“Maybe.” I let my cheek drift higher, closer to the bulge that’s impossible to miss. “Or maybe I just want to see what happens when you stop pretending.”
“This is a dangerous game, Wyatt.” His hand twitches at his side, as if he’s fighting the urge to touch me.
“I like dangerous.” I let my breath ghost over his erection, watching the way his abs tighten in response. “Come on, Gray. Give in. Show me what you really want.”
“Fuck,” he growls, the word torn from him like a confession.
His control finally shatters. His hand shoots down, fingers tangling in my hair, gripping tight enough to make me gasp. He tugs, forcing my head back, making me look up at him.
“Is this what you want?” he demands. “To push me until I snap? Until I forget who I am, who you are, what my fucking job is?”
The pain in my scalp sends sparks of pleasure racing down my spine. I don’t answer, just let my lips part slightly, my tongue darting out to wet them.
Gray’s grip tightens, and he guides my face toward his crotch, pressing me against the hard line of his cock through his pants.
I inhale deeply, taking in his scent—clean laundry and something darker, muskier. Male. I open my mouth, letting my lips drag along the outline of his erection, my eyes never leaving his. His hips jerk, pressing harder against my face.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his head falling back before snapping forward again. “You need to stop before this goes too far.”
Instead, I trace the shape of him with my mouth, feeling him throb beneath the fabric.
“If you don’t stop,” he warns, his voice dropping to a dangerous register, “I’m going to ruin you.”
I pull back just enough to look up at him, a smile curving my lips. “I’d like to see you try.”
7
Gray
This fucking kid. I’ve spent two weeks thinking Wyatt Kingsley was just another vanilla trust fund brat with nothing beneath the surface but privilege and petulance. But here he is on his knees before me, face nuzzling my crotch like he’s in heat, eyes locked on mine with an intensity I’ve never seen from him. My dick throbs against the zipper of my pants, so hard I might come just from the sight of him looking up at me like I hold the answers to questions he didn’t even know to ask.
“We should stop,” I say, voice rough like sandpaper. My hands betray me, one already threading through his soft hair, the other braced against the wall in front of me for support. My body is in mutiny against every rational thought in my head.
He doesn’t respond, just holds my gaze as he presses his cheek harder against my erection. His eyes are glazed over with lust but focused, nothing like the drunk, spoiled kid from the club. Nothing like the broken boy who just discovered his girlfriend’s betrayal.
This is a career-ending, life-ruining mistake. My brain cycles through consequences on autopilot. Cameras in the apartment? Probably. Digital evidence? Likely. How would Carson Kingsley react to footage of one of his security guards face-fucking his only son? I’d be lucky if all he did was fire me. More likely, I’d be blacklisted from every security firm in the country.
“Wyatt,” I try again, voice breaking on his name. “This is a bad idea.”
But I make no move to stop him. My hand tightens in his hair instead of pushing him away. I’m praying he’ll be the one to come to his senses, because I’m not sure I have the strength to do it. Not with how long it’s been.
All those years in the military. Three tours in combat zones. I told myself it was situational. Men surrounded by men, adrenaline running high, no women for miles. Just testosterone and proximity and fear making strange bedfellows. I convinced myself it wasn’t real and wasn’t me. Just biology and circumstance.
But I’m not in the desert now. I’m in a Manhattan penthouse with a beautiful twenty-two-year-old heir on his knees, and I’m harder than I’ve been with any woman I’ve dated since my discharge.
“You’re upset,” I rasp, trying one last time to pull us back from the edge. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m thinking clearer than I have in months,” he says, voice soft but steady. “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Gray. Not now.”
His words vibrate against my dick, and I bite back a groan. My control is slipping, that discipline I’ve built my entire adult life around crumbling like sand castles against the tide of want pulsing through me.
He’s studying me, his eyes tracking every expression on my face. I’ve never seen him this present. Usually he’s half-drunk, half-disinterested, attention flitting between his phone and whatever shiny distraction is in front of him. Now he’s laser-focused on me. Only me.
“Shit,” I mutter, the last threads of my resolve snapping. My hands move to my belt, unbuckling it. Wyatt’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans closer, watching intently as I unbutton my pants and lower the zipper.
I push my pants down to mid-thigh, standing before him in nothing but tight blue boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how painfully hard I am. A wet spot has formed where the head of my cock presses against the fabric, precum soaking through.
Wyatt’s lips part. His eyes fixate on that damp spot, and without warning, he leans forward and presses his open mouth against it.
