CHAPTER 26
Becker
KANE'S GOT MY sleeve in a death grip, hauling me across the compound like I'm a sled dog who forgot how to run and he's the musher who's had enough of my shit.
"Kane—" I stumble over a root, nearly face-planting into the dirt path. "What the—slow down!"
He doesn't slow down. Doesn't even look back. Just keeps marching toward our cabin with the single-minded determination of a man possessed, his fingers twisted in the fabric of my t-shirt, pulling me forward every time I lag.
"Seriously, dude, what's going on?" I try again, jogging to keep up. "Did Svetlana text you death threats or something?"
Nothing. Radio silence. Just Kane's broad shoulders cutting through the late afternoon sun, his jaw set, his entire body radiating this energy I've never seen from him before.
It's not anger—I know what he looks like angry, all tight control and clipped words. This is something different. Something that's making my pulse kick up and my brain short-circuit trying to figure out what the hell happened between floating peacefully in the lake and this forced march of doom.
"If you're planning to murder me, just know Groover has standing instructions to release all my blackmail material if I go missing."
We reach the cabin, and Kane all but shoves me through the door.
"What—ooh."
The door slams shut behind us, and before I can finish whatever half-formed question was about to fall out of my mouth, Kane's kicking off his shoes. Then his hands are at the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it over his head in one smooth motion.
His chest emerges—all muscle and sun-kissed skin, damp from the lake, small water droplets catching the light filtering through the cabin windows.
My eyes grow wide. His abs are not news. Except right now, they feel like breaking fucking news. Like CNN should be covering this. Like I should be taking notes.
His hands drop to his belt.
Oh.
Ohhhh.
I'm stripping before my brain catches up to my hands, because what else am I supposed to do? Stand here fully clothed while Kane gets naked?
That's just rude.
My shirt hits the floor. My shorts follow. I'm fumbling with my boxer briefs when I look up and freeze.
Kane's completely naked now, standing in the middle of our cabin like some kind of Greek statue that got lost on its way to a museum. And his cock—Jesus Christ, his cock is already half-hard, filling out against his thigh.
My mouth goes dry. My own dick perks up with interest.
"Can you tell me—"
"Less talking," Kane interrupts, his voice rougher than I've ever heard it. "More doing."
I stand there like an idiot, naked and confused and so fucking turned on I can barely think straight, while Kane turns and walks toward the bathroom.
He disappears inside, and for a second, I wonder if I hallucinated this entire thing.
If maybe I hit my head at the lake and I'm currently unconscious, dreaming up elaborate scenarios where Kane Marcus strips naked and—
His head pops back out of the bathroom doorway.
"You coming, or what?"
Is this a trick question? I'd follow that ass into an active volcano right now.
I practically teleport into the tiny bathroom where he's already cranking the shower handle. Water sputters to life and he steps under the spray without waiting for it to warm up, and I follow because my brain has officially left the building and my dick is running the show now.
The shower stall is small—designed for one person, maybe one and a half if they're really friendly. With both of us in here, there's nowhere to go that doesn't involve touching. Kane's chest brushes mine as he turns, water streaming down his face.
And then he's on me.
His mouth crashes into mine, hot and demanding, one hand coming up to cup the back of my head while the other grabs my hip, pulling me flush against him. The kiss is hungry. Desperate. Like he's trying to crawl inside my skin and I'm letting him.
Every thought evaporates from my brain. The confusion, the questions, the concern—gone. There's only Kane's tongue sliding against mine, his body pressed along every inch of mine, the water cascading over both of us, making everything slippery and hot and perfect.
When we break apart, we're both panting. Both fully hard now, our cocks trapped between our bodies, sliding against each other with every tiny movement.
Kane reaches past me for the body wash, squirting some into his palm. He lathers his hands, the scent of soap filling the steamy air, and then those slick hands are on me.
"Feeling dirty, huh?" I manage.
His eyes meet mine, dark and enigmatic. "You might say that."
He starts at my shoulders, strong fingers digging into the muscle, working out knots I didn't know I had. His hands slide down my chest, thumbs brushing my nipples, and I have to bite back a groan. Down my abs, over my hips, around to my ass where he grabs and squeezes before moving down my thighs.
It's thorough. Diligent. Exactly what I'd expect from Kane, except there's nothing clinical about the way he's touching me. Every stroke of his hands feels deliberate, like he's memorizing my body, learning every dip and curve.
When his soapy hands come back up and wrap around my cock, I stop breathing.
"Fuck," I breathe, my head falling back against the shower wall.
He strokes me slowly, palm sliding up and down, thumb swiping over the head on every upstroke. It's not quite enough pressure, not quite fast enough. But it's perfect torture. My hips buck forward, chasing more friction, and Kane makes this low sound in his throat that goes straight to my dick.
I try to return the favor, reaching for the body wash, but Kane's everywhere—pressing against me, kissing my neck, his hand still working my cock, and I can't coordinate my limbs enough to do anything except stand here and take it.
"Kane," I gasp. "Let me—"
He kisses me again, cutting off whatever I was about to say. Our cocks slide together between our bodies, slick with soap and water and pre-cum, and I grind against him shamelessly because I'm beyond caring about dignity.
Then he steps back.
The loss of contact is so sudden I actually whimper, which I'm going to deny forever if anyone asks.
"I want something from you," Kane says, and his voice has dropped about an octave, all gravel and sin.
I'm staring at his cock—can't help it. Can't tear my eyes away from how hard he is, how the head is flushed dark, how there's a bead of pre-cum forming at the tip that the water keeps washing away.
"Oh, yeah?" I manage. To his cock.
"Yeah."
He steps closer, but not close enough for our bodies to touch. I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the water streaming down his chest, following the lines of his abs, dripping off his cock. He leans in, his mouth right next to my ear.
"I want to fuck you."
My breath hitches. My cock leaks. My entire nervous system lights up like a fucking Christmas tree because yes, yes, absolutely yes, there is nothing I want more in this moment than to have Kane inside me.
But…
"I thought you wanted to go slow," I hear myself say, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to shut the fuck up and bend over.
"I changed my mind."
He says it so simply. Like it's that easy.
But something about this doesn't add up. Kane doesn't do impulsive. Kane doesn't drag people across compounds and throw them into showers. Kane plans and overthinks and makes lists.
I hesitate, my brain finally clawing its way back online despite my dick's protests.
He seems different right now—almost manic, running on something I can't identify. What if this is some kind of breakdown? What if he regrets it after? What if he changes his mind halfway through and I'm left feeling like I took advantage?
The seconds tick by, water drumming against the shower floor, steam swirling around us. Kane watches me, waiting for an answer I can't quite give.
Then his patience apparently runs out.
He leans back against the shower wall, water streaming over his shoulders, wraps his hand around his own cock and stroking himself with slow, deliberate pulls, his eyes locked on mine.
"Fine," he says, his voice like gravel. "I'll finish myself, then."
It's official.
I died at the lake. Drowned peacefully, and somehow ended up in heaven.
Because there's no way this is real life.
No way I'm actually watching Kane Marcus jack himself off inches away from me, his hand moving in steady strokes, his abs flexing with each movement, his mouth falling open slightly as he works himself over.
This is my own personal paradise, and I'm never leaving.