Page 46 of Bruised

It’s more like the opposite. His scent is locked into my sheets at this point, and I inhale deeply with tonight already on my mind. I can’t wait to have him in my bed again, writhing and moaning while I work my cock deep inside his body.

Everything has played out the way I hoped and expected, but somehow, reality is even more thrilling than I imagined. I planned to just have fun with him for a while, get him in my bed to prove I could—to prove to him he wanted it. And yes, as I expected, his willingness to submit to me is the sweetest drug I’ve ever tried, but our secret meetings have unearthed something within me—something that makes me feel like I’m losing my finely tuned control.

It’s not just the sex. It’s the glances, the soft touches, and the dreamy look in his eyes when I scratch him behind the ear.

I always follow my plans, and my plans this summer are about having fun and relieving my boredom, so why not allow myself to touch Lane in any way I want? Why not allow myself to long for him and think about him every hour of the day?

I just want to have him in my arms and make him moan. Is that too much to ask?

I don’t know. Maybe. It feels dangerous on all sorts of levels, but it’s not like I’m going to stop touching him or looking at him or thinking about him because of that. Maybe I’m a fool for it, but it can’t be helped.

I’m just about ready to barge into Oliver’s room, scoop Lane into my arms, and carry him to my bed. I’d break my own rules if I did—that’s the only reason I don’t. Well, that, and the fear of Oliver’s rage. It’s not like I care about my little brother’s opinion, but he holds the power to banish Lane from my sight, and I don’t want that. I want him here, within reach. Every night.

That doesn’t mean I’m above a little fun, though.

Later that day, I go downstairs to find Lane by the kitchen island, drinking soda through a straw. Oliver is cooking by the stove, back turned. He seems occupied enough.

Without thinking, I line up with Lane’s back and push down the collar of his T-shirt, exposing the bruises there—the marks I’ve left on his skin.

Lane yelps, and Oliver spins around, glaring as soon as he sets eyes on me.

“What’s going on? Haven’t I fucking told you to leave him alone?”

“He had a bug in his hair,” I say with an innocent half-shrug. “I just waved it away.”

“A bug?” Oliver says skeptically.

“Yeah, this big wasp thing. A dangerous one.”

“You’re a fucking dangerous one,” Oliver growls.

I smirk at that, but Oliver just gets more and more riled up.

“I’m serious, Mason! Keep your fucking hands off him.”

“Or what?”

“Hey,” Lane says quickly. “It’s fine—he really was just helping me with the bug. It was this big.” He measures it with his fingers.

“Sure,” Oliver says, voice drawn out with doubt. “Next time, ask me to do it.”

“Okay.” Lane scuttles off to the bathroom, looking a little uncomfortable. I don’t blame him; I wouldn’t want to be stuck in a family-argument crossfire either. Doesn’t mean I’ll stop, though. Oliver is so much fun to tease.

“Jealous I got to touch your little friend, Ollie?”

“If I had a say in it, you’d never get to touch him again.” Oliver turns back to the stove, trying to pretend I’m not here. I’m not so easy to ignore, though.

“You’re not beating the unrequited love allegations, little brother.”

“And you’re not beating the creep allegations!” Oliver retorts, casting me a glare.

“Ouch.” I chuckle and clutch my chest in mock hurt.

Maybe I shouldn’t tease Lane like that unless we’re alone. It’s going to be hard to avoid touching him whenever I feel like it, though. Lately, I feel like it all the time.

Oliver continues to cook whatever he’s cooking. It looks like he’s breading chicken. Hmm. A pretty elaborate meal for a teenager.

“Roleplaying Logan, are you?” I ask.