The water crashes against us as I readjust myself, getting a better angle, and Kingsley’s hands are cupping his balls when I wrap my hand around his rock-hard shaft again. He lets go, letting out a sigh that is a mix of both relief and pleasure, and gives me full control again.
“Bloody hell,” I groan as I pump both our cocks in the water.
Kingsley yelps again, and I hope the walls are thick and my brother is on the other side of the building. I won’t be able to explain my way out of the noises echoing from the room.
White sprouts of liquid swim in the foggy water as Kingsley grunts into me. He rests his head on my shoulder, totally spent, but I keep rubbing as he softens.
He grips the concrete, but doesn’t pull away. “Rip… fuck. I can’t?—”
“You can, King,” I grit.
I’m coming as soon as the words leave my mouth, and I ride out my climax before I slump into the water. Kingsey’s head is still on my shoulder, and his chest is puffing up and down as he catches his breath.
I break the silence minutes later. “Too much?”
He shakes his head. “I handled it.”
Pride swells in my chest. “If I know one thing, it’s that you’re nowhere near as quiet as you pretend to be. Like, at all.”
Kingsley laughs wearily. “Fuck you.”
Maybe next time.
16
Rip
I’ve not gotten my hands dirty in so long that I’m going crazy.
No torture, no fighting—I can’t even provoke people how I want to. The most action I’ve had is with Ryland, but he’s so boring that it stopped being fun three weeks ago when he ran out of snarky comments and took the hits. Now he lives in our storage closet, getting fed twice a day and entertained only when we feel like being bothered with him. Like a pet. How dull.
Recently, when I’m not messing with Ryland, filming with Kingsley and Thomas, or trying to ignore my filthy, inappropriate thoughts about a guy I have no business thinking about, I head to Fight Club.
If I can’t blow off some steam with my fists, the next best thing is watching others do it, even with the risk that comes with being close to the arena. Often, I imagine being them, throwing a right hook at a man’s throat and reducing him to a sputtering wreck on the floor. I can’t stand this undercover bullshit. It’s restricting me from being my true, passionate self.
Thomas has come with me once, but he doesn’t care for it as much as I do. He’s too worried about getting caught, but besides that one time Kingsley was there, no one has paid us anyattention. It’s a club with members from various walks of crime, so they’re only interested in the fights, not our identities.
But today, Thomas is oddly insistent on joining me. I park the red Honda down the street from the old warehouse, hiding it between the trees like usual.
I stole a car. I wasn’t going to, but on my way here, the lonely vehicle was so exposed and ripe for the taking, I had to do it. Going from driving my own vehicle everywhere to walking in the muggy Louisiana air is not a change I ever want to make again. I’ll deal with Mother’s criticisms about jeopardizing the job because I’m too lazy to use my own two feet when the time comes.
We’ve left the car and are heading to the warehouse, and Thomas is still nagging in my ear. “I don’t understand why you won’t answer me. I’m your brother—I should be the first one you tell.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “If I had known you were going to pester me the entire outing, I would have told you to stay with Ryland.”
He places a hand on my shoulder, halting my movement, and stands in my path. “What is going on between you and Kingsley?”
“Nothing,” I repeat for the fiftieth time today.
“You’re a bloody liar.” Thomas pokes my chest, and I stumble a bit. “Are you hooking up with him?”
My veins fill with tension, and I look at him outrageously. “Are you mad?”
“No. I heard you,” Thomas says, each word deliberate. “An empty water park echoes, you know.”
Oops. Thomas is no stranger to hearing me with someone. Honestly, it’s happened so many times he isn’t particularly phased, but he’s never thrilled about it, either. I like to joke thatit brings us closer as brothers, but he reckons we could use a bit less closeness.
“Sorry you had to listen to that,” I mutter genuinely. “Again.”
