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Pump.
“I don’t think I can,” I mumble, still so satiated.
“You will,” he demands as his hips piston and his fingers prance with an enchanting agenda. “Clamp that sopping cunt down on my cock again, Carver.”
With that, he continues his commanding crusade to take me on a celestial voyage. And does he ever deliver. I float and fly into another raptured demise. My amplified moans slicing through the still house as his grunts do the same, his formidable frame crumbling around me in our collective undoing until we collapse in a puffing mound of thrashing hearts and sweaty skin.
“Okay,” I wheeze. “Round two: Liam.”
“And three,” he boasts, dragging me on top of his chest. “That was a twofer. But I plan to wreck you until morning, so no need to keep count.”
I laugh—his arrogance is cuter than I’d prefer to admit. “I think if I come out the loser tonight, it’ll be my greatest win to date.”
“Concession from Carver.” A kiss on my nose. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
What can I say? I’m still a desecrated bag of Jell-O.
He cleans us up after that, pitching the condom, wiping me with a warm cloth, and attempting to feed me. Sustenance is probably wise, but right now, I only want him. The problem is, I’m currently freaking out at the sight of his back tattoo.
His shoulder blades are dressed in an ace of spades design. The letter A and a black spade line the top-left corner. Beneath it, shaded in black, are bleeding, outlined hearts, diamonds, and clovers that drip into melted whispers of the above symbols. The design is mirrored in reverse on the right side of his back—an upside-down A and spade beneath the shoulder blade, like a card. And over his spine is a gigantic spade, filled in with a kraken sinking a ship. The artwork is phenomenal, the meaning clearly one of him taking control of his life.
But my heart jumps to my throat. He calls me Ace. I don’t know what to make of that, but I can’t ask, so I excuse myself to the bathroom. My eyes snag on words written in script at the bottom of the design—Seize the game changer—as I exit.
It means nothing.
I meander through his room toward the en suite. The layout is vast with a separate lounge area and two closets. Simple decor, a moody blue paint that reads as green or gray, depending on the angle, paired with creams and black and turquoise. Masculine and tasteful. Ivy mentioned he had a knack for design. The same style is mimicked in the bathroom with stacked stones, rich woods, and polished concrete. It’s all so Liam.
Just like the ink he chooses to flaunt.
When I’m at the sink, splashing my face, he raps on the door, and a T-shirt appears through the crack. I take it, grateful to cover myself. After stringing my fingers through my still-wet hair and calming my nerves, I reemerge to find him perched on his window bench in a pair of mesh shorts.
“Do you ever smoke after sex?” I ask, thinking that may help.
His eyebrow quirks. “Want one?”
I roll my lips in and nod. It’s frowned upon in my circle, which makes it that much more enticing. Once in a great while, I indulge. “I do.”
He saunters over to his dresser and sifts through the top drawer to retrieve the forbidden fruit as I curl up on the bench.
“This is a cozy spot,” I observe.
“Is now,” he quips, nestling in beside me.
He cracks the window, a gush of crisp night air enveloping us, but I don’t mind the chill. It’s got nothing on the warmth of this scene. Tugging my feet onto his lap, he snicks his Zippo flame, sucking in a drag.
In the hopes of diverting my thoughts from the ace on his back, I focus on something else. “Tell me about the angel tattoo. It’s new.”
It wasn’t there last year when he showed me his bullet wound, but it camouflages it now.
“A dark angel,” he corrects, ashing the cigarette. He passes it to me as his plume of smoke billows out into the night. “They were cast out. I was three when my mother died. Between three and seventeen, I lived in nineteen foster homes, not counting temporary placements. At seventeen, I got signed off to join the Navy. Two years in, I met Wells. He was—don’t ever fucking repeat this to him—he was like a goddamn machine.”
That makes me laugh, having seen how Liam likes to rile Wells. I’m sure he never inflates Wells’s ego willingly.
“I’d never been so impressed in my life,” he says with such reverence that it radiates off him. “He rose so fast. He was exactly how he is now—always the best; a hard-ass, dominating every room. But behind closed doors, he cared. He asked questions, paid attention. Mentored. No one had ever done that for me.”
He snatches the cigarette back, pulling another hit as I wait for more. “Then, we were erased from the Navy SEALs. On one hand, I didn’t give a shit. Nothing to go home to anyway. And it was a testament to all we’d accomplished as a team—they needed us. But it was one more place … anyway, once we were settled, Wells gathered us together, said we were a family and that he would stop at nothing until being erased was the greatest thing that ever happened to us. Whatever transpired from that moment forward, we were in it together.”
Liam’s eyes brim with a veneration that is nothing short of astounding. Wells told me how much he loved these guys. It’s clear that devotion is mutual.
