13 Everleigh Forgot Your Roots—Buffalo Traffic Jam #3
“I’m not like you, Fletch. I deserve this. Hiding here is my punishment, but surviving isn’t yours. You deserve to heal . . . and live.”
Tugging my wrist, he draws me closer, allowing his unfiltered stare to demand all my darkest truths. Long, thick lashes frame azure diamonds, full of words he can never utter aloud. But he doesn’t need a voice to call out to me.
That knowing look does it well enough. Somehow, Fletcher understands far more than either of us have admitted. Something dark and ugly connects us—I feel his pain like a physical score across my heart muscle.
My hand grazes over his round jaw, smattered with dark, five o’clock shadow. The fault in his militarily precise appearance allows me to infiltrate those infallible defences before he can slam them back down.
Traversing over his buzz cut, my exploration covers hard planes and shallow dips in his skull. His eyelids flicker and pupils undulate with each circle of my fingertips. I should return to my end of the sofa, but the trust he demonstrates by letting me get this close is too good to pass up.
“You’re a good man,” I whisper. “A hero.”
Lips parting, he’s ready to argue, then remembers he can’t.
“Otherwise, you wouldn’t have torn into a burning building to save my life. Nor would you have saved the man you were sworn to protect at all costs; even those you loved and cared for on the battlefield.”
A sheen gathers over his eyes, held back by a shoestring of control.
“Let yourself live, Fletch. You don’t have to punish yourself anymore.”
When the droplet dares to break free from his waterline, I shock myself by leaning in to erase it. Salt-laced moisture sinks into my lips, sealing his sadness inside my soul in a locked strongbox.
The kiss is brief, perfunctory, but Fletcher turns his head before I can withdraw. My stomach flutters, twisting with an equal dose of trepidation and need. His bristle grazes over my cheeks, creating a delightful burn.
The room whites out when he seals his mouth on mine. In stark comparison to my delicate tease, his kiss is firm and commanding, a power play to establish dominion over my lips without mistaking his intent.
Surprise quickly melts into pure, blissful satisfaction. My limbs fill with wonderful treacle. The heat oozes through my veins into every nerve ending, causing my breath to stutter.
Arms winding around his neck, I ignore the warning in the back of my mind and climb into Fletcher’s lap. My legs splay either side of his thighs, our chests flush together and lips entwined in a passionate dance.
Taking care to avoid putting pressure on his scars, I writhe against Fletcher, seeking friction to relieve the simmer building within me. Electric zaps explode outwards, building with every peck.
A stiff pressure pushes into my crotch. It takes a moment for the hardness to register—long, thick, and hot sliding up against my inner thighs. A moan spills from my throat.
“Fletch,” I mewl into his lips.
His hips respond by surging upwards. The thrust pushes his covered erection into my core, causing my clit to sing. Our kiss disintegrates into a frenzied exchange of breath, lips battling to find some unknown resolution.
Pleasure spirals spread through me when I grind on his lap, adjusting my position to chase the new sensation. Two hands squeeze my hips, helping to guide my movements, allowing Fletcher to rub into me.
Rough callouses light a fiery trail over my back, tickling my sides and ribcage until I feel fingertips stroke the bare underside of my breast. Gasping into Fletcher’s mouth, I let my spine arch.
When a thumb brushes over my nipple, stars burst behind my eyelids. He circles the stiff peak until a delicious tingle sweeps over me. My lips part, allowing his warm tongue to surge into my mouth and imprint a brand.
At the sound of a creak, we both freeze. Fletcher’s lips tear from mine, and my neck wrenches where I follow the thud of approaching footsteps. When a shadow darkens the snug’s doorway, butterflies erupt in my belly.
“What time is it?” Leo cracks a yawn.
“Um,” I squeak. “Late. Or . . . uh, early.”
“Ugh. Definitely too early.”
Rubbing a hand over his face, he takes a moment to observe our tangle. Fletcher’s hand is still cupped on my breast, gripping my hip so his hard cock can grind into me through his pyjamas.
“Am I interrupting?” Leo asks slyly.
Fletcher casts him a glower, taking the chance to plant an open-mouthed kiss on my neck. I shiver above him, caught between both men’s rapt stares.
“We’re just . . . talking.”
“Talking. Sure. I’ve heard of that.”
Dammit, if Fletcher doesn’t stop kissing my neck and rubbing himself against me while Leo eyes us like his favourite three-course meal, I’m going to embarrass the hell out of myself. In front of my new roommates, no less.
“This is a fine wake-up call.” Leo straightens against the door-frame. “For future reference, I’m all up for sharing.”
Gawping at him, I try to wrap my head around exactly what he’s proposing. He merely waggles his brows, then turns and heads for the kitchen, leaving me shell shocked.
They . . . want to share me?
I shouldn’t find that so intriguing.