“Busy!” I growl out, my hands sliding beneath Lea’s waistband to grab his ass.
He makes a strangled sound. I think from trying not to moan with uninvited ears so close. Cute.
“Uh, sorry, man. Someone broke some glass in the kitchen, and we can’t find your broom,” a muffled voice says.
I groan. They couldn’t just leave it be? “Yeah, yeah. Give me a sec!”
Leander and I pull back, foreheads resting together, breathing heavy. His hair is damp with sweat, cheeks flushed. I grin, slipping my hands to hold his face.
“How many drunk idiots does it take to clean some glass?”
Leander groans, swatting at me lightly, voice thick with alcohol and frustration. “At least five, I would guess.”
I laugh, leaning close. “You wanna stay here or do some clean-up duty?”
He knows what I’m actually asking: You want to sit here for a few minutes and get fucked harshly or go back to the party?
I pull on my shirt watching him carefully. Leander stumbles for a moment. But I don’t want to rush him into anything he’s unsure of. Damn it, the gentle thoughts are back.
He huffs, but the flush doesn’t fade. His jealousy, his desire, his intoxicated state—it all fuels me. Every smirk, glare, and reluctant laugh is like a drug. I know I’m pushing him, testing limits, and he’s letting me, and it’s thrilling.
“I’ll come help.”
I smile. “Okay. Lemme do something first.” I press my lips to his pulse, sucking his skin into my mouth before biting.
Leander gasps, his cock twitching against my thigh.
I release him, gently kissing the blooming red mark on his neck. “That’s better.”
“Freak,” Leander grumbles, but I see the faint pink in his cheeks.
I tug him toward the kitchen, steadying him against the counter when he stumbles. He tries his best to jump on the counter, but I have to help him. He’s muttering under his breath, complaints about Allison and Jax and the chaos of the party spilling from his mouth in a low, grumbling torrent. I let him vent as I clean the shattered beer bottles.
He’s so cute when he’s drunk. Leander is always so quiet, but with a few shots in him, he’s a serial yapper.
“Why do you do this to me?” he mutters at one point. His finger grazing the purple hickey on his neck.
“Because I like it,” I admit, leaning my hands on either side of his hips. “Because I like seeing you flustered, wanting me, unable to walk away. Because I need everyone to know you belong to someone until I can fully claim you.”
His hands clutch at me again, and I feel the pulse of his desire, raw and insistent. I trail a hand down his side, restingit lightly against his hip, teasing, lingering, letting him feel the weight of it without taking too much. He groans, a low, throaty sound that makes my chest tighten.
And in that moment—drunken, frustrated, flushed with need—he’s mine.
8
LEANDER
Iwake slowly.
The first thing I notice is the weight—heavy and warm, pinning me down. It takes a few seconds to realize it’s Phoenix. His chest is pressed against my back, one arm is hooked around my waist, and his legs are tangled with mine. His breath is steady, brushing the back of my neck in hot little puffs that make goosebumps prickle across my skin.
I don’t move. Not yet.
The room is dim, blinds half-drawn, the muffled thrum of last night’s party still clinging to the air—beer, smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume. My head pounds, dull and insistent, the hangover clawing at me. But none of it matters compared to the solid weight of Phoenix practically wrapped around me like a blanket he doesn’t want to share.
I glance down at his hand resting on my stomach. His fingers twitch even in sleep, holding me tighter when I shift even the slightest bit. Like he’s afraid I’ll slip out from under him. Like he was guarding me all night.
It’s… strange.
