Chapter Thirty Seven
“Come here,” Rhys beckons, holding out an inked hand.
I reach for it immediately, being drawn away from the hissing of my coffee machine and into his living area.
As soon as my fingers brush his, Rhys sits upright on the sofa and drags me into his lap.
I curl against his bare torso, the figures marking his skin staring up at me as I trail my fingers over their forms. His cheek rests on my head, his arms tightly caging me in, not that I would try to escape anyway.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. Rhys doesn’t respond, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest shifting beneath me.
The call came in early this morning. Phillip has reclaimed control of his assets and wasted no time putting the manor up for sale.
I’m not sure how much Rhys shared with his parents about the traumas he suffered in that house, if anything, but Phillip stated he never planned to return anyway.
That version of his life no longer exists, and in the spirit of new beginnings, he’s moving Della-Mae upstate to the finest medical clinic money can buy.
All good news on the surface, but perhaps not the outcome Rhys expected. Maybe he envisioned them staying closer, or including him in their move. Maybe he’s elated to know they’re free to make the choice that suits their needs best. I wouldn’t know, since he’s barely spoken since ending the call.
My fingers track Rhys’ ribs, the sinew of his muscle, the scars hidden in plain sight beneath his ink.
I’m always surprised by the sheer amount of circular burns and tiny nicks, being drawn back to the memory of a man who could only deal with his pain physically.
I hope Rhys has a better handle on his emotions now, but time will tell.
After a while of simply breathing with him, I figure Rhys has fallen asleep and attempt to wriggle free. His arms band down tighter, pinning me in place.
“Stay with me.” It’s a gentle command, concealing the desperate plea underneath. This time when I squirm, Rhys allows me enough space to face him.
“I’m not going anywhere. In fact, none of us are for the next three years, thanks to the Dean reinstating our study programs. You’re stuck with me,” I beam. The sofa dips as Clay drops down beside us, his arm trailing the back cushions.
“And me. That was my mom’s care home,” he holds up his phone.
My head tilts, the concern that starts to bubble inside instantly squashed by Clay’s raised brow.
“Apparently, someone has requested that she be transferred to a fancy medical clinic upstate. One with a specialized dementia unit, all expenses paid. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Rhys? ”
Rhys doesn’t look at either of us, his head tipped back and eyes fixed on the ceiling. His expression is still impassive, like a sulking king in the center of the sofa, while one shoulder lifts in a lazy shrug.
“It’s a long way to go on my bike,” he drawls. “Figured I’d need a driver.” I snort softly and shift, swinging a leg over him before he can protest. Straddling his lap, I plant my hands on his chest, feeling the solid heat of him beneath my palms.
“Okay, enough moping,” I say lightly. “What’s up with you?
” Rhys sighs heavily, his mouth downturned.
The scar at the corner is barely visible now, except when he frowns like that.
Leaning down, my hair brushes his jaw as I try another tactic.
“Talk to me,” I breathe by his ear, lips trailing his cheek, “I might be able to help.”
Rhys swallows, his blue eyes shifting to meet mine as I lean over him. As his mouth opens, his hips roll slightly, the roughness of his zipper pressing into my center.
“I haven’t had sex in a week,” he says with such misery, I swear he could produce a tear if he had the will. I blink a few times, momentarily struck dumbfounded.
“That’s what this is? Male suffering?” I reply, pushing myself to sit upright. Inadvertently rubbing against his crotch, Rhys briefly closes his eyes.
“I’m all pent-up and whiney.”
“I’ve been on my period,” I shoot back in disbelief. Rhys’ eyes fly open, swirling with puppy dog pity.
“My balls are aching.”
Clay chokes on a laugh, turning it into a cough that he hides behind his hand. I stare down at Rhys, then tip my head back and groan dramatically.
“Oh my god. You’re ridiculous.”
“Blue balls is a real medical condition,” Rhys replies glumly. “You have no idea what it’s like to look at you everyday, desperate to squeeze you, fuck you, eat you.”
“Eat me?” I raise a brow. “Is that why you keep nibbling on my toes?” Lifting his hands and planting them on my waist, Rhys squeezes with barely withheld restraint.
“I just need to be in you or on you at all times. I’m ravenous.”
“Maybe you should give the pampered prince what he needs,” Clay interjects, a glint in his onyx eyes.
He lifts his brows and subtly nods toward the floor.
A slow smile curves my mouth as I slide off Rhys’ lap, sinking down until my knees meet the plush rug.
His body goes still, the breath sawing out of his parted lips.
My fingers trail over his abdomen, tracing patterns into him, coaxing him out of his mood and back into the room.
“Well,” I say sweetly, looking up at him through my lashes, “it would be rude to ignore a medical emergency.” Clay’s chuckle is low and approving.
Rhys finally glances down at me, something dark swirling within his eyes.
The lust he calls upon is instant, his cock jolting behind his jeans.
I don’t rush my exploration of his abdomen, making sure he is fully out of his stupor before I reach for his waistband.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Rhys allows me to unbutton his jeans and slide them down his thighs, taking his boxers along for the ride. His dick bobs free, springing upright before my face. I lick my lips suggestively, helping to free his legs from the restrictive material.
“Just relax, baby. We’ve got you,” I smile seductively.
Rhys finally cracks a smirk at this. Spreading his thighs wide, he reclines back on the sofa without a care for the daylight streaming through the open curtains or Clayton’s presence beside him.
It’s nothing they haven’t seen before at this point.
I take a moment to devour him with my eyes, at ease and carefree in our company, as he should be.
Starting with his shins, I slowly scrape my nails up his legs, across his thighs and dodge his dick at the last moment.
Rhys’ hiss gives me a sense of satisfaction, so I do it again.
And again. Each time I near his cock, it jolts in response, but I’m careful not to touch it, yet.
Rhys doesn't rush or direct me, remaining as still as he can beneath my touch. He’s learnt well.
Clay eyes are locked on me, his mouth curled up at my wickedness. The power I have over them makes me heady at times, visions of tying both of them down and edging him for all eternity flashing to life in my mind.
Suddenly, a hand yanks at my hair, tugging me to sit back on my heels.
I hadn’t even seen him move, too caught up in my fantasies for another time, but apparently Clay’s bro-code has kicked in with full force.
Reliving Rhys of the teasing, Clay drags my t-shirt over my head and unclasps my bra beneath Rhys’ heated gaze.
Once I’m exposed from the waist up, he gathers my hair and holds it in one hand, easing me forward to Rhys’ now throbbing cock.
The piercing glistens in the stream of daylight, my tongue darting out to wet my lips.
Starting from his balls, as directed, I lick a steady path from the base to the tip.
Thank god for male grooming. Aside from the ridges of his Jacob's ladder, Rhys’ shaft is smooth beneath my tongue, his bulbous purple head silky as it glides into my mouth.
I’ve practiced enough now not to gag as his piercing grazes the back of my throat, taking him deep and slow.
Rhys’ guttural moans would be enough to spur me on their own, but Clay palming my breast drives my own desire higher.
He’s steady in his rhythm, gliding my head up and down over Rhys, rotating between massaging my breast and dragging his knuckles over my nipple.
My core clenches, my hips grinding in time with Rhys’.
Just as we start to find an even rhythm, Clay’s grip on my hair pulls back and I release Rhys with a pop.
Rhys curses, his eyes flaring at Clay with frustration.
I palm Rhys’ poor blue balls as Clayton moves away, the sound of wood scraping against wood following.
Dragging the coffee table closer, I’m forced out of the way as the table is placed against Rhys’ shins.
Then, his large hands reach for me and pull me to my feet on the other side of the table.
I don’t have the chance to speak, my hips spun to face Rhys as Clay’s hands smooth down my sides.
With tender care, he strips me of my leggings and underwear, carefully planting my feet back on the floor.
All the while, I hold Rhys’ stare, like a present being unwrapped for him.
Using his knee, Clay nudges my legs apart, and with a gentle hand on my upper back, he lowers me over the table.
Kneeling on the wood, I crawl forward until my breath blows over Rhys’ cock again.
The hand on my back pushes me lower until my lips part, taking Rhys into my mouth.
His groan is guttural, his hips jolting to edge his shaft further down my throat.
Behind me, where my ass is now lifted high into the air, Clay’s tongue runs along the length of me from front to back, and I release Rhys on a gasp.
“You stop, I stop,” Clay demands, his breath fanning across my clit. Locking eyes with Rhys, I lower and suck, tongue and tease, as Clay’s tongue spears inside of me. Moaning with a cock down my throat isn’t easy, but fuck, it’s hot as hell.