21. Preston
PRESTON
Marcus’s idea of a celebration is taking me on a ride, and he drives the motorcycle like a madman.
It’s actually fucking intoxicating!
I didn’t know motorcycle riding could feel surprisingly liberating. Yes, Jude has talked about it before, and I have ridden a bike on my own, but it wasn’t as special.
Not that the ride with Marcus was special.
Fine, so clinging to him the whole way and feeling the contracting of his solid muscles beneath my grip might have contributed to the enjoyment.
Listen, I’m not even going to try talking to my brain about it at this point. I’ve been edged to within an inch of my life—something I didn’t think I’d enjoy, but surprise, my newfound sexuality definitely did.
Being glued to him as he drove helped relieve the ache yet made it worse at the same time.
The bike rolls to a halt in the neighborhood with only a few functioning streetlights, and my arms are still securely wrapped around his waist.
My thighs are against his large ones, my chest pressed to his muscular, broad back, and most importantly, I’m breathing him in with every inhale.
And he smells ethereal. It’s not really about cologne or soap—it’s him.
The way his natural scent mixes with leather and his woodsy aftershave affects me more than it should.
Needs to be illegal, just saying. I don’t even get affected by smell. Fine, I do, but it’s usually the unpleasant ones like a mint mixed with cigarettes.
But male scent, in general, used to be background noise. Not now, apparently, because I keep sniffing Marcus like he’s made of drugs.
Actually, he’s more like those diffusers Jude buys—the ones that help with sleep.
“We’re here.” He hops from the bike, forcing me to release him.
I grind my teeth against the crashing wave of disappointment. This is the second time it’s happened today.
Disappointment.
The first time was when he pulled out of my ass instead of fucking me—seriously, since when does the motherfucker choose not to use me for his sick entertainment?
And why the hell did I, for one fraction of a second, nearly blurt out “Fuck me”?
Me? Being fucked by a man?
Used by a man?
That’s just blasphemous.
Not that he didn’t all the other times, but this was different. Oral, hand jobs, and his cock rubbing against mine aren’t penetration.
I should never, ever allow penetration. Just like giving blowjobs is my red line.
And yet, at that moment, when the tip of his cock was stretching me open, I was seriously contemplating it.
In reality, I should’ve been glad he pulled out, but that’s not the feeling that coursed through me.
It was a crushing disappointment.
Someone sedate me.
I jump from the motorcycle and remove the helmet he gave me as he opens the garage, my gaze flitting around. The neighborhood is shit, as expected for Stantonville, but the house itself looks clean. Small, but I guess decent on the scale of places around here.
A mixture of smells of different types of food permeates the air, and my stomach makes a growly noise.
Marcus grins, his face seeming softer and surprisingly welcoming as he grabs the bike’s handlebars and starts to wheel it inside.
“Give me a second and I’ll feed you,” he says while disappearing into the garage.
“I don’t need you to feed me.” I lean against the wall, my arms and ankles crossed, and that’s when I notice it. “You have another bike?”
He follows my field of vision to where I’m glaring at this monster-looking bike sitting in the corner half disassembled.
I considered buying him this model in the beginning, but I asked for Jude’s opinion, pretending to be interested in bikes, and he only talked shit about it.
He said it was soulless and not really great for riding.
Jude recommended the one I got, saying that real riders who appreciate excellent craftsmanship and mechanics would be more drawn to something like this.
Yes, I’ve done my research.
“Some rich guy like you dropped it by and refused to take it back, so I’m selling some parts and will be using others to customize this baby.” He strokes the bike I got him. “Now that I can accept it from you, I’ll take good care of it.”
I narrow my eyes. “What rich guy gave you that one?”
He tilts his head to the side, standing taller, and once again, I’m caught off guard by just how…stunning he looks.
Are guys even supposed to look stunning? Only girls are beautiful, men are just…not.
Or that’s what I thought all this time.
As I stare at Marcus in his zipped-up leather jacket, dark jeans, and worn-out boots, though, I can’t deny how mouthwatering he looks.
Like something edible I can sink my teeth into and devour.
“Why are you asking?” he drawls with a hint of amusement.
I remember that some other rich guy is buying him with money, too, and my mouth sets in a line.
“You obviously accepted the bike from him and didn’t send it back, so I want to know if you agreed to be in a relationship with him as well.”
He nods solemnly. “He does want to have a relationship.”
“What?”
“The feeling isn’t mutual.”
“You seem to have an awful lot of rich guys vying for your attention.”
“True…”
“Is he richer than me?”
The asshole nods. “I believe so.”
“Who the fuck is he?”
“Jealous?”
“Territorial. I don’t like competition.”
“I don’t believe my dad can be competition to you. At least, not in that regard.”
“Your…dad?”
“Yeah.” He strides toward me, and I stand straighter, my spine snapping upright as he wraps an arm around my waist. “I can only accept the bike you gave me, baby.”
My throat dries as his closeness overwhelms me, but before it can sneak into my rib cage and cause out-of-character behavior, I push him away, stepping back. “Don’t touch me in public.”
He tilts his head to the side, a flash of darkness passing through his eyes. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not gay.”
He laughs, the sound unhinged. “You’ve come on my hands and cock and tongue more than I can count, and you agreed to be with me exclusively, and you’re still not gay? The closet is invisible at this point.”
“I am not gay.” I haul him by the collar, my voice straining. “Not with you, and definitely not in public. We’re strangers in the outside world, and this is just fucking.”
His eyes turn cold. “Is it just fucking?”
“It is. Don’t act like those clingy people who grow feelings after meaningless fucks and mistake lust for something else, Marcus. If you start wanting emotional nonsense from me, this is over. Are we fucking clear?”
“Crystal.”
I don’t like his clipped tone. I also don’t like how easily I got worked up just now, throwing a goddamn toddler tantrum.
But then again, he should learn when to stop pushing.
“Are you going to hold me for long?” he deadpans. “I thought there should be no touching in public.”
I release him with a jerk and he steps away, then closes the garage as I stand to the side, kind of awkwardly, because Marcus isn’t talking.
He’s always the one who starts conversations, so this type of deliberate silence feels oppressive.
After he’s done, he leads me through a door that opens into the kitchen. It’s a small space, and both of us instantly crowd it, but I still look around the neatly displayed pans, the earth-tone color scheme, and the clearly labeled spice jars.
There’s a round table with only two chairs, topped by olive green cushions.
Marcus removes his jacket and places it on one of the chairs, then washes his hands—without looking at me. “I’ll whip up something simple. You can go watch TV if you want. Help yourself to a drink from the fridge.”
I should leave.
The mood has annoyingly changed since the conversation in the garage, and if it’s going to continue like this, I’d rather go.
But then again, I’m finally in his house, and I might never get another chance like this to snoop around and figure him out.
I stop near the door. “Is your mom coming back anytime soon?”
“No, she works the night shift.” His metal gaze meets mine. “No one will see you with me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I purse my lips. “Drop the passive-aggressiveness.”
“Whatever do you mean?” He tilts his head to the side. “I’m just stating the facts you demanded.”
I consider saying something but choose not to. It’ll simply hurt my case at this point.
With a grumble, I make a beeline to the door and into the living room.
Even though Stantonville is a shithole, the house…isn’t.
It’s small, sure, but every corner looks like someone actually loves it enough to keep it alive. There are houseplants everywhere and warm light instead of the flickering fluorescent misery the rest of this town seems to run on.
In the center, there’s a couch that looks too soft for this zip code, with a blanket tossed over the armrest that definitely belongs to his mother, not him. Marcus is many things, but cozy isn’t one of them.
The walls are lined with framed photos, and because I’m here to be nosy, I walk straight to them.
We don’t have framed family photos in our house. I mean, we do, if we count my deceased ancestors glaring down at me. Or the tradition of the soulless family photo that we take every year just to hang in Dad’s office.
I only tolerate them now because Miley loves them, especially if I hold her on my shoulders—something Satan’s lover doesn’t like, so I do it just to piss her off.
Anyway, the family photos here are warmer, full of Marcus and his mother—June.
In almost all of them, they’re together.
There are a few where he’s alone. Marcus as a teen holding a hockey stick bigger than him in one hand and a trophy in the other.
Marcus no older than ten with a missing tooth and a scraped knee.
He…doesn’t smile much in his solo pictures. When he’s with his mom, however, his smiles are more genuine.
One photo stops me.