Page 51 of Good Boys Don’t Bite

“Harder,” Elliot demanded, voice wrecked.

Ronan gave it to him. He drove in deeper, faster, the slap of skin on skin turning sharp. One hand braced beside Elliot’s head; the other gripped Elliot’s hip hard enough to bruise, holding him exactly where he wanted him. Elliot’s body jolted with every thrust. His cock bounced against his stomach, neglected and aching. Ronan leaned down, mouth finding the curve of Elliot’s shoulder. He bit—hard. Teeth sank into muscle, marking. Elliot’s entire body clenched around him, a raw moan ripped from his throat. Ronan soothed the mark with his tongue, then bit again lower, on the collarbone, then the side of Elliot’s neck. Each one left a dark, possessive bruise.

“You’re mine,” Elliot gasped, even as Ronan fucked him harder. “Say it—”

Ronan’s hips snapped forward, burying himself deep. “You’re mine because you choose it.” Another thrust, brutal and perfect. “Because you want this.” He wrapped a hand around Elliot’s cock and stroked in time with his thrusts, tight and relentless. “Because you’re my good boy.” Elliot shattered. His orgasm hit like a wave— body locking, walls fluttering and squeezing around Ronan’s cock in rhythmic pulses. Thick ropes of come striped his own stomach and chest, some catching Ronan’s hand. Ronan kept thrusting through it, chasing his own release, the clench of Elliot’s body dragging him over the edge. He came with a guttural groan, burying himself to the root as he spilled deep inside—hot pulses flooding Elliot, filling him until it leaked out around the base of his cock with every final grind.

They stayed locked together, trembling, breathing hard. Ronan’s forehead dropped to Elliot’s. Sweat-slick skin, the sharp scent of sex, the slow drip of come between them. Elliot’s fingers traced the bite marks he’d left on Ronan’s lip and the ones Ronan had left on him. His voice was quieter, still edged with the thing that hadn’t fully quieted.

“You’re still mine.”

Ronan kissed him slow, tasting blood and salt. “I know.” He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed inside, soft and warm, until the jealousy in Elliot’s eyes eased just enough to let something softer through—reassurance, for now. Not a cure. Just this: Ronan choosing him, body and all, in the dark of the bedroom after the party. The bedroom smelled like rain. Elliot noticed it before anything else. Ronan had left the window cracked before they'd gone out, and the storm earlier in the week had given way to a colder, cleaner night. Damp earth and fallen leaves drifted through the narrow opening, mixing with the familiar cedar scent of Ronan's sheets. Elliot lay on his side. Ronan was on his back beside him.

Neither had spoken for several minutes. The silence wasn't awkward. It rarely was between them. Elliot's fingertips moved lazily across Ronan's chest. He found the mark near his shoulder without looking. Ronan caught his hand.

“Leave it alone.”

Elliot smiled.

“Why?”

“Because you've checked it eight times.”

“Maybe I'm concerned.”

“You're admiring it.”

“Can it be both?”

“No.”

Elliot looked. The mark was darker than the one he'd left earlier in the week. Good. Ronan followed his gaze.

“You're a fucking vampire.”

“Wrong genre.”

Ronan laughed. Elliot rested his head against his shoulder. For a while, he listened to Ronan breathe. Slow. Steady. The sound settled something inside him. Then Ronan ruined it.

“You know I'm still going to be friends with Dylan.”

Elliot's fingers stopped.

“Why would you say that right now?”

“Because you need to hear it.”

“No, I don't.”

“Yes.”

Elliot lifted his head. Ronan looked at him.

“You don't get to decide who I'm friends with.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that.”