Page 46 of Corrupt

I didn’t move. I waited.

When he finally slid down, he took me with him, dragging us both fully onto the floor and he curled into my chest and went still. Too still. Not spent. Not satisfied. But perhaps… empty. Then I felt tremor under his skin. Not from the orgasm. From whatever had been gnawing at him long before I opened my door.

So I wrapped my legs around his waist. Slid my hands under his open shirt and up his back, feeling the strength there, the tension, the tiny shudders he couldn’t stop. And I held him. Quiet. Careful. Knowing if I spoke, he might break apart completely.

I’m almost certain I heard him sniff.

Just once.

I didn’t say a word.

Because if I did, if I shifted even an inch, he’d retreat behind the hard edges he lived within. And I’d never felt more honoured in my life than I did right then, with him shaking in my arms, letting himself be held.

It felt like hours, though it could only have been minutes, when a steady thwack… thwack… thwack drifted through the open window from my bedroom beyond. Familiar. Comforting. Background noise. To me.

Razor jerked at each sound, a full-body twitch. Then he pushed himself up to look at me, eyes bleary, confusion rolling off him like heat.

“What the fuck is that?” He tried to glance over his shoulder, though my legs and arms pinned him to me. I didn’t want to let go.

Ever.

God, I was so fucking delusional.

“Tennis,” I said.

He stared at me. “Tennis?”

“Yeah.”

The confusion on his face made him look younger. Softer. More Richie than Razor. “You tellin’ me you live on top of fucking Wimbledon now?”

I snorted. “Queen’s Tennis Club, actually.”

Thwack… thwack… thwack.

Razor narrowed his eyes at me, then, unfortunately, peeled himself out of my hold and followed the sound. I pulled my boxers up, yanked my T-shirt back into place and, using the sofa for leverage, I pushed myself upright. By the time I caught up, he was standing in my bedroom, shirt open, jeans undone, gazing out of the window.

Below us, the grass courts gleamed under the late sun. White lines, neat hedges, players grunting with each shot. Thwack. Grunt. Thwack. I stepped up behind him and, stupidly, naively, catastrophically, slipped my hands around his waist and skimmed the strip of warm skin beneath his shirt with my fingers, brushing the soft hair of his snail trail. Then I dropped my chin onto his shoulder. Had to rise on my toes to do it. That’s how much of an idiot I was. How much I wanted this.

He didn’t stop me.

Didn’t step away.

He was mesmerised by the view, and a world he’d never been allowed near.

“You know what I could see from my bedroom window growing up?” he asked quietly.

I brushed my lips along his shoulder blade. “I’m going to guess it wasn’t the Ladies’ Singles Final.”

He huffed a breath heavy with meaning, then bowed his head. “Burnt-out cars.”

I froze, then kissed the back of his shoulder, tasting sweat trapped in cotton.

“Mum used to tell me not to look down. Said it’d make me think the world was smaller than it was. I’d stare anyway. Pretend the metal was gold. That I lived somewhere that didn’t stink of piss and smoke… with blue lights and sirens the only lullaby I knew.”

I closed my eyes, and God, I hurt for him.

But I couldn’t say that. He didn’t want my pity. Nor did he need it.