Chapter 21
Zayne
I've experienced a lot of terrible shit in my life. I've borne witness to some of the most heinous acts people are capable of committing against each other.
I'm no stranger to nightmares due to my trauma.
Hell, a repeat nightmare I have is witnessing my sister being beaten to death in jail.
Despite not being there when it happened, my mind has been creative enough to fill in the blanks left in the incident report I've read.
It eats me alive, and the fear of having to witness her final moments in my dreams has often kept me up, afraid to go to sleep.
I know Zeus has seen some shit, too. You don't get shot and not feel some sort of way about it. You don't go through that much pain and expect your psyche to leave it in the past. It's just not possible.
I would understand if it were sounds of fear, whimpering, or even shouts of pain coming from his room, but those weren't the noises that drew me out of my room a few minutes ago.
With my ear pressed to his bedroom door, I know now there's no mistaking what I'm hearing.
If I weren't positive no one else has entered this house, I'd swear he was in there fucking the hell out of someone.
The noises of pleasure, whispers of how good he feels, sink lower inside of me, lengthening and filling my cock in a way that makes it nearly impossible to ignore.
As punishment, I don't even bother reaching for the traitor.
I already know that gripping him in my palm, giving him a few strokes, hell, even taking myself all the way would seem second best at what I know Zeus would be capable of making me feel.
I've never really been the type to settle for second best, so why start today?
I feel like a complete creep, but more than that, I'm intrigued by what I would find if I opened the door.
That thought makes me take a step back, pressing my hand to the coldness on my cheek from where it had been pressed against the door.
The man has a right to his privacy, and I have no entitlement to know what he does on his own time.
Turning to walk away seems impossible, but somehow I manage to twist, my feet angling toward my room, knowing I'm going to have to press a pillow over my ears to keep from hearing the noises he's making. Even then, I have no doubt my mind will take over at that point.
Escaping him seems even more impossible now.
I'm fully committed to giving the man privacy, glancing over my shoulder toward the living room, wondering if the listening device The League planted is picking any of this shit up when I hear it.
I tilt my head, fully aware that my mind could be playing tricks on me, but then I hear it a second time, the whisper of my name.
My eyes dart back to the door.
A third time.
Zayne comes out of the room with even more urgency than before.
As much as I would've assured someone this happening would be the best thing in my life, that man thinking of me in that way, it's also impossibly dangerous for the job we're in the middle of right now.
There's a fucking reason why people who sleepwalk and shit are discharged from the military. Controlling yourself at all times is imperative to the kind of jobs that are expected of you, and this situation is no different.
Indignant and a little giddy at being given the opportunity, I reach for the doorknob, twisting it before shoving the damn door open.
I fully expected to see the man sitting on the edge of the bed, stroking himself. If I let myself think about it long enough, I would've bet money he also had a snarl on his face because he was pissed I was in his head at all.
But that isn't how I find my old friend.
Frankie Jenkins is face down on top of his covers, back bare with muscles tensing as he moves, hips grinding his pelvis into the mattress.
"Fuck," I whisper, knowing I've been caught when every muscle in his body tenses.
He flips over, eyes wide, cock straining in his boxers, the patch of wet on the front of them catching my eyes first.
When I find the strength to look at his face, I see cheeks pink with embarrassment, throat working on a swallow as he stands.
I take a step back, sure he's about to punch me in the face or at minimum yell at me for invading his privacy.
I stand my ground, needing to remind him of the situation we're in and how his little dreams could get us both killed.
His eyes drift down the front of me, slowly making their way down to my knees before sweeping back up again.
When his eyes meet mine, there's not a hint of anger I can find in them.
Now it's my turn to swallow, the lump of what needs to be said, battling with the teen I was years ago who would've given both kidneys for the chance of this man looking at him the way he is now.
Instead of a fist to the face, he steps in close, reaching around me to close the door at my back.
The room is tiny, but it feels even smaller with him so close I can smell the mint of toothpaste on his breath.
"I he-heard noises," I stammer, feeling like a fool. "I wanted to make sure you were alright."
"Did I sound like I was in pain?" he whispers in my ear, his warm breath traveling down my neck.
My mouth opens to respond, but no sounds come out. The brush of his lips at my racing pulse fries my brain, making it impossible to form words.
Have I ever been able to speak?
What is language anyway?
I press myself closer, giving in to the need to press my erection against something, anything that belongs to him.
He doesn't take a step back.
He doesn't question what I'm doing or respond in a way that makes me think I'm crossing a line he doesn't want to cross with me.
I freeze, knowing from experience that the line will come, and he's the only one who knows where it is. I've been down this road with him before.
The first time I wanted to wrap my arms around him after I gave him that first hand job.
The same after I sucked him off the first time.
There were so many lines that I could spend a lifetime trying to count them.
Each one left me feeling used and heartbroken.
Promises I made to myself long ago resurface, urging me to take a step back, to draw my own line and make him vow not to cross it.
I can't, however. I'd be foolish to even think that I could push pause on what's happening, much less stop it altogether.
I know where it leads. I know how hurt I'll be. But the kid who sobbed into his pillow nearly every time we hung out as teens needs these moments to heal, despite the new pain this will cause.
"Hmm?" he prods, and my brain glitches.
I have no idea what he's talking about, and I feel more than a little ridiculous when I reach for him, a wordless attempt to beg him not to stop.
He looks down at my grip on his arm, but instead of his eyes meeting mine again with anger or irritation, he looks a little sad, as if he might be aware of the struggles I faced then and the pain he might've caused me.
But I know better than to let my mind drift to those sorts of thoughts.
He may be different now, but he's not the type to admit when he should've acted differently.
Not many people are. They'd prefer to just move on with behavior changes rather than look back and admit things should've been different.
"Did I sound like I was in pain?" he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face.
I don't miss how long it takes to reach his eyes, but eventually I see the same playfulness in them that I hear in his tone.
I dip my head twice, my teeth scraping over my bottom lip, and I almost groan with need at the way his eyes drop to my lips, a certain kind of need showcased on his face. It seems like the very same ache of expectation that is threatening to take over every instinct I possess.
"Maybe you have something that will help heal me," he says, reaching for the hem of my t-shirt.
When he said he was getting a shower and some sleep, I wanted to argue that it was the middle of the afternoon, but we had a late night last night and barely had a chance to sleep today.
Not that I could've gone to sleep with the memories of the way he watched me in my bedroom after my shower earlier.
Before I can answer, he pulls my shirt over my head, letting it fall from his hand to the floor at our feet.
I'm a questions guy. I ask a million questions so I can enter a situation with as much knowledge as possible, making educated decisions to achieve the outcome I want. But before I can open my mouth to ask him exactly what his expectations are, he presses his lips to mine.
Kissing was never on the table all those years ago. Hell, he saw red and had a look of violence in his eyes when I went for a hug. I could never be brave enough to get my face that close to his.
This is the second time he’s been the one to lean in and press his mouth to mine.
I stand still, lips moving against his, parting when he urges his tongue past them. Fire shoots up my spine, my brain going offline in the best way possible.
When his warm, strong arm reaches behind me, fingers pressing against my lower spine, urging me forward, it feels as if there's nothing but green lights going forward.
I step even closer to him, my left arm going around his waist, my right hand reaching up and pressing the palm to his chest. I can't tell whose heart is racing more, but the strong beat of his heart under my hand reminds me just how real all of this is.
It's grounding in a way that makes all of the fear I felt when he approached fade away.
I'm not saying that he won't have boundaries, that there won't be a line we reach that he can't cross, but I don't think it will be met with the same aggression and hatred that it did before. Not that if things did go that way, reminding him that he's the one who started all this would matter.
I pull in a deep breath, releasing it on a sigh when he pulls his head back, mouth immediately finding my neck. The nip of his teeth against delicate skin makes me groan, my hand at his back flexing and drawing him in closer.