Page 45 of Shared Obsession

I grin, leaning against the wall and letting the curiosity show in my eyes. “Hey, yourself. Everything good in there?” I tease, not letting him off the hook but not pushing too hard either.

Dean glances away, rubs the back of his neck, then grabs my wrist and tugs me down the hall to the spare room—the room that’s become ours, even if we never said it out loud. He closes the door behind us, still looking unsettled. “I don’t know what happened,” he blurts, words tumbling out fast. “It just… felt right, so I went with it.” His eyes dart up to meet mine, anxious and uncertain, like he’s afraid I’ll judge him or pull away. But that’s the last thing I feel.

I step in close, my hands settling on his waist, grounding him, wanting to make this easier. “Dean, chill. Why are you panicking? Seriously—it’s fine. It’s more than fine. You’re adorable when you get all flustered, you know that? Don’t make it a thing, alright?”

Before he can say another word, I silence him with a hard, hungry kiss—claiming his mouth, pouring all my longing and relief into it. If I had any questions about what exactly happened in there, I don’t once I taste Alex’s cum on his tongue. My hands explore every inch of him, relearning the shape of his body, the heat of his skin, letting him feel just how much I’ve missed him. I tug his shirt over his head, my lips trailing down his throat, across his collarbone, then lower to his chest. I take my time, teasing each nipple with slow, lingering flicks of my tongue, savoring the way his breath stutters and his groans vibrate against my mouth. The sound of his pleasure drives me, fueling the hunger that’s been building for weeks. I want to worship him, to remind him that he’s wanted—cherished—down to his bones.

I trace my tongue down his stomach, feeling him shiver beneath me, and make quick work of his pants, sliding them down and off. By the time I drop to my knees, his cock is already hard for me, thick and flushed, and I waste no time—taking him into my mouth, sucking slow at first, then deeper, letting my tongue swirl and tease along the sensitive underside. Dean’s hips roll into my rhythm, his hands tangling in my hair as I set a pace that has him groaning, lost and helpless to the need between us. Every sound, every ragged breath, every tremor of his body is its own reward—and I want to keep giving, keep taking, until neither of us can think about anything else.

I let Dean’s cock slip from my mouth and rise to my feet, our eyes locking in a silent understanding that thrums between us. “I need you to fuck me, Zayn. Please.” The words come out rough, pleading, every ounce of his longing laid bare. That’s all I need—my restraint snaps. I strip off my clothes, tossing each piece aside with trembling hands, desperate to feel every inch of him against me. The lube is cool in my palm as I slick my fingers, desire sparking through my veins. For so long, I thought I’d never have this again—never feel him like this, never hear his voice break with need for me.

Dean props one knee on the edge of the bed, the other foot planted securely on the floor, offering himself up without hesitation. His body is flushed, the head of his cock leaking precum as he strokes himself harder. I move in behind him, letting my free hand roam the curve of his back, feeling the heat radiate from his skin. My slicked fingers circle his entrance, and he shudders, hips rolling back toward me, greedy for more. I ease one finger in, then another, working him open slowly, savoring the way his breath stutters and his body clenches around me. He whimpers my name, the sound raw, and I press a kiss to the back of his neck, reassuring and possessive.

When I finally line myself up and press inside, it’s slow—agonizingly slow—giving him time to adjust, feeling every inch of him stretch and yield around me. He groans, hand fisting his cock harder, and I pause, buried deep, just breathing him in. His body is tight, hot, and welcoming, and for a moment, it’s almost overwhelming.

He never stops stroking himself, his fist moving in time with my hips as I start to thrust—first slow, then picking up the pace, rougher, deeper, our rhythm building with every slap of skin on skin. My hand slides around to grip his throat, the other anchoring him at his hip, and I lean in, words rough against his ear. “I fucking missed you, my good fucking boy.”

Dean moans, pushing back, taking everything I give, his body pliant and hungry. Every sound he makes, every desperate gasp and broken plea, drives me fucking insane.

The room is filled with the sounds of us—our breath, the slap of my hips against his ass, the slick slide of my cock inside him. My orgasm is building, coiling tight in my belly, but I want him to tip over first. “Come on, Dean, show me how much you fucking missed me,” I snarl, tightening my grip on his throat just enough to make him gasp.

That’s all it takes—he comes with a shout, thick spurts painting the sheets, his body clenching down on me so hard I see stars. I keep thrusting through his orgasm, chasing my own release, and when it finally hits, it’s blinding—I spill deep inside him, every muscle tensing, my vision going white at the edges. We collapse together in the mess, tangled and shaking, sweat-slicked and breathless, clinging to each other as the world slowly seeps back in. For the first time in what feels like forever, I am almost whole. Almost.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Alexander

Monday morning rolls in heavy, the weight of what’s ahead pressing down on all of us. This is what we’ve spent sleepless nights preparing for, what every whispered plan and sharpened blade has led to. We load up ammo and guns—hoping we won’t need them, but knowing we probably will. My knife is strapped to my belt, Dean and Zayn armed in turn, each of us carrying the same grim resolve. We all know the risks. Today, we’re betting everything on saving Ayla, no matter what it costs.

Dean checks the security feeds one last time. “Just two guards on site, like I predicted,” he says, voice tight. That’s our window—small, but it’s all we’ll get. We pack what we need into the Jeep: zip ties, gloves, burner phones, extra ammo, and bulletproof vests strapped under our shirts. There’s no banter, no bravado—just a silent, shared determination. Zayn takes the driver’s seat, Dean shotgun, and I’m on my bike as always—the tip of the spear.

Before I pull on my helmet, I pause at the driver’s side of the Jeep, looking each of them in the eyes. “Alright, boys. Let’s go get our fucking girl.” The words are rough, torn from somewhere deep, but they land like a promise. I swing onto my bike, heart pounding, adrenaline and fear and rage burning through my veins. I want to race—want to tear down every red light between us and that house—but I force myself to keep pace, waiting for Dean and Zayn to catch up.

Every mile, my mind flashes with what I saw on those feeds—the way they beat Ayla, raped her, tortured her for their sick pleasure, streaming every violation live for the world to see. Each clip burns behind my eyes: her sobs echoing in the darkness, the bruises on her skin, the way her body went limp in defeat, the sick laughter of Charles and Nathan, their faces masked but their voices gleeful, as they paraded her suffering for their paying audience. The urge to kill Charles and Nathan with my bare hands is a living thing inside me—hot, feral, barely leashed. Garbage like them doesn’t deserve mercy. But today, it’s not about revenge, not yet. Today is just about getting Ayla out.

We pull up down the block from the house, adrenaline spiking as we check our weapons and strap guns to our holsters. The plan is clear: stay low, don’t attack unless absolutely necessary. Dean meets my eyes. "Alright, we’re trying to stay low profile. We don’t shoot unless we have to, yes?" he says, his voice steady, but the warning is for me. I nod, jaw tight, promising nothing. Zayn scans the house, eyes sharp, all business. “The guards are in the kitchen. I say we take the back door, closest to the basement.”

We move in silence, masks pulled down, nerves electric. The back door is locked, but Zayn slips his knife between the frame, jimmies the latch, and the door pops open with a soft click. We slip inside, hearts pounding, adrenaline spiking so hard I feel it in my teeth, ready for hell.

Inside, the house looks deceptively normal—soft light, family photos on the walls, nothing to betray the hell happening behind closed doors. Every sense is buzzing, the silence as dangerous as a loaded gun. We creep down the hall, hearts hammering, praying we won’t have to face the guards before we reach Ayla. Each step is torture—the boards creak, the shadows seem to move, and my hands are slick with sweat. But when we get to the basement door, it’s padlocked. Not just locked—heavy, industrial, the kind meant to keep secrets buried. Fuck. My hands shake, fear and rage warring in my chest, every muscle coiled tight and ready to snap.

“What the hell do we do now?” I growl, voice a rough whisper, my nerves sparking. Zayn peeks around the corner, careful to stay out of sight. There—a guard stands in the kitchen, the ring of keys jangling from his belt. “We need those keys,” I whisper, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.

“How do you propose we do that?” Zayn shoots back, his voice low and sharp, the tension between us palpable. The air is thick, every second stretching out, our fear and frustration mounting. We crouch in silence, holding our breath, waiting as the house settles around us—every tick of the clock, every distant sound making my skin crawl. Then—finally—footsteps. Boots, heavy and purposeful, are coming down the hall. One of the guards heads toward the bathroom, oblivious, the keys swinging. It’s now or never.

“This is my chance,” I say, voice almost a growl. Zayn nods, eyes sharp and fierce, every muscle in his body ready to pounce. I move, slow and silent, stalking him down the hall, knife already in my hand, my heart slamming against my ribs. He doesn’t know I’m there until I’m right behind him—blade pressing to his throat. “Give me the fucking keys.”

He freezes, a shiver of fear running through him, but then he laughs—a low, guttural sound, full of bravado. “Or what?” he taunts.

I dig the tip of my knife into his skin, just enough to draw blood. His taunt sets something wild loose in me—screw quiet and controlled, I want him to know what real fear tastes like. “You think this is a fucking joke?” I snarl, voice shaking with rage. “You think you can taunt me, after everything you’ve done? I WILL fucking kill you. I’ll gut you and leave you here to bleed out and not lose a minute of sleep. You think I won’t?” I drag the blade a little deeper, a bright line of red trickling down his neck. The tough guy persona slips, his eyes going wide, panic flickering where arrogance was a second ago. Good. I want him to know exactly how close he is to dying, and that any hope of mercy died the second he opened his mouth.

“You think I don’t know you sit here, watching while they rape those girls? My girl? Torture them?” I snarl, pressing the blade harder to his throat, dragging it just enough to draw a flowing line of blood. He groans, a desperate sound, but still trying to maintain control, refusing to hand over the keys. My grip tightens, voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You think you deserve any fucking mercy? You don’t even deserve to breathe.” That is the exact moment I snap; realization of what a piece of shit this guy is washes over me.

“I bet you stick around in a sad attempt to get a piece—” I dig the knife deeper. “Of—” deeper still, “the—” and as I say, “action,” I drag the blade across his throat, not waiting for him to beg. Blood erupts in a hot, arterial spray, splattering my gloves and the floor, his eyes wide with shock and terror as his life drains away. He collapses at my feet, gurgling, clawing at his throat, and I don’t look away. I want him to know exactly why he’s dying. Justice—brutal, absolute, and long overdue, the plan long forgotten.

The second guard comes back toward the kitchen, but Zayn is already moving—knife out, eyes wild. He grabs the guy by the back of his shirt and yanks him backward, slamming him into the wall. For a split second, the guard freezes, then swings, catching Zayn in the shoulder. I lunge forward, adrenaline roaring, and together we crash into him—my arm locking around his chest, Zayn grabbing for his wrist. He thrashes, boots kicking, elbows flying, cursing and spitting as we struggle to take him down. He’s bigger than I expected, fighting dirty, and for a terrifying second I think he’ll break free.

“Hold him!” Zayn grunts through clenched teeth, trying to pin the guy’s arm behind his back. The guard bucks and my grip almost slips, but I dig in, kneeing his thigh and twisting until he finally collapses under our combined weight. My heartbeat is in my ears, breath burning, muscles shaking with effort. Zayn shoves the guy face-down on the floor, knee in his spine, and I fumble in my pocket, pulling out a zip tie with trembling hands. Together, we wrestle his arms behind his back, struggling to keep him down as he thrashes. It takes everything we have to cinch the ties around his wrists, his curses muffled as Zayn stuffs a rag in his mouth. We roll him over and drag him to a kitchen chair, tying his ankles to the legs and tying rope around his chest and arms, securing him in place.