Chapter 6
Zeus
I hate everything about this entire situation.
I hate that I took so much of the information Zayne had to share and locked it away for this upcoming job because when I think about it, it’s going to be his voice in my head.
I hate the easy smile on his face when he answers questions from the other guys, because the damn thing hasn't changed in all these fucking years.
I hate this stupid fucking attraction I've always felt for him because it came back with a vengeance last night, and the distraction is the very last thing either one of us needs.
I hate the idea stuck in my head that I can't be the first of the remaining four to leave the room.
That's how I ended up in here with only Zayne, as he repacks a box of MREs—meal, ready-to-eat—after pulling out the Chili Mac, because, as he explained, these would be eaten on a night no one wants to cook, and it's a favorite.
That fact got a chuckle from those of us who spent time in the military because the guy wasn't wrong.
I gauge the distance between him and the wall, trying to figure out if I'll be able to squeeze past him without him noticing, but I know just how stupid that thought is. The guy is just as fucking aware of my presence as I am of his.
I chance it anyway, walking with determination toward the door, only to be stopped with a warm hand on my arm.
Refusing to look at the other man, I keep my eyes locked on my escape route.
I could easily shrug him off and tell him to get the fuck away from me, but we're going to have to work together. Even I know that isn't the right way to handle any situation with a teammate, regardless of how I really feel.
"Can I help you?" I ask with as even a tone as I can manage.
When silence swirls around us, I chance a look in his direction, regretting it instantly.
The man has gotten taller since I last saw him, growing at least four or five inches.
Whereas I used to tower over him, I find myself looking up slightly to meet his eyes.
I hate the way it makes me feel, but before he speaks, I almost convince myself that it's irritation and not attraction that stirs inside me.
"You can actually," he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"What?" I ask, taking a step back and breaking the contact between us.
"I need help moving furniture."
"Hemlock said the other guys were going to load all this shit, and I plan to let them because we'll have to unload it all by ourselves tomorrow."
"Not this," he says, waving his hand to indicate the room full of stuff. "My bed."
I narrow my eyes, knowing this has to be some fucking ploy of his, but then again, we're alone now. If he wanted to have a conversation, he could do so now. We don't have to relocate to a whole different cabin for that to happen.
"Fine," I mutter against my better judgment because we're supposed to be adults, and at a minimum, we're teammates who have to get along for this shit to work.
I walk out of the room and arrow straight to the door.
The sooner I can get this shit over with, the sooner I can have a little time to myself.
I only have the rest of today and part of tomorrow to wrap my head around the idea of being a piece-of-shit loser who hates women, people of color, and anyone who isn't as straight as an arrow.
I key in the code for the cabin he's staying in and do my best to try and stay in motion, but I have no fucking clue which room he picked.
He passes me on the staircase. I swear the man knows exactly what he's doing because for the briefest of seconds, it puts his muscular ass right in my face, and my cock begins to take notice, something that makes me hate this man even more.
"You could've asked someone else to fucking help," I growl as I struggle to look away from his ass.
"Chill out," he snaps without looking back at me. "It's only going to take a minute of your precious fucking time."
The old Zayne would've never spoken to me that way. I can't count how many times I abused the trust we had with each other by being an asshole and threatening to end our little meetings if he so much as pissed me off.
Good for him having a backbone. Bad for me that it turns me on in a way it shouldn't.
Silence swirls, seeming thicker than the sound of our boots on the stairs as he directs us up to the third floor. Of course, this man would need to be all the way up here.
His room looks no different from mine did the day I moved in. With the exception of a different bedding set, even the furniture is exactly the same. Some bed-in-a-box bullshit that has actually turned out to be more comfortable than I thought it would at first sight.
"I want the bed on that wall instead," Zayne says, pointing from where it is now to the far wall to the left. "Just help."
I can tell from the scuff mark on the floor that he actually tried to move the bed at some point, and that makes me feel a little better about this not being some sort of ploy to get me alone.
For a bed-in-a-box, this motherfucker is actually heavy, and a grunt escapes my mouth on the first push.
I watch a smile spread across his face. "That sounds familiar."
Ignoring him, I keep working, moving the bed to where he wants it before speaking.
"Familiar how?" I ask, too curious to remain silent.
"That grunt," he says. "That's the only sound you make when you come."
You could knock me over with a fucking feather for the bravery it takes for this man to bring that shit up. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. He didn't hesitate last night to mention something similar to a roomful of people he doesn't even know.
"Get the fuck out of here," I mutter before turning for the door.
I feel his presence with every step I take down the stairs, and as aware as I am of him, I don't anticipate him grabbing my arm and spinning me around to face him.
He shakes his head when I open my mouth to ask him what the fuck he thinks he's doing, and for some reason, I stay silent.
I don't say a word as his eyes rake down my body in a way that feels like an embrace.
I don't tell him to stop when his eyes land right on the front of my jeans, my growing cock becoming more than a little noticeable.
I don't shove him away or even utter one word of rejection when his fingers work with such precision and skill that I wonder just how often he does this, despite the way it makes an unfamiliar streak of misplaced jealousy swarm inside of me.
I don't tell him to quit fucking around when he reaches inside of my boxer briefs and wraps his fist around my now rock-hard dick.
Instead, I press my palms flat against the wall and give him free rein to do whatever he wants, a power I have seldom relinquished in my entire life.
The sight of his head lowering and his mouth opening as he gets down on his knees in front of me makes my cock jerk in his hand. When he looks back up at me, the pink tip of his fucking tongue swiping at that most sensitive part of me makes my nuts draw up tight.
My eyes roll back when he licks down the length of me, but it's the knowledge that I have never felt like this with any other partner in my life that almost makes me shove him away.
This man is the only one who could get me to feel this way, and the familiarity of that is almost as terrifying as the reality that I know better than to be doing anything like this, especially with him.
The powerlessness I've always felt around him battles with the man inside me who hates that I like this so much.
He wins.
He always wins.
It's as if I lose any ability to tell this guy no when he's touching me.
I know how this ends. I know how angry I'll be with myself for my weakness toward him when it's over, but I do nothing to stop it.
Instead of shoving him away or demanding he take my cock out of his mouth, I tilt my head back, squeeze my eyes closed, and let myself settle into the way this guy has always had a mysterious ability to make me come.
Even as my balls draw up tight, the threat of my orgasm building at the base of my spine, I hate him.
I hate the fact that even after all this time, this one man is the only one who has ever made me feel this way. I've tried to forget him, tried to forget the way my body responds to him. I've had other lovers in the years since him, but none of them ever compared.
I hate every single second of it, but I hold off, trapping my orgasm in my body for as long as I possibly can because I want it to last forever.
If I can hold off, if I can keep from coming, then I don't have to face the aftermath. I don't have to live inside my head, hating myself for being so fucking susceptible to the defeat I know I'm going to struggle with after it's done.
I clench my fists tight, my only armor against gripping his hair and pulling his mouth further down my cock.
My resistance snaps, my balls on the edge of busting, and I finally give in to the urge.
I come, my body shaking with the effort. Before I can clamp my lips closed, I grunt my satisfaction, and to my own ears it sounds like a bomb going off.
I swat away his hands when he stands and works to get my cock back into my jeans.
"I've got it," I mutter, my eyes on my clothes rather than on him.
"I fucking love that sound," he says, sounding a little drunk, even though I was the one who came and not him.
Maybe one of the reasons I've always enjoyed this shit with him is the pure joy in his eyes, even when he's the one giving.
"Got it out of your system?" I snap, finally looking at him. Once again, I want to kick him in the fucking knees so he drops a little and I don't have to look up at him, despite it only being an inch or two.
He shrugs, a Cheshire grin on his face as if he's won some internal battle I'm not privy to.
"We'll see, I guess," he says before walking away.
Let the self-hatred begin.