Page 42 of Bruised

I blanket his body with mine as I catch my breath, our bodies warm and sweat-slick. “That’s three, puppy,” I whisper into his ear. “You know what comes next.”

I ease my weight off his back to let him turn around. When he does, his hair is a mess, and he glares at me from under his dark bangs.

“Why didn’t you just do it now?”

I grin. “You’ll beg prettier tomorrow.”

“I hate you,” he mutters, but a little smile plays at his lips a second later.

I grin wider. So cute. “You say that, yet you keep coming back for more. Night after night. Finger after finger.” I lean into him, and he curls up on the bed as if he’s scared, but I only smile and lick a stripe up his bruised neck. “Lick after lick. Bite after bite.” I suck another hickey into his sweet skin, higher now, in danger of discovery. He whines and squirms, but he doesn’t pull away.

I’m doing a lot of things that I thought I wouldn’t—things I usually don’t. I’m usually bored with intimacy after I’ve come, but with Lane, I hardly want to let him out of my sight. I want… I want him to stay here with me and have him wrap his arms around me so I can keep sucking at his neck, keep marking him, until we’re ready to go again.

When I’ve finished off the mark with a bite, I hover over him with my hands braced on his sides. I should pull away; I should stop this, but Lane licks his lips, eyes flicking down to my mouth.

The desire to kiss him comes hard and fast, knocking the breath from my lungs. It would be so easy. Just lean in and capture his lips with mine. I bet they’d feel soft. I bet he’d whimper sweetly into my mouth.

Fuck. Maybe… maybe I can make an exception. This is temporary, after all—the very nature of our arrangement is temporary. Lane won’t live here for longer than the summer. Soon, Oliver will be gone, and we’ll have nothing that binds us to each other, no circumstances that would keep us in the same house like we are now.

I lean closer until we’re forehead to forehead, and Lane is breathing heavily below me, eyes sliding closed. Our lips are inches away from each other when I pull back.

I want to, but I can’t. Breaking my rules is a slippery slope, and if I kiss him, I don’t know what would happen. What else I’d start to crave.

I settle for cupping his cheeks, keeping him still so he won’t get carried away like I almost did. I ruffle his hair and scratch behind his ear, and he leans into my touch, moaning softly.

“You know what you’ll get tomorrow, puppy,” I say.

“The real thing,” he echoes back with a small, dreamy smile, and I nod.

“The real thing.”

16. THE REAL THING

“What’s up with you today?” Oliver asks while we’re looking for snacks in the kitchen.

I catch the bag of sour candy he throws me. “Nothing. Why?”

“You seem… nervous. Jittery.”

I shrug. “Just had too much caffeine today.” I did down an energy drink and a milk-and-sugar-infused coffee before lunch, but that’s not the real reason.

Oliver gives me a doubtful look. “Okay. Just tell me if you need anything.”

I grimace as he turns around. I feel horrible for lying to him; I always do, but I can’t very well tell him I’m about to get fucked by his brother tonight.

Barely a week has passed since my first night in Mason’s room, and I’m already about to let him top me. Not just let him… I’ve fucking begged for it. I’ve squirmed and whimpered and asked him to put it inside me. It’s so strange—when I’m in his room, it feels right to do all those things, but during the day, it’s different.

I don’t regret it exactly, but it sure doesn’t feel as undeniably right as it feels in the moment, when I’m in his bed. I imagine this is what people feel like when they’ve done something stupid when they’re drunk, and then they feel weird about it the next day when they’ve sobered up.

I don’t have alcohol to use as an explanation for my actions, though. What I do or don’t do with Mason is all on me.

Weirdly enough, the faint sense of regret doesn’t take away from my excitement and nerves for tonight. The mere thought of what’s about to happen puts me in danger of getting hard, even as I’m standing by the kitchen island with Oliver and eating candy.

Maybe I just need to get it over with—have Mason fuck me and get it out of my system. It’s what everything has been building up to anyway, right? Everything about one, then two, then three fingers is all about edging and teasing me for the grand finale.

Maybe he feels the same. As soon as he’s fucked me, maybe he’ll lose interest in our secret arrangement. I guess I should prepare myself for that possibility, but the thought makes me chew the candy slower, and my brow furrows.

I don’t want it to be over. I want it to keep going. If it doesn’t, I’m not sure what to do. I’ve come to rely on it; I’ve come to crave it so badly I don’t know what to do with myself when Mason’s not around. And that fact on its own is dangerous.