Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
He takes one of my wrists in his hand, brings it to his lips, and kisses the part that’s still red.
Then he does it to the other.
I run my fingertips over his lips a moment later, and it’s still such a novelty to be able to move my hands, to touch him, to feel his mouth press a kiss to my fingertips.
“Come rinse off with me,” he murmurs. “And then I want you in my bed.”
“How are we going to get through the downstairs area without the guys seeing me like this?”
He looks at me, his eyes half-lidded. “Covered in two loads of your own cum, baby?”
“Your fault.”
“Yes. I know.”
I hum, still feeling an intense, deep ache in my ass that I know I’m going to have for days. I love it. “Wow.”
“You can put your wet shirt on over all of the cum, but I’d rather see you just walk in like this,” he says. “If they see what we did, then fucking let them. You are my little work of art, blushing and marked up and glazed.”
I let out a frustrated groan, sitting up straight on the seat. “If I didn’t just come twice I would be so hard from you saying that.”
“You are always hard for me, sweet.”
I manage to tug on my pants and I don’t put on a shirt.
We walk into the house, and I’m ready for anyone to see me.
Maybe I want them to.
Preserve this fucking fantasy for as long as I can.
The hottest night of my entire goddamn life.
15
Roman
When Tate chooses, of his own volition, to walk into the house streaked with obvious cum, I know he is some sort of creature sent to Earth to give me pleasure.
I watch with a deep, burning pride in my chest as he strides through the front door with long, pink-red slashes down his chest.
Hickeys on his neck.
The ghosts of rope bindings on his wrists.
The cum is just the cherry on top.
It’s magnificent.
And I feel my heart following after him, like he’s the center of the whole fucking world.
The long hall that leads down from the entryway is dim, and as we walk forward past the archway to the front room, Weston and Sevan are in there, kicking back on the sofa by the fireplace.
Weston glances over, and from where he’s sitting, I have no idea if he can see everything on Tate’s skin.
“Yo. How was the festival? Home early? We’re going to head over in a little while.”
“Best night of my life,” Tate calls toward them, continuing down the hallway.
“Damn,” Weston says. “Guess Sev and I need to go check it out, huh?”
I give him a little salute and continue down the hall to where Tate is starting to walk up the stairs. I glimpse Rayne in the kitchen, but other than that, we don’t meet any other guys along the walk up to the shower.
Once we’re upstairs in the shower, under the hot spray of the water, I wash and massage his skin. I take care to stroke attentively around his hole, pushing on him where I know he must be very sore.
And then he washes me, too.
My first instinct is to stop him.
He’s touching me in a way I’ve never let previous partners do.
Not that you are my partner.
You are…
I don’t know the right word in English for it. Damn my brain.
Sex, for me, was always finished after it was done. I took great pleasure in making my partners come, as many times as they needed, but close intimacy afterward always felt suffocating afterward.
Tate is seeing all of me, on his own terms.
Not my terms.
His fingertips slide over my back, over the longest, thickest scar I have.
“Can I ask you…” he murmurs, as he touches it. “Nevermind.”
“The scar is from my father,” I tell him simply.
Something no one else knew, other than my mother, and Maks.
My heart pounds as Tate pushes his warm palm on my spine, leaning over to kiss along the area.
“I’m sorry, Roman.”
“It was a long time ago. I needed to be reprimanded. It was the only time I refused to do a task for my father, when I was fourteen.”
“You’ve never refused, other than once?”
“He wanted me to give a cyanide-laced chocolate bar to my friend at school. My father didn’t like the way my friend’s parents did business. He killed them, a few weeks later. But I never gave my friend the poison.”
“Jesus,” Tate says.
I rest my forehead against the cold tile of the shower as Tate strokes his hands over my back, massaging me now.
And suddenly, I feel something break open inside me.
He doesn’t even ask me to, but…
I start to talk.
“It was the first thing that led to my mother being killed,” I admit. “She didn’t die until many, many years later. But when my father slaughtered that boy’s parents, the Malettis knew it was my father’s doing. They were close with the parents. It started a war, and I was still too young to understand why my father was even concerned about the Maletti family. We were Petrovs. We were stronger than them, and our Bratva so much older and more powerful than this Italian mafia.”