Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Archie
This is better.
The look on Leo’s face is exactly what I want. Shock. Horror.
There’s also a smidge of desire, or maybe that’s just me projecting what I want to see.
It’s so much better than the previous flash of sympathy.
I can’t believe how much I’ve let slip to him tonight. Something about Leo makes my usual defenses malfunction. I’m supposed to be keeping him off balance, not spilling my emotional guts like a therapy session I didn’t sign up for.
“Are you actually planning on using that?” Leo asks, his voice hoarse, not taking his eyes off my purple friend.
“Obviously.” I hold the Destroyer with confidence. “I told you. I can’t sleep without assistance.”
“You’re going to use it with me right here?” Leo clarifies.
“You’re welcome to watch. Or participate. I’m flexible.” I pause. “In multiple senses of the word.”
Leo’s jaw tightens. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” I reach for the nightstand drawer again and pull out a bottle of lube with a flourish.
Leo’s nostrils flare.
“Well.” I make a show of getting comfortable, arranging myself against the pillows. “Don’t mind me. I’ll try to keep the noise down.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” I trail one finger down the side of the Destroyer. Slowly. Deliberately. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
Leo’s eyes track the movement of my finger like a predator watching prey. The muscle in his jaw tics.
Then he raises his gaze to mine, and we stare at each other.
The thing about Leo is that he doesn’t back down. He’s risen to every challenge I’ve given him. The man has nerves of titanium.
Which means this standoff could last all night.
“Go ahead then,” he says, settling back against the pillows with the air of someone calling a raise. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Shit.
“So, you’re going to watch?” My voice comes out slightly squeaky.
“Well, you told me I’m welcome to watch. I’m just taking you up on that offer.”
Fuck. He is calling my bluff.
Fine. Fine. I started this. I can finish it.
I settle back against the pillows, throwing off the sheet so he has full view of the action. Then I let my hand drift down my chest. Slowly. Casually. Like I do this in front of near-strangers all the time.
I hold his gaze as I slowly, deliberately, pop the first button on my pajama top.
Leo’s expression doesn’t change. But his throat moves as he swallows.
Second button.
This is just another game. That’s all I’m doing. I’m playing another game with a hot guy, and I need to win.
Third button. The fabric falls open, exposing my chest to the bedroom’s cool air. It also exposes me to Leo’s gaze, which drops to my chest and then drags back up like it’s taking effort.
I let my hand trail over my ribs to my stomach. And then lower.
And that’s when I realize something inconvenient: despite this just being an attempt to change the dynamic between us and freak Leo out, I’m turning myself on.
The weight of his attention feels physical. Like his hands are following the path of his eyes.
I’ve never been into exhibitionism. But apparently that has changed with Leo’s dark gaze on mine.
My fingers trace the waistband of my pants, then dip below. Just slightly.
Leo makes a sound. Low. Almost inaudible.
I still my hand.
“Is there a problem?” I ask. “If you’re uncomfortable, if you want me to stop, you only have to ask nicely, and I’ll consider it.”
There. I’ve given him an off-ramp.
Leo’s eyes meet mine. His gaze is dark and unblinking. Hungry, even if he’s trying to hide it.
“I don’t have a problem,” he says, his voice tight. “Keep going.”
God. The way he says it—like a command, challenge, and plea all wrapped into two words—makes heat pool low in my belly.
This was supposed to make him uncomfortable. Instead, I’m the one squirming.
I take a deep breath.
Fine. He wants a show? I’ll give him a show.
I let my hand drift lower, skimming over the fabric of my pajama pants. Not underneath. Just…over. Tracing the outline of what’s becoming increasingly obvious beneath the plaid cotton.
Leo’s gaze drops to follow the movement. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
Oh god.
I stroke myself through the fabric, lazy and slow, like I have all the time in the world. Like my heart isn’t hammering against my ribs.
“Comfortable?” I ask.
“Perfectly.” But his voice has dropped half an octave and a flush is creeping up his neck.
I arch my back slightly, letting my shirt fall open wider. The cool air hits my chest, and I shiver.
Leo’s hands twitch against the sheets.
“You know,” I say conversationally, still palming myself through my pants, “most people would have left by now. Gone to sleep on the couch. Developed a sudden interest in late-night television.”
“I’m not most people,” Leo says.
“No.” I squeeze myself and let out a soft sound. “You’re really not.”
His chest is rising and falling faster now. I can see his pulse jumping in his throat.
I move my hand back up and hook my thumbs into my waistband. Pause. Let him anticipate.
“Last chance to retreat,” I offer.
“I don’t retreat,” Leo says in a low voice.
“Your funeral.”
I slide the pajama pants down my hips. Just an inch. Enough to expose the cut of muscle below my navel, the trail of hair leading downward, and the top of my cock.
Leo makes a sound like he’s been punched.
I stop there, leaving the pants exactly where they are, barely clinging to my hipbones.
“Problem?” I ask innocently.
“No.” The word comes out strangled.
I reach for the lube, making a production of it. Flicking open the cap and drizzling it over my fingers. Letting it catch the low light from the bedside lamp.
Leo’s eyes track every movement.
I bring my slick fingers to my chest first. The way Leo’s jaw goes tight when I circle my own nipple makes it absolutely worth it.
“Just warming up,” I explain.
“Archie.” His voice is gravel.
“Hmm?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t, maybe. His hands are fisted so tightly in the sheets that the tendons are standing out in his forearms.
I trail my wet fingers down my stomach. Over my ribs. Along the waistband of my pants, following that sensitive strip of skin.
Leo shifts beside me. When I glance over, I notice the sheet draped over him has an obvious bulge.
Oh.
Oh.
“Someone’s enjoying the show,” I murmur.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
His eyes flash. For a second, I think he might actually do it—close the distance between us and put his mouth on mine just to stop me from talking.
He doesn’t. But it’s a near thing. I can see the war playing out across his face.
I slip my hand beneath my waistband properly this time, wrapping my fingers around myself. The touch drags a real moan out of me. It’s unscripted, uncontrolled.
Leo’s breath catches.
I stroke myself slowly, letting my head fall back against the pillows. My pants are still on, just pushed down enough to give myself room to work, and somehow that feels dirtier than if I were completely naked. Like I couldn’t even wait long enough to undress properly.
“You should see yourself,” Leo says roughly.
I open my eyes to meet his gaze. It’s dark and hungry. “What do I look like?”
“Like…” He stops and swallows hard. His hands haven’t unclenched from the sheets. “Like you’re trying to kill me.”
“Is it working?”
“What do you think?”
I glance meaningfully at his lap. “I think you’re enjoying this more than you want to admit.”
“I think you’re enjoying this more than you want to admit,” he counters.
He’s not wrong.
I release myself and reach for the lube again. Leo watches, transfixed, as I coat my fingers more thoroughly this time.
“This is the part,” I say, shifting my hips, spreading my legs slightly, “where you might want to look away.”
“Not a chance.”
I figured.
I reach underneath the waistband and between my legs, past my cock, and press one slick finger against myself.
Leo stops breathing.
I push inside slowly, letting my eyes flutter closed at the familiar stretch. It’s good—it’s always good—but it’s better with Leo watching. Better with the sound of his ragged breathing filling the space between us.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
I open my eyes to find him staring. His face is flushed, his lips parted, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black.
“Okay?” I ask breathlessly.
“No.” He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting its usual perfect neatness. “No, I’m not okay. You’re— This is—”
“Too much?” I curl my finger inside myself and gasp. “I can stop if you want me to.”
“Don’t you dare.” His voice is wrecked.
I grin despite myself.
“I’ve got to get myself thoroughly prepared because the Destroyer is quite large,” I say.
Leo’s eyes don’t leave the movement of my hand under my pajamas.
“Your face is very red,” I tell him. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“If you want to leave—”
“I don’t want to leave.” The words come out sharp and almost angry. “Stop offering me exits.”
“I’m just being polite.”
“You’re being a tease.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I add a second finger and have to bite my lip to keep from moaning too loudly. Elizabeth is just down the hall, after all.
Leo doesn’t answer. But his hand moves—slowly, like he’s not entirely in control of it—and lands on my knee.
We both freeze.
It’s nothing. It’s just a hand on my knee. I’m currently two fingers deep in my ass, and Leo’s touching my knee like that’s the scandalous part.
But god, the heat of his palm through my pajamas. The weight of it. The way his thumb traces a small circle, almost absently, like he can’t help himself.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “Yes, it’s…more than okay.”
His hand slides higher. Just an inch. Over my knee, onto my thigh.
I add a third finger and can’t contain the moan this time. Leo’s grip on my thigh tightens reflexively.
“Archie.” He sounds like he’s dying. “I need you to tell me what you want.”