Chapter Eighteen
Damn, I know this is a slippery slope, but Rhys and Clay are so hot when they’re drunk. The whiskey has peeled them down to their barest selves, cracking open their armor and exposing the parts of them I’m already dangerously weak for.
Rhys becomes an unfiltered collision of lust and barely concealed fury, a man who wants and takes in the same breath.
Clay’s whole facade softens, all that rigid self-protection slipping just enough to reveal the submissive hunger he tries so hard to hide.
Life has taught him to expect the worst from wanting too much, but he aches to relinquish control.
Together, they’re a storm I willingly put myself in the center of, standing tall against the winds until I discover the truth of who they are. Every frayed edge pulls me in deeper, every broken shackle reveals another trace of their truest desires. Turns out that truest desire is me.
Pulling me along behind him, Rhys keeps muttering under his breath, practically growling.
We scale the stairs with Clay’s arm hooked around my waist, his feet tripping against every other step.
I can’t help but laugh at the attempt to herd me like prey when I’m the only one of sound mind.
At the top of the stairs, instead of taking us to the guest room as expected, Rhys turns in the opposite direction.
He stops outside an unremarkable door and looks at Clay with a simmering blaze in his eyes.
“Come on, then. Open it,” Rhys demands, jerking his chin towards the door.
Clay’s brows tug together, his gaze unfocused from the liquor, his reactions half a beat behind as he reaches out to try the handle.
It doesn’t budge. Rhys rolls his eyes with disdain.
“Not with your hand. If the door were unlocked, obviously I could have done that.”
“I figured this was a king of the castle thing,” shrugs Clay, rubbing the back of his neck. Leaning back on his heels and folding his arms, Rhys’ jaw clenches.
“Where’s that brute strength you’re always using against me?” The three of us pass glances, Clay’s eyes narrowing on the door as if the answer might present itself if he concentrates hard enough.
“You want me to break the door down?” Clay asks, blinking slowly, his mind catching up. Rhys nods, the condescension dripping from him seconds away from slow clapping.
“Well, yes. I want to be inside, and I don’t have a key,” Rhys states painfully matter-of-fact.
Clay stares at Rhys for a long moment, like he’s trying to determine whether this is some sort of trick.
In the end, his drunken bravado wins out, and Clay releases my waist to square up to the wooden door.
I merely stand and watch, like a car crash happening in slow motion, as a drunk Clayton rolls his shoulders and rushes forward with the force of a battering ram.
The wood rattles with a bone-deep thud that echoes down the hallway, the entire frame jolting.
The door groans but doesn’t give, and Clay stumbles back a half step, blinking at it with genuine betrayal, as though the door personally insulted his manhood.
Rhys snorts beside me, far too entertained to care about the assault of his household.
Clay shakes out his arm, sways, and sets himself again.
“Just…Ignore that,” he grunts before barreling forward a second time.
This time, the wood splinters, the lock shatters with a crack that ricochets through my receivers.
The door bursts inward so violently that it rebounds off the interior wall and bounces halfway closed again.
Clay stands in the aftermath, panting, triumphant, and slightly blurry-eyed. “Ta da.”
I bite down on my smile, stroking Clay’s back.
His muscles tense beneath my touch, the unknown ahead sending a quiver of excitement through me.
Stepping over the threshold, I sense Rhys’ energy shift, though I can’t immediately see why.
It’s just a bedroom, practically identical to the one we’re occupying.
Air that smells stale, dust covers on the furniture, nothing special.
Nothing worth Clay nearly dislocating a shoulder for.
Pursing my lips, I turn toward Rhys, ready to ask for an explanation, but he’s already stalking deeper inside.
His hand skims the edge of the covered dresser, his fingertips ghosting over the sheet like he’s searching for something only he can see.
Clay follows behind, rubbing his shoulder and flicking his gaze back to me with a look that portrays something like, why are we still humoring this psycho?
“Rhys,” I whisper as if the room might suddenly morph into something otherworldly if I’m too loud. “What are you doing? There’s nothing in here.”
Rhys doesn’t answer me, nor do his steps falter as he approaches a large wardrobe and tugs the dust sheet free.
It’s huge and imposing, crafted from wood and sculptural talent.
Reaching around the back, there’s a faint click before the wardrobe moves.
I flinch, initially believing that the wardrobe is falling before realising it’s actually swinging forward on a piece of false flooring as if it doesn’t weigh over two-hundred pounds.
Curling his finger, Rhys beckons us to follow as he steps into the empty space tucked into the wall.
I step forward tentatively now, cold air rolling out and brushing over my cheeks and arms as my fingers slip in between Clayton’s.
We share a look of unease as we step into the unilluminated passage.
We don’t even consider not going after Rhys as he walks into the slender hall that seems to wrap around the outside of the house, hence the cool breeze.
Coming to a stop halfway down, he then dislodges a portion of the wall.
I can sense the smugness rolling off him, like we’re about to step into another world we’re not prepared for.
Asking for my hand, he ignores the one I offer and pulls my hand from Clayton’s.
I purse my lips at the predatory move, but Clay is too tipsy to care.
“Where are we?” I ask, stepping into the room. The silhouettes around the edges take form, and I blink rapidly against the shadows, sure that I’m not seeing properly. Yet when Rhys flicks on the light, it turns out we are actually in a sex room. An actual sex room.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up, because the light doesn’t just reveal the room, it exposes it.
Every inch of the walls is drenched in a deep, wine-dark red that feels like velvet against the eyes, intimate yet heavy.
The ceiling is painted a darker shade, almost black, making the space feel like it’s closing in toward us.
Soft, recessed lighting runs along the edges of the ceiling, casting everything in a low, sultry glow. I swallow hard.
“Rhys…” I hardly breathe. It’s not like I’m innocent with either of the men pressing into my sides, but this is another level. It’s daunting, and devilishly exciting.
“My father’s hidden sex room,” Rhys agrees with the question I didn’t want to voice. My nose wrinkles. Clay tilts his head at a padded bench with straps tucked neatly beneath it, then at the sleek X-frame bolted into the far wall.
“How do you know about this?” He asks. It’s Rhys’ turn to look disgusted.
“Found it by accident, which in turn meant I needed years of therapy.” Shuddering, Rhys tightens his grip on my hand.
“Anyway. It’s professionally cleaned regularly and perfect for what I want from you.
” Dragging me around to crash into his chest, his eyes are gleaming all of a sudden, the tempest within flaring back to life.
“You got lucky with that little alcove you found. Forgot about that damn theater room. I was sure all of the secret compartments and rooms were behind locked doors.”
“You set me up!” I gasp, knocking aside the fingers that try to toy with the ends of my hair. Rhys smirks, raising one shoulder playfully.
“I told you I didn’t play fair.” This time, his fingers make it into my hair as they forcefully grip the back of my head.
Despite my narrowed eyes, I struggle to keep up the pretence of anger.
Especially as I spot Clay wandering towards a spanking horse and stroking the burgundy leather.
My cheeks heat as his open curiosity. Growling low in his chest, Rhys jolts my attention back to him and crashes his mouth against mine.
Rhys claims me with a force that steals every thought directly from my mind.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision of sexual frustration, desire and something feral that’s been pacing inside him all night.
My breath catches in my throat as his hand fists tighter in my hair, yanking just enough to make my knees go weak.
The sting blooms sweet and sharp along my scalp, a warning I should learn to adhere to, but my body responds before any reasoning can.
Instead, I push myself against the hardening length of him, hoping to hell that Rhys is sober enough to balance us both.
In response, Rhys kisses me like he’s trying to drag the air out of my lungs and replace it with his own.
His hunger for me is messy and unrestrained, whiskey coating his tongue.
His other hand slides to my jaw, thumb pressing firmly as if he’s shaping the angle he wants, controlling the tilt of my mouth, guiding the pace.
He swallows the soft sounds that slip from me like he was waiting for it.
Every rough scrape of his lips pulls me deeper and drives me higher simultaneously.