Chapter 7 City of Teeth
SEVEN
CITY OF TEETH
TROY
Every time I turned around this house, there he was.
Shirtless in the kitchen making coffee. Sweaty from the gym, tattoos on display, looking like some kind of weapon wrapped in skin.
Sitting on the couch in low-slung sweats that should be illegal, watching TV like he wasn't aware of what he was doing to me.
It felt like walking on a minefield and I was losing my fucking mind.
And this morning wasn't helping.
The shower was running. Normal morning routine that shouldn't have registered as anything except Declan getting ready for the day.
Then I heard it. A low and guttural sound, muffled by water and walls but unmistakable. A groan that went straight to my cock like I'd been shocked.
Declan was in the shower jerking off, and I could hear him through the goddamn walls.
Headphones. Getting out of the house. Any one of a dozen things that would have put distance between me and whatever sounds he was making on the other side of that wall.
I'd had options and I'd burned every one of them by just lying there, and now my own body was responding like it had stopped taking orders from anyone with half a brain.
Another groan. Deeper this time. Followed by a sound that might have been my name or might have been nothing and I was too fucked up to tell the difference anymore.
My hand was on my cock before I could stop myself. Squeezing through my boxers, trying to take the edge off, trying to make this stop being a reality I was living in.
But it didn't stop. Just got worse. Because now I was lying there hard and aching, listening to Declan get himself off down the hall, and my brain was supplying images I had no business imagining.
His hand wrapped around his cock. His head tipped back under the spray.
The water running over all that tattooed skin I'd been trying not to stare at for days.
I shoved my hand away from my dick like it had burned me. Rolled out of bed. Grabbed clothes without looking at them and got dressed fast enough that thinking wasn't an option.
The shower shut off. I heard movement in the bathroom. Heard the door open.
I was down the stairs and out the front door before he could appear, my jacket barely on, boots unlaced, moving on pure instinct and the desperate need to not be there when he walked out of that bathroom.
The motorbike shop was sleek. All glass and chrome and expensive motorcycles lined up like art pieces. A few customers browsed, but the place was quiet enough that I heard the bell chime when I walked in.
A guy looked up from behind the counter. Thirty, maybe thirty-two. Dark hair, sharp jaw, dressed in black that looked expensive and deliberate. His eyes tracked over me in a way that had nothing to do with customer service and everything to do with interest.
“Help you?” he asked.
“Looking to buy a bike.”
“What kind?”
“Fast. Reliable. Can handle city streets in winter.”
He smiled. Slow and deliberate. “I think we can work out a deal.”
His name was Dan. He walked me through the inventory, pointing out specs and features while standing too close, letting his hand brush mine when he gestured, making it clear this wasn't just about the sale.
Under normal circumstances, I would've shut it down. Kept it professional. Bought what I needed and left.
But I was still wound tight from this morning. Still half-hard and furious about it. And Dan was good-looking enough that using him as a distraction didn't seem like the worst idea I'd ever had.
“This one,” I said, stopping in front of a matte black sport bike that looked mean and fast. “Specs?”
He rattled them off. Engine size, horsepower, handling. All the technical shit that mattered. But his eyes stayed on me instead of the bike, reading interest that had nothing to do with motorcycles.
“Want to see the custom options?” he asked. “I've got a catalog in my office. Better lighting to go over details.”
“Yeah,” I said instead. “Let's see what you've got.”
His office was in the back. It was a small space with a desk, a computer, and windows that overlooked the shop floor but were tinted dark enough that nobody could see in clearly.
“Catalog's here,” he said, pulling out a tablet and setting it on the desk. But he didn't step back.
“You always this friendly with customers?” I asked.
“Only the ones I'm interested in.” He leaned against the desk with his arms crossed. “And I'm definitely interested.”
“That right?”
“Yeah. You walked in here looking like you needed to burn off some energy. Figured I could help with that.”
Direct. I could work with direct.
“What'd you have in mind?” I asked, stepping closer.
His smile widened. “Whatever you want.”
I kissed him before I could think better of it. Grabbed his shirt and pulled him in, tasting coffee and want and the convenient fiction that this was about him instead of the man I was trying not to think about.
Dan responded immediately. He was good at it. Knew what he was doing. Made the right sounds when I bit his lip, pressed against me in ways that felt practiced.
But it wasn't enough. Wasn't what I needed. Because my brain kept supplying images of someone else. Broader shoulders. Rougher hands. Tattoos I wanted to trace with my tongue.
I shoved the thought down hard and focused on Dan instead.
His hands slid under my shirt, warm against my skin, and he made a low sound against my mouth when he felt how tense I was.
I let him push me back against the desk. Let him work my belt open and when he pulled my jeans down over my hips his hands stopped.
“Fuck,” Dan groaned.
Black lace. Low-cut, delicate, sitting against my hips like a piece of clothing that had no business being there.
He looked up at me with dark eyes, interest burning in them that hadn't been there thirty seconds ago.
“You want to say anything,” I said.
“No.” His voice had dropped an entire register. “No, I really don't.”
He pressed his mouth to the lace. His hands came up to my thighs, steadying me, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg met hip, and he just stayed there for a moment with his mouth open and warm through the thin material, like he was trying to memorize the shape of me through it.
“Dan—”
“Give me a second.” His hands moved over the lace like he was doing careful work, tracing the scalloped edge at my hip with a thumb that wasn't entirely steady. “Didn't expect this.”
“Neither did I, this morning.”
He stood up and kissed me again, and it was different this time.
“Sit on the desk,” he said.
I sat. He stepped between my knees with his hands on my thighs and kissed me until I had my fingers in his hair and was pulling him closer instead of thinking about staying detached.
He was hard against me through his slacks.
I could feel it when he pressed forward, and the sound he made when I reached down and got my hand between us was rough enough that it dragged up my spine like a wire.
“Your turn first,” I said against his mouth.
He pulled back and looked at me.
I slid off the desk and got his belt open faster than he'd gotten mine, got his slacks down enough, and when I wrapped my hand around him he made a sound that was sharp and almost pained, and his head tipped back against the window.
He was thick. Good-looking cock on a good-looking man, and I took my time with him, working the length with my fist first, watching his jaw go tight, watching him try to stay composed and fail at it incrementally. His hands found my shoulders, not pushing, just holding. Like he needed an anchor.
When I took him into my mouth he made a sound that bounced off the walls and then caught himself, muffled it into the back of his wrist. I worked him slow and thorough.
Tasted salt and want, felt his fingers tighten against my shoulders every time I went deeper, every time I hollowed my cheeks and let the pressure build.
His hips moved in short, helpless increments.
Trying not to thrust, not managing it entirely.
I pulled off and looked up at him. His eyes were dark, unfocused, mouth open as he breathed hard.
“You taste good. Better than I expected.”
I took him deeper this time. Let him feel the back of my throat.
Swallowed around him and felt his whole body go rigid, heard him curse under his breath in a way that sounded like a prayer.
I worked him with my tongue, traced the underside of his cock, found the spot just beneath the head that made him shake.
I doubled down. Sucked harder, faster, one hand wrapping around what I couldn't fit in my mouth while the other gripped his hip to steady him. He was losing it. Could hear it in his breathing, feel it in the way his fingers dug into my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
He pulled me off before he got too close. Hands under my arms, dragging me back up. “Not yet. Not like that.”
His eyes were darker than they'd been. He kissed me again and it was raw this time, control stripped out and left somewhere behind us. He got his hands under the lace, palms flat against my hips, and walked me backward until my spine hit the wall.
“I want to fuck you,” he said. Plainly. No performance in it.
“I know.”
He groaned at that, quiet and wrecked, forehead dropping to mine. One hand slid around to my lower back and the other stayed at my hip, thumb hooked under the lace waistband. He pulled me against him and I could feel how much he wanted it.
“Tell me what you need,” he said.
“You. Behind me.”
He dropped back down to his knees and looked up at me with an expression that had gone past hungry into reverent, and my chest did a thing I hadn't given it permission to do.
He didn't take the lace off.
Just hooked a finger into the fabric and pulled it carefully to one side, exposing me, and the sharp breath he drew in through his nose was loud enough that I heard it clearly.
“Fucking beautiful,” he said. Barely a word. Just air shaped into meaning.