CHAPTER 22
Kane
THE HURT IN Becker's eyes is like a knife to my chest. I put that there. Me.
I've spent my entire life calculating risks, weighing options, considering consequences. What's the smart play? What's the safe choice? What would my father want?
But looking at Becker now—fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and something deeper, something wounded—none of those calculations matter. Nothing matters except erasing that look from his face.
My body moves without my brain’s involvement. Three steps and I'm across the room, grabbing Becker's face between my hands and crushing my mouth against his.
For one terrifying heartbeat, he's frozen.
Then he's kissing me back with a ferocity that knocks the breath from my lungs. His hands fist in my shirt, yanking me closer until we're chest to chest, no space left between us.
This isn't like our previous kisses. This is brutal and desperate, all pent-up frustration. I taste blood—his or mine, I can't tell. It only makes me hungrier.
Becker walks me backward, his body pushing into mine until my back slams against the cabin wall hard enough to rattle the cheap artwork hanging beside us. He pins me there with his hips, one thigh wedging between mine.
I'm drowning in him—his scent, his taste, the little growling sounds he makes deep in his throat. My hands slide under his shirt, desperate for skin, and the heat of him burns my palms.
Then suddenly he's breaking the kiss, leaning back just enough to look at me, his breathing ragged. His pupils are blown wide, just a thin ring of blue around black, and his lips are swollen and red.
"Really?" he asks. "That's your solution?"
But my brain isn't working right.
All I can think about is getting him back against me, feeling him pressed into my hip again. My hand drops between us, finding the outline of his cock through his sweatpants, and I squeeze.
"It may not be the solution," I manage, my voice one of a stranger, "but it's a solution."
He hisses through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut as I start to stroke him through the fabric. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel how big he is, how hot. My mouth waters at the thought of getting my hands on him properly. Of feeling him naked against me.
His face in pleasure is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—all that cockiness and snark stripped away, leaving something raw and vulnerable. His cheeks flushed, lips parted, a small furrow between his brows like he's concentrating on something just beyond his reach.
When his eyes open again, they're hazy, but there's a sharpness there too. Determination.
"It's really not," he says.
But while sit mouth say one thing, his body tells a different story and now he's dropping to his knees in front of me, and suddenly, against all odds, there he is, Riley Becker, kneeling between my legs, eyes fixed on the front of my pants.
Before I can fully register what's happening, his fingers are at my waistband, deftly unbuttoning, unzipping.
I'm plastered against the wall, frozen, unable to move, to breather, to do anything other than watch as he tugs my pants and underwear down in one swift motion.
My cock springs free, already embarrassingly hard, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
I should feel exposed. Vulnerable. I'm literally standing with my dick out while fully dressed from the waist up, but all I feel is a desperate, throbbing need.
Becker looks up at me, holding my gaze as he leans forward. My breath catches in my throat as he extends his tongue and runs it slowly over my slit, collecting that drop of pre-cum. The warm, wet pressure of his tongue against that spot sends a jolt through me so intense my knees nearly buckle.
"Fuck," I gasp, one hand flying out to brace against the wall behind me.
Becker makes a humming sound that vibrates against me, and then—
Oh God.
Yes.
No.
Yes!
He's taking me into his mouth, his lips stretching around my cock as he slides down, and down, impossibly far down until I feel the back of his throat.
The wet heat of his mouth is almost too much to bear. I've never felt anything like this—never even imagined it could feel like this.
My entire body is trembling, every nerve ending lit up like I've been struck by lightning.
He starts to move, establishing a slow, lazy rhythm. His tongue swirls around the head on each upstroke, flattening against the underside as he takes me deep again. One hand grips my hip, steadying me, while the other cups and gently squeezes my balls.
The dual sensation—his hot mouth sliding up and down my shaft, his fingers rolling and massaging my balls—has me gasping for air.
My head falls back against the wall with a thud, but I barely notice the pain.
All I can focus on is the building pressure at the base of my spine, the tightening in my balls.
I have to force myself to look down again, because it’s fucking dangerous.
The mere sight of his lips stretched around my cock, his cheeks hollowed as he sucks, his eyes now closed in concentration—it's picturesque. Addictive. The most erotic thing I've ever witnessed.
I should not have looked.
The pressure builds faster than I can control. It’s fucking embarrassing, but I’m powerless to stop it.
I want warn him, tell him I'm already so close, but I can't. I can’t even form words, or do anything other than gasp and tremble as the sensation spirals tighter and tighter. Then, he uses his teeth, skillfully, gently, in a way that should yield pain instead of pleasure but doesn’t, and I lose the fight.
It hits me suddenly, violently. A sharp wave of bliss rolls through my body, my hims jerking forward involuntarily as I come, too fast, spilling into his mouth without asking permission.
Becker doesn't pull away. If anything, he takes me deeper, moaning around my cock as he swallows everything I give him, every last drop, his throat constricting around my pulsing cock as he does, milking me dry.
He doesn’t stop even after I’ve finished, my knees on the verge of giving out, lucking and sucking, gentler now, wiping my cock clean with his tongue.
The sensation borders on painful but in the best possible way, like pressing on a bruise.
Finally, he releases me with one last, soft kiss to the tip.
I'm boneless against the wall, struggling to catch my breath as he tucks me back into my underwear and carefully zips up my pants.
When he rises to his feet, we're face to face again. His lips are red and swollen, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark with lingering want.
There’s a massive bulge in his sweatpants. I reach for him instinctively.
But before I can touch him, Becker catches my wrist.
"No," he says, his voice rough.
"What?" I manage, still breathless. Confused.
He takes two steps back, putting distance between us, though his eyes never leave mine.
"You want me? Then get your shit together."
"But—" I start, gesturing vaguely toward his erection.
"I'm not stupid, Kane," he cuts me off. "You're trying to fuck away whatever's bothering you. I'm not playing that game."
He backs up further, the tent in his pants making it clear just how much self-control this is taking.
"When you figure out what you actually want—not what your father wants, not what you think you should want, but what you actually want—then you can have me. Until then, keep your distance."
Before I can respond, he's climbing up to the top bunk, leaving me standing there with my mouth open, my body still humming from the aftershocks.
I stare up at the bunk where he's disappeared.
Frustrated. Impressed. Stunned.
Even with an obvious hard-on, even after what just happened, Becker's resolve is unbreakable.
And somehow, impossibly, that makes me want him even more.