I just—”
Can’t bring yourself to spend the night with a guy even if you just moaned like a porn star while you bent over and begged him to fuck your ass. Got it.
“No stress,” I say tightly as I turn and leave the bathroom.
In my room, I'm pulling on baggy sweats and a t-shirt when I hear Roman step into the room behind me.
“It’s not that I don’t want to stay,” he says quietly. “I just…”
I turn as he's lifting his shoulders.
“It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, closets can be like that.”
He glares at me. “C’mon. I just…” he shrugs. “I mean, I’m not…”
Yeah, hit me with that “I’m not gay” line again, fucker. It’s a tough sell when you’ve been over here begging for my cock almost every night.
No. If I say that out loud, it’ll push him past the breaking point of whatever thread is keeping him close to me, and to this…whatever “this” is.
Roman starts making the rounds of my room, picking up the various articles of his clothing that were tossed earlier. He pulls on jeans and a hoodie, scrupulously avoiding my gaze.
“So,” I drawl, opening the window and leaning against the sill as I stick a cigarette in my mouth. I flick my lighter, which draws his attention. His brow furrows as he looks at the cigarette.
“Same time tomorrow? You can skip the groceries excuse. You’ve already brought me five gallons of milk.” I drag on the cigarette as I look up at him. “I’m lactose intolerant, by the way.”
Roman’s brows knit as he stares at my smoke. “You should really quit.”
“I’ll take that under advisement. Is that a yes for tomorrow?”
He looks away. “I—I don’t know.”
“Guess we’ll just have to see how horny for my cock you are tomorrow, then.”
Roman’s eyes snap to mine, blazing. “Is there a reason you’re being a dickhead?”
“Just trying to plan my schedule,” I say dryly. “It’d be nice to know if the closet door is open or shut ahead of time.”
His mouth tightens. “Val, I’m…” He takes a slow breath. “I’m—”
“Drowning in your toxic views of what it means to be a man?” I say coldly. “Yeah—I know.”
His eyes darken. “I don’t have to come here, you know,” he growls.
“I don’t get the impression that anyone’s twisting your arm,” I snap back.
Roman scowls, his jaw tightening in that sexy, broody way that always makes my pulse surge.
“I should go.”
I follow him out of my bedroom into the main living area. My hand wraps around his arm, pulling him around to face me.
“Roman, I’m…” I exhale. “Look, I get it, okay? I’ve been there. I understand the confusion, the conflict of identity against societal bullshit. If you ever want to talk…” I grin. “And I really do mean just talk, as much self-restraint as that would take, I’m here—”
“I’m good.” He smiles, like everything’s fine. Like he’s not drowning in a murky pool of confusion.
“Well…” I shrug. “Offer stands.”
“Got it.” He nods his chin and then walks to the door. He pauses as he starts to open it, turning back to look at me. His eyes spark, and his mouth opens a little before it shuts again. “So…uh… Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”
I sigh, chuckling to myself and shaking my head. “Guess we’ll see.”
“I’ll bring groceries or anything else you might need. Just let me know.”
“No milk,” I say wryly.
He nods. “Got it. Okay…”
Our eyes lock as the seconds tick by in silence.
“Okay…bye.”
He steps out quickly and shuts the door behind him.
This fucking guy.
“Come on in.”
There are perks to being “The Marquis”, AKA the head of the Obsidian Syndicate. The big one, along with “obscene power”, is, of course, money.
Lots of money.
In addition to the sprawling mountain “camp” up in the Adirondacks, my brother also has an apartment in Paris, another in Rome, and an insane all-glass penthouse here in New York…for while he’s having his five-story mansion on Central Park renovated.
It’s fucking good to be the king, apparently.
Vaughn’s shirtless, his sweatpants sitting low on his hips as he steps aside to usher me into the penthouse. He looks groggy, but that makes sense given that it’s two in the morning and I just called and woke him up fifteen minutes ago.
His brows furrow as he closes the door and looks at me. “You okay?”
I shrug.
“How bad?”
I’ve told him before about the nightmares I get, though that's putting it mildly.
The glimpses of memories that come clawing for me in the middle of the night are goddamn terrors.
“Not…great,” I grunt quietly.
My eyes turn to scan his huge, opulent penthouse, and my brows arch when my gaze lands on the lacy black bra flung over the back of the sofa.
“Fuck, man.” I wince, shaking my head. “Didn’t realize you had company. You know what, we’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll—”
He shrugs. “It’s fine. Come on. Let’s step outside.”