Chapter 26 #2
I stare at him, my “yes” tucked behind my teeth. He stares back. One black brow lifts as he eyes me. Instead of answering, I reach for his cock. He’s not even hard, but it won’t take me long to get him there. He brushes my hand aside.
“Okay, then,” I say, gripping my hard length through my boxers. “You can suck me off. I’ll go easy on your throat since it’s your first time. Then we can cuddle and talk about our feelings.”
“Why do you do that?” Breaker asks, eyes moving to my hard cock as I palm it. “Turn it into this,”—he gestures to my body—“when you don’t want to talk.”
I give him a pointed look. “Just say you don’t want to suck my dick.”
He sighs heavily, bracing his hands on his hips. He really thinks I’m going to suddenly open up and talk after all these years? To him? The perfect, innocent boy who grew into the man that I’m obsessed with? Striker is easy to talk to. He’s fucked up like me.
Breaker is angelic perfection, and I will not ruin him with my past. So, I do what I do best.
Deflect.
“Too bad Strike isn’t here to suck my dick since you won’t,” I say. “He’s a natural.”
His head twitches, pale eyes blinking at the information. I might as well have sliced him open and shoved the words under his skin with the way he glares at me.
God, why do I do this? It’s always me pushing him away. Always me instigating a fight. It’s me testing boundaries and being an asshole when things feel intense. When I think maybe he’s too close to the truth.
“He sucked…” Breaker’s voice fades and I hear the flash of hurt before he covers it with an aloof smirk. “Too bad he’s not here. Then I could see which one of you sucks cock better.”
My jaw clenches. Jealousy sits like a hungry beast just below the surface of my skin. It’s a double standard, I know, but Breaker is mine. I’m the only man who has touched him. As much as Striker and I have opened up, the thought of him touching Breaker sends burning fire through my veins.
“We both know I’m the best.” I sit up, reaching for him again. He’s hard now, but his body is tense. “Years of practice and all.”
Breaker swats my hand away then grips himself tauntingly.
“I think you forget, you’re my little fuckboy to give to whom I please,” he grates.
“And I’d love to watch your tight ass get fucked until you scream in pain and pleasure.
” The corners of his lips curl with an arrogant smirk. “Just like you did for me.”
The way he says it, like I’m nothing more than something to use, makes my face heat.
We fucked once five years ago after Hunter’s death.
But we were both so drunk, so stricken with grief and the ravenous need to feel something other than horror, I barely remember anything beyond the pain of him as he used me.
Then, I could barely meet his eyes the next day. That old familiar feeling had slithered through me when I tried to face him, talk to him, explain why I was so full of shame. And I couldn’t.
And he’s choosing now to bring it up after we’ve avoided the topic for years. After that fucking dream that took me back to that room. To her.
I stand up, not wanting him to see the shame painted across my face, but he doesn’t back away. He moves in closer.
“Come on,” Breaker says. “You want my cock so bad, bend over.”
“I’m not your fuck toy,” I say, shoving him away. He doesn’t move. Now he’s the one being a dick, hurt by me, which is exactly what I intended.
It’s a sick game we play with each other.
We’ve been here a week, avoiding this. Our attraction and refusal to name what we do in the dark.
What we do when we share our girls. We’ve never spoken it out loud.
Never voiced whatever this is between us except for late at night, using just heated breaths and his quiet demands to suck his cock.
Hell, we’ve avoided it since that night in the hotel room.
“Just admit you like it,” Breaker says and grips my throat, angling his head down so his lips brush my ear. His hot breath fans my neck. “You love being my filthy boy, and you can’t stand the thought of anyone touching me.”
My breathing shifts, becoming heavier, my cock twitching. God, I’m fucked up.
His grip tightens on my throat. His free hand slides down between us, and he slips it under my boxers and grips me roughly. Something twists in my gut. Some dark thing that always blooms under his authority, except this time it slithers around, twisting and turning like serpents.
“Dirty, jealous boy,” he grates. “I bet if Striker fell to his knees to suck me off, you’d not be able to help yourself. You’d punch him right in the throat.”
Red blurs the corners of my vision, and words come out in a growl, “He doesn’t touch you.”
A cruel smile plays on his plush lips. Breaker moves in close, crowding me with his sheer size. I don’t budge. His chest brushes my bare skin, and the instant surge of electricity that sparks between us goes straight down my spine.
“If you can’t control that jealousy, you’ll find yourself tied to a chair, and you’ll just have to watch him greedily suck my cock. Maybe I’ll suck his.”
I shove him back, but he keeps my throat gripped in one large hand, his other pumping my hard dick.
“I bet he tastes good,” he whispers. “His dick. His mouth.”
A smile curls my lip. “His mouth tastes divine,” I whisper.
Breaker stiffens, and his grip tightens. “You kissed him?” The words grate out raw, exposing threads of hurt.
He grips the back of my head and spins me. He’s so much larger that when he shoves me forward, I stumble from the force, taken by surprise at his sudden brutality.
But I got exactly what I wanted. My words needled under his skin. And now, rage and hurt make him stronger. Faster. Mean as shit.
My face and chest hit the bed, and it shakes from the impact. He pins me to the bed, and Breaker’s teeth graze my neck, his hot breath on the side of my face like a demon possessed.
“This fucking mouth is mine,” he grates, his cock grinding into my ass. “Fucking mine.”
I press my palms to the bed and buck him off. He stumbles back, but latches onto my shoulder and shoves me to my knees. They hit with a solid thud, and pain shoots through them. I grind my teeth, the room fading as images from my past take over.
Cold stone floors. Candles. A tub of water. Soiled towels, no longer white.
“Open,” he grates, pulling his cock free. “Look at me. Look at me, filthy boy, and open your fucking mouth.”
A tremor runs through my hands, making me press them to my thighs as I clench my jaw. It must be the dream, because I’ve never had this with him before. Memories or even an ounce of that old fear.
My eyes dart up to meet his. “Fuck you,” I hiss.
He narrows his gaze when I don’t follow his command. And I won’t. Not like this. This isn’t him. I thought I’d want him sick with jealousy, but this is a possessiveness grown from hurt.
Breaker commands me because I let him. Because I like him so starved for me, he can’t stop himself from demanding I give myself to him, and when he does, I feel the pulsing desire to have me, own me, flowing from him, and I soak it up, ravenous for his love.
But right now, anger and hurt taint every word, every demand lined with something cruel. Breaker is gentle in his dominance. He’s safe. The oasis in my anger. The rain to my fire.
Right now he’s red rage and green envy, all because the first man I ever willingly kissed was Striker.
Not him.
When I don’t do as told, he lets out a vicious growl, one hand tangling in my hair, and my head snaps back. When our eyes lock, I see every ounce of hurt.
He has a right to feel anger. To feel this level of hurt. I’ve denied him, letting him love and adore me from afar. And to make things worse, I hurt him more by giving the only thing I could have kept just for him to someone else.
I place my hand on his thigh, but the apology refuses to slip past my lips.
“Open,” he grates again, chest heaving. He slaps his hard cock against my closed lips. “You want a cock so bad, then choke on this one.”
My cock pulses. I grip myself through my pants, trying to ease the pressure building inside. Breaker sees me and kicks my hand away.
“Not until you open that mouth of yours,” he growls. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
My pulse skyrockets, another memory flashing to the forefront of my mind.
I shove it down, focusing on his dick. His dark skin and his familiar cedar scent flooding me.
But unease creeps through my limbs. Whispers of sin fill my mind.
The scent of candles and the stench of vodka, tangling up like a poison.
I shake my head, gripping his thigh as he slaps my mouth with his dick again.
I’m here. Now. Not there.
When I don’t open, he releases his cock and slaps my cheek, just hard enough to sting. “Come on. Open and be my dirty boy.”
My neck heats, flames of humiliation licking up my cheeks. My chest heaves, and I bolt to my feet. He stumbles back, a hand flying to catch himself on the bed rail.
“You want my mouth,” I growl. “You’re going to have to force me.”
I stalk across the room and fling the bedroom door open. It’s early, but the smell of coffee wafts through the house as I head downstairs.
One of the maids, the small girl with a heavy Russian accent, sees me, her eyes falling over my body then landing on my erection. The towels in her hand fall to the floor.
God, why are they up this early? And why does she look terrified? What monsters has this poor girl worked for?
“Tell Stella to prepare breakfast,” I say.
She nods and dashes away, leaving the towels on the floor.
Seeing her reminds me we have to be careful. There is always, always someone watching.