Chapter 5
“Harder. Fuck.”
“You’re the one in charge, Freckles. You want it harder, take it,” Jericho groaned, gripping Atticus’s hips as he dropped back down on his hard length.
Atticus sucked in a breath as Jericho thrust up as he crashed down, driving him impossibly deep. “Oh, fuck. Fuck. Wish we were in bed right now.”
“You were born to ride me. I can’t believe you thought you were straight when you beg this hard for my cock.”
Heat lanced through him. “Like you could have handled the idea of me having been with other men before you. You want to kill Kendra and she’s never been inside me,” Atticus panted, leaning his weight against his husband, thighs burning from the exertion of working himself on him, the feeling of fullness making him crazy.
This was the real reason he never skipped leg day.
“I can’t help that I’m a jealous guy, Freckles. I knew you were mine from day one. I knew you were made for me. Your body is so shaped to my cock no other man could ever make you happy.”
Atticus bit back a whine as Jericho’s blunt nails dug into his flesh.
He bit his lip, keeping his gaze glued to the reflection in the rearview mirror even as he corkscrewed his hips.
He bit back a smile as Jericho’s breath stuttered.
His husband’s filthy mouth was lethal but seeing how wrecked he looked just being inside him made him feel powerful.
They were being completely reckless. And stupid.
They could be caught at any moment. They could already be caught.
There were at least four cameras trained on them right now, likely being monitored by a staff of well trained security guards who weren’t getting paid enough to watch him get railed by his husband in the backseat of his Bronco.
Yet there they were.
Atticus didn’t care about the guards. He didn’t even care that any one of his brothers could take it upon themselves to park in their father’s garage any minute now, especially in the inclement weather raging outside.
All it would take was just one of them opting for the warmth of the garage over the cold of the circular drive and Atticus would never live this down.
That should upset him. It really should. The thought of his family finding him in Jericho’s lap, his jeans and underwear cutting into his thighs, his husband’s cock buried in his ass. But really it just turned him on. Was that wrong? Probably. He found he cared less and less the older he got.
He leaned his weight back on Jericho’s chest and his hands slid under Atticus’s shirt to cup his chest, his panting breaths hot against his ear.
“The others are gonna be here soon, Freckles. Any minute now, someone's gonna drive in here and see you getting bred in the backseat like a two dollar whore.” Atticus made a pathetic sound. “You love that don’t you. Love the idea of them all knowing how much you love my cock.”
Atticus’s breath punched from him as fire licked through his core, that coil tightening. “If you don’t want us getting caught, then maybe you should come already?” he managed.
He meant it to sound taunting but it came out as desperate as he felt.
He was only waiting on Jericho. Atticus’s cock slapped his stomach every time he dropped down onto his husband, flushed and throbbing painfully from neglect.
But he was way too keyed up. The second he touched himself, it would be over.
For him, anyway. Jericho would likely throw him down—or worse, put him on all fours—and fuck him full no matter how overstimulated he was.
He loved making him cry, loved listening to him whine and beg.
“Maybe you should make me?”
“Are you implying this isn’t doing it for you?” he panted, speeding up despite his burning thighs.
“Oh, it’s doing it for me. But I can feel you getting tired.”
“This is a lot of work,” Atticus grumbled.
“My poor pillow princess, having to work for it for a change. Want me to take over?”
He was too horny to protest. “Yes.”
“Then say it,” Jericho taunted against his ear.
Atticus was too sex drunk to know what Jericho was asking. “Say what?”
Jericho chuckled, even though he sounded winded. “Say you want me to fuck you, make you come, make you scream right here in your father’s garage.”
“Fuck me, make me come, make me scream, I need it,” he panted without hesitation. “Need you to fuck me full of your cum.”
“God, you’re such a fucking slut for me. I love how filthy your mouth is getting, Freckles.”
One arm slid across Atticus’s waist, holding him in place so he could drive up into him with a low growl.
Atticus gripped the seats in front of him, his husband’s noises sending jolts of electricity straight to his cock, making him ache to touch himself. Still, he waited.
Jericho groaned against his back. “God, your hole is just milking my dick. You’re so fucking needy. I can’t get enough of you. I love you so fucking much,” His whole body flushed at his confession, a choking sound escaping as Jericho’s hand appeared in front of him. “Spit.”
Atticus didn’t hesitate, letting saliva drip into his palm, crying out as Jericho's fist closed around him. Atticus would have fucked up into it if Jericho wasn’t holding his waist in a death grip, his cock pummeling his prostate until his eyes were rolling back, sparks crackling behind his lids.
“I’m not gonna last.”
“Oh, I know, Princess. I can feel how close you are.”
Atticus couldn’t even answer, his own euphoria keeping him in a chokehold. Jericho knew just how he liked it, knew just how to touch him, how to fuck him, how to work him in his hand just so.
“Do it, Freckles. Come for me. I wanna feel it.”
Atticus cried out, pleasure crashing over him as he came, clenching down on Jericho’s cock still driving into him. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
“There it is,” Jericho groaned, releasing inside him, grinding his hips up against him like he needed to come as deeply inside as possible.
As they both sat there, coming down from their highs, reality slowly crept back in.
The car was too warm, the windows fogged, the air thick with the scent of sex and leather and cold sneaking in through the cracks.
Atticus leaned back against Jericho, forcing him to take the full brunt of his weight, a deliberate choice—anchoring himself, letting his spine rest where Jericho was solid and familiar.
Jericho kissed his cheek, then his neck, his breath heavy and warm against his skin, lingering like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment either.
Jericho held out his sticky hand with a crooked look until Atticus leaned forward and pulled the wet wipes from the pocket in the back of the driver’s seat, cleaning him up with practiced ease.
It was a domestic little thing, intimate in a way that had nothing to do with what they’d just done.
When it was clean enough, Jericho grimaced as Atticus pulled off of his husband’s softening cock, begrudgingly letting him finish cleaning up the mess he’d made.
Jericho huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, the sound vibrating against Atticus’s shoulder.
They had just finished righting their clothes—shirts tugged straight, belts fastened, dignity mostly restored—when the garage door began to rise.
“Shit,” Jericho muttered.
There was no time to scramble into the front seats and pretend they’d been having a very normal, very innocent conversation, so they exited the car instead, standing awkwardly beside it with the kind of posture that screamed guilty to anyone paying attention.
Atticus frowned as he watched a familiar Mercedes pull into an empty space. The headlights cut through the dim garage lighting, illuminating drifting snow still clinging to the undercarriage. He and Jericho exchanged puzzled glances.
“She’s supposed to be with August and Lucas,” Jericho murmured.
Weird.
They walked toward the car together, Atticus’s unease growing with every step. He expected Cricket to hop out with some sarcastic remark already loaded, but instead she stayed put—white-knuckling the steering wheel, teeth bared, sweat slicking her hairline.
“What the fuck,” Atticus muttered, breaking into a jog toward the driver’s side.
He wrenched the door open, earning a wan, exhausted smile from a pale Cricket.
“Hey,” she said, blinking sweat from her eyes like it was no big deal.
“Hey?” Jericho echoed. “What are you doing here alone?”
“So,” Cricket said, voice thin but steady, “funny story. I went into labor at Callie and Lola’s. They were off rescuing Arlo and Dimitri so I just… drove myself here.”
“You drove yourself all the way here in active labor?” Atticus asked, already reaching for her, hands careful but firm as he helped her from the car. “Are you insane?”
“That seems to be the common consensus,” she said, managing a weak smirk.
They only made it two steps before she doubled over, a sound escaping her that was somewhere between a whimper and a grunt. She grabbed fistfuls of Atticus’s shirt, twisting the fabric as she panted hard through the contraction.
Atticus stayed still, braced, letting her use him without question, exchanging a worried glance with Jericho. When it passed, he waited until her breathing evened before asking, “How far apart are your contractions?”
“Every fifteen minutes or so,” she said, inhaling deeply, then exhaling with a shaky sigh. She glanced up at him, then her eyes slid from him to Jericho.
“Why are you both all red and sweaty?” she asked, gaze narrowing.
“Why are you all red and sweaty?” Atticus countered stupidly.
“I’m in labor,” she said dryly. “You?”
“Oh, Freckles was doing some heavy labor too,” Jericho offered with a smirk that absolutely did not help.
Atticus shot him a look, then turned his attention back to Cricket. “We need to get you inside. Is your midwife on the way?”