Page 69 of Bruised

I frown. “But Oliver…”

“He won’t know. He’s too wrapped up in his own shit. And let’s just be honest, puppy—you can’t keep this to nights only. You need me every hour, every second.”

He’s right, but… does he need me, too? I want to ask, but I don’t dare. What if he says no? What if I’m the only one who harbors this strange addiction? This filthy, desperate thing inside me that can’t stand to be away from him for too long?

It’s not supposed to mean anything. It’s supposed to be just sex—filthy, possessive, desperate sex, but just sex nonetheless. But if it means nothing, then how can he kiss me like that? How can he cradle my face and look into my eyes? And how can these feelings that stir within me render me unable to think rationally, unable to sleep without getting my fill of him first?

I don’t know. All I know is that it’s dangerous, but I also know I’m long gone, far beyond the point of no return. I’ve stepped into wild, unpredictable territory, and I don’t know if I’ll make it out with my heart intact.

24. BIG WORDS

The elation I felt when Lane stepped into my room wearing the collar was unmatched.

All the chaos in my head faded and settled into a quiet understanding between us. We both know he’s fucking mine, and no one can come between us—not even Oliver.

After that night, we spent two weeks in utter bliss, where he came to my room wearing his new collar and his butt plug, looking so delicious I couldn’t help but leave bite marks all over his ass and eat his hole until he sobbed into the pillow and begged me to fuck him. I can never deny him what he wants, especially when what he wants is my cock, so I made him come at least twice before I let him back into Oliver’s room.

Good news: our tests came back negative. I suspected they would, but it’s good to be sure. Now I can fuck him without holding back. I mean, it’s not like I held back before, but it’s even better now that my guilty conscience isn’t spoiling the fun.

So yeah, he’s all mine, and I fucking love it. That’s not to say my jealous tendencies are all gone, though.

One day when I step into the kitchen, I’m met with the view of Lane sitting on a bar stool with his head down. Oliver stands behind him, applying dye to his hair.

A jolt of jealousy pulses through me. I suppose Lane’s roots have needed a touch-up for a while, but I didn’t expect Oliver to be the one to do it. He could’ve gone to some random hairdresser, or at the very least, he could’ve asked me. But instead it’s Oliver running his hands through my puppy’s soft locks and telling him to tilt his head. The irrational desire to tell Oliver off is almost strong enough that I follow the impulse, but I reel myself in.

As I saunter further into the kitchen, Oliver sends me a narrow-eyed look. Lane doesn’t meet my gaze, but his cheeks deepen in color, and his eyes drop to his lap.

“Feeling guilty, puppy?” I want to ask him, but it would hardly align with the agreement to keep Oliver in the dark.

Instead, I let my memories run wild of having him in my bed last night, how he came in my mouth with my fingers stuffed in his cum-soaked ass. I can’t wait for tonight, when I’m going to do it all over again and more. Seems like my puppy needs to be reminded once more of who he belongs to.

I circle the chair he sits on, casually inspecting Oliver’s work.

“You want anything?” Oliver mutters while his gloved hands work the dye into Lane’s hair.

I just shrug and keep watching them. They both ignore me, and after a while, Oliver removes his gloves and taps Lane’s shoulder.

“All done. I’ll set the timer, then you can go rinse it out.”

“When does the raid start again?” Lane asks.

Oliver glances at his phone. “Fifty minutes, so we should be okay.”

While Lane’s in the shower, I busy myself with making lunch: chicken breast and rice. I cover the meal with a liberal amount of hot sauce once I’m done. I eat everything covered in hot sauce—well, everything except my protein shakes.

I sit and scroll job listings while Oliver fucks around in the kitchen drawers, probably planning to cook some Logan-inspired meal again.

By the time I’ve finished eating, Lane emerges from the upstairs bathroom, freshly showered, dressed in his usual oversized black T-shirt and skinny jeans. His newly dyed hair is blow-dried to messy perfection.

I let my gaze travel over him, all subtlety out the window. “Looking good, puppy.”

“Don’t call him that,” Oliver grumbles.

“But he likes it when I call him that. Don’t you, puppy?”

Lane’s cheeks heat furiously, and he refuses to meet my gaze as he grabs a bag of sour candy from the cabinet.

“I’m serious,” Oliver says. “Leave him alone. Stop fucking harassing him.”