Page 26 of Bruised

He takes a couple of deep, sobering breaths, then shoves my arm away. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

“That? Or this?” I glance down at my stomach, at our spent cocks and the cum pooling in the ridges of my abs.

“All of it,” Lane breathes. “I just want to get off. That’s it. I just want to feel good.”

I smirk, happy that he’s finally speaking more than a few words to me. “And I make you feel good?”

He grumbles something unintelligible. The only word I manage to make out is “Oliver.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

Lane pierces me with a glare. “Oliver can’t know.”

I keep smirking, but my expression stiffens the longer he glares at me. “Of course not, puppy.”

Haven’t we already been through this? I’ve already told him I won’t let Oliver know. Oliver and I are barely on speaking terms anyway. It’s not like I have a reason to chit-chat with him about who I’m sleeping with, even if that someone happens to be his best friend.

With that, Lane crawls off me, tugs his clothes back on, and leaves.

I’m covered in lube and cum, so I jump in the shower soon after he’s left, but what he said keeps grating on me.

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

Oh, yeah? It means more than he thinks.

It’s not like we’re boyfriends now or some shit—I don’t do boyfriends—but it does mean a couple of things.

It means he wants me.

It means that despite his better judgment, he can’t stay away from me.

It means he needs me to get what he wants, and he doesn’t mind me using him to get what I want.

It means I was right about him.

I keep playing it over like a mantra in my head as I scrub myself clean, but no matter how many times I repeat it, the message doesn’t quite sink in.

The next day, I’m eating breakfast by the kitchen table—a huge mound of scrambled eggs with hot sauce, a glass of milk, and a glass of orange juice—when Oliver comes down the stairs. He’s usually got Lane in tow, but this time, he’s all alone, his light brown hair ruffled from sleep.

“Aren’t you supposed to get a job?” he mutters as soon as he sees me.

“Good morning to you too, little brother,” I say, taking a big swig of milk.

“Isn’t it part of your parole or whatever?”

“Been doing some reading?”

He nods. “Unlike you.”

“Where’s your little friend?” I ask casually, acting as if I don’t care about his lazy insults.

“His name is Lane. And he’s still asleep.”

My mouth twitches at the corner, and Oliver is on me like a hawk.

“Have you been doing something with him?”

“Doing something?” I repeat slowly, skeptically. “Like what?”