8. RYAN #3
I stumble in through the window, landing awkwardly in front of two standard-issue double beds. Tate follows a second later, slipping in like he’s broken into places before. Right. He probably has, the fucking criminal.
We don’t turn on the light, relying on the moon, but I catch sight of a letterman jacket. McKinnon in block font. This is McKinnon’s room.
Several heartbeats pass. No words exchanged, just an ever-mounting charge. A little intuitive voice whispers, this can only end in bloodshed.
The air thrums between us, a buzzing live wire, waiting to snare us. He steps first, slow, lethal. One hand reaches out, brushing my jaw, fingers grazing just enough to make me flinch. A wave of tingles lights up the side of my face.
My heart’s in my throat and my cock at the same time, skin burning everywhere he’s touched me. His finger lazily drags down my neck, cataloguing, taking stock of what would belong to him.
Hell, to Tate, I already do.
“I thought about you all damn day,” he breathes, voice coming out all croaky. “I want to taste you, dollface.”
He’s affected, too. As much as I am. Relief floods my fucking body, but it also feels like I’m choking, even though he hasn’t put more than a finger on me.
“We can’t fuck in McKinnon’s room,” I whisper, but cave to his wet lips on my neck, opening for him.
“It’s the perfect place to fuck. My brother’s banging McKinnon. If we get caught, McKinnon won’t dare say anything—except to maybe my brother.”
I pull back. “And we can trust your brother?” I have to push aside what the word brother conjures in me. My brother was my best friend, but I don’t know if that’s still true.
“I’d trust him with your life.” His jaw sets. What an odd thing to say. But it means something. “He’d do anything for me.”
Fuck it.
I dive, careful not to touch, letting him lean in that last ten percent.
He pauses, our lips close, staring, resting his thumb at that divot between my chin and lower lip.
His eyes flick to my hand, where it hangs by my side in a ball, resisting the urge to touch him.
He circles my wrist with his free hand, sliding it over his hoodie-covered chest, tracing a path for me, letting me know where I can touch him.
Then his lips crash into mine.
My brain’s overwhelmed with sensation—getting to run my hand up and down his wide pectoral, his lips devouring me.
His tongue slides in. He sucks on my bottom lip.
I twist my hand into his jacket for balance as I run out of oxygen, but I don’t want him to stop.
McKinnon’s bedroom fills with breathy pants as we vie for air, our kisses getting messier.
Sometimes our lips break away just in time to keep me from passing out, other times it’s so we can look at each other before spiraling deeper into the Ryan-Tate-centered abyss we’ve created.
I’ve kissed a lot of men and a lot of women. It’s never been like this. Of course, it has to be with him.
Blood rushes to my cock. My hips buck without my consent, making contact with … holy shit. Tate might have the biggest cock I’ve ever met.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he murmurs. I barely have time to register that I’m touching his neck, his forearms slide under my thighs, and he lifts me like he did at his office, tossing me on McKinnon’s bed. He slides my sweatpants off, and my boxers are next, letting my hard cock spring out.
His gaze drags over me with the slow certainty of a man deciding where to sink his teeth. The intent is clear—he’s going to fuck me. It doesn’t matter, but I’m used to being the man on top. Used to fucking my cock into a hot, wet hole. There’s something powerful about it.
“What’s going through that pretty head of yours?” he says.
“You’re going to fuck me.”
“Not fuck you. I’m going to claim you, dollface.” He tilts his head, sensing something’s off. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s not my first time or anything.
It’s just … vulnerable.” But even as I say it, I’m embarrassingly eager for him to take me.
Thoughts of him watching me spread and open for him send jolts of arousal to my groin and hot humiliation to my cheeks.
My mind and body aren’t on the same page.
“Ah, not used to being dominated by a god, huh?”
“You’re an asshole.”
He shrugs. “If it helps, I understand. It’s a huge fucking turn on that you’re so big, and I’ll take you down anyway. And take you down I will, dollface. I plan to make you cry. I plan to make you scream till your voice is hoarse. Till you plead for mercy. You’ll forget everything except me.”
Holy fucking whoa.
My heart races. Why do I love this?
He sheds his sweats and boxers, too, removing a bottle of lube and a condom, lying on his side next to me.
I eye the condom. “I thought you didn’t want to use that?” I don’t know why I’m insulted, but I am. I’m all for condoms, but I don’t want one between us. Ever. If he’s going to fuck me, I want to feel every line of his cock, every vein. His skin sliding against my insides.
“I don’t. But while I’m willing to do a lot of things to you without your permission, sex stuff will never be on that list. I’m not that kind of monster. Was what I sent you yesterday enough?”
He texted me a copy of his test results. More than just his STI results. He’s as healthy as an ox. “It was.” I rip the condom from his fingers and toss it into the darkness. It skitters away. But then it dawns on me. “I didn’t send you mine.”
“I’ve decided to take you at your word.”
“I really haven’t slept with anyone since my last round of tests,” I assure him.
“And I would never do this if there was a possibility I could pass anything to you. Even when I have a cold, I’ll quarantine myself.” The cap on the lube snicks. “Although I haven’t had a cold in over a decade.”
Figures. Even a cold virus wouldn’t dare challenge him.
“Is that a house rule? Quarantines when ill?”
His lubed-up finger finds my hole. “Wider,” he demands. I spread, opening for him. “No. Just when I’m sick. If you have a cold, I want a cold, too.”
“Th-that’s … absurd,” I say, and it comes out way breathier than I want it to. His thick finger works its way inside. Fuck that’s good. “And if I have pneumonia?”
“Then I want pneumonia, too.” I can’t decide whether that’s romantic or disgusting. I don’t think he’s trying to be romantic—that’s not something Tate knows. But maybe he’s the devoted kind. Or he’s full of shit.
His eyes twinkle with something secret. “What?” I ask.
“My uncle died of pneumonia.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. If pneumonia hadn’t gotten him, I would have.”
“Okaaaaay, so we hate him?”
“Yes.”
He changes the subject with his finger, pumping it in and out of me faster. “Oh, god. Yeah. More. That’s good.”
He slows enough that I can talk again, while I enjoy the steady in and out. He’s reclined on his side, watching me respond to his ministrations, gaze relaxed. What an interesting time for him to study me.
“If you want more, you know what you need to do, dollface,” he says in lazy tones. He reaches down with his free hand, giving his fat cock a few strokes. God, I wanna suck it, but what an asshole. He wants me to beg. My cheeks heat.
“Is this going to be for the rest of our married lives?”