Page 50 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Who else?”

“Nobody.”

“Then stop thinking about him.”

Elliot swallowed.

“I wasn't.”

Ronan's fingers tightened slightly.

“Liar.”

Elliot stared at him. Something uncomfortable shifted beneath the jealousy. Fear, maybe. Not that Ronan wanted Dylan. That wasn't quite it. The possibility that Ronan could want anyone who wasn't Elliot seemed fundamentally wrong in a way Elliot couldn't explain without sounding exactly as unhinged as Ronan occasionally accused him of being. He didn't want to share. Not Ronan's attention. Not his body. Not the particular expression currently fixed on Elliot and nobody else. Nothing.

“You're mine,” Elliot whispered.

Ronan's gaze hardened.

“We've talked about that.”

“I know.”

“You don't own me.”

“I know.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Elliot didn't. Ronan waited. Elliot smiled instead.

“Make me.”

The room went silent. Ronan's expression changed. Elliot knew immediately he'd won. Or lost. With them, the difference had become increasingly difficult to identify. Ronan kissed him again. The kitchen lights were low, the house still carrying the faint thrum of distant music and the leftover heat of the party. Elliot’s back hit the edge of the island hard enough to rock the empty glasses still sitting there. Ronan’s mouth was already on his, but it was Elliot who bit first—sharp, deliberate, catching Ronan’s lower lip between his teeth and dragging until he tasted copper.

“You’re mine,” Elliot growled against the blood-slicked flesh, voice low and rough.

Ronan’s hands tightened on Elliot’s hips, fingers digging in. He pulled back just enough to speak, breath hot. “You don’t own me.” Elliot’s eyes were dark, pupils blown. He leaned in again, lips brushing Ronan’s as he spoke the challenge like a dare. “Make me.” Something snapped. Ronan’s mouth crashed back onto his, harder, claiming. He spun them so Elliot’s spine pressed fully against the cool marble of the island, then hooked his hands under Elliot’s thighs and lifted. Elliot’s legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. The hard line of Ronan’s cock pressed against the seam of Elliot’s jeans, thick and already straining. Elliot rolled his hips, grinding, and Ronan answered with a low sound that vibrated through both of them. Hands worked fast. Ronan shoved Elliot’s shirt up and off, then his own. Skin met skin— hot, flushed. Elliot’s nails scraped down Ronan’s back, leaving faint red trails. Ronan’s mouth found the hinge of Elliot’s jaw, then the soft place just below his ear, sucking hard enough to mark. Elliot’s head tipped back, a broken noise escaping.

“Bed,” Ronan muttered against his throat. “Now.”

They made it to Ronan’s room in a tangle of mouths and hands. The door kicked shut. Ronan dropped Elliot onto the mattress and followed him down, knees bracketing Elliot’s hips. He stripped the rest of their clothes with impatient efficiency—jeans shoved down, boxers kicked away—until they were bare. Ronan’s cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark at the tip, a bead of precome already slick at the slit. Elliot’s own was just as hard, curving up against his stomach, the head shiny and leaking. Ronan settled between Elliot’s spread thighs, the blunt heat of his cock sliding against Elliot’s. He ground down once, slow, letting them feel every ridge and vein. Elliot’s breath stuttered.

“Look at me,” Ronan said.

Elliot did. Ronan’s eyes were steady, intent. He reached between them, wrapped a hand around both cocks, and stroked—tight, deliberate, thumb spreading the wetness so the slide turned filthy and smooth. Elliot’s hips jerked. Ronan kept the pace unhurried, watching every flicker across Elliot’s face. When Elliot tried to surge up and take control again, Ronan pinned his wrists to the mattress above his head with one hand. The other kept working their cocks. Elliot tested the hold; Ronan’s grip only tightened.

“You want to be mine?” Ronan asked, voice low. “Then you take what I give you.”

Elliot’s answer was a bitten-off moan. Ronan released him only long enough to reach for the lube in the nightstand. He slicked his fingers generously, then pressed one against Elliot’s entrance. The first push was slow, careful—knuckle by knuckle—until Elliot’s body opened around him. A second finger joined, scissoring, stretching. Elliot’s thighs trembled. Ronan curled his fingers and found the spot that made Elliot’s back arch off the bed, a sharp cry tearing free.

“Fuck—Ronan—”

“That’s it.” Ronan’s free hand stroked Elliot’s cock in the same rhythm, twisting over the head on every upstroke. “Good boy. Open up for me.”

The words landed like a brand. Elliot’s cock throbbed harder in Ronan’s fist, another thick pulse of precome spilling over his knuckles. Ronan added a third finger, working him open until Elliot was panting, hips rolling down to meet every thrust. When Ronan finally withdrew his fingers, Elliot made a desperate sound. Ronan slicked his own cock thoroughly, the thick shaft glistening, then lined up. The blunt head pressed against Elliot’s stretched rim. He pushed in slow—inch by inch—watching Elliot’s face the entire time. The stretch burned sweet. Elliot’s walls clenched around him, hot and tight, and Ronan groaned low in his chest as he sank deeper until his hips were flush against Elliot’s ass. They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard. Ronan’s cock twitched inside him, fully buried. Elliot’s hands found Ronan’s shoulders, nails digging in.

Then Ronan started to move. Deep, measured thrusts at first—pulling almost all the way out so Elliot felt every ridge, every vein, before sliding back in to the hilt. The wet sound of it filled the room. Elliot’s cock leaked steadily between them, smearing against Ronan’s abs. Ronan shifted the angle, and the next thrust dragged directly over that sensitive spot inside. Elliot cried out, legs locking tighter around Ronan’s waist.