Page 59 of Corrupt

Every touch.

Every fucking crack in my armour.

No.

Fuck that.

I grabbed Tristan’s wrist, pried him off me, and hauled him towards the back exit. He stumbled, feet dragging, but he didn’t fight. Didn’t even ask where we were going. He just let me take him. I slammed the push bar, and the door flew open into the cool night air behind the club.

I hauled him the last few metres to my car parked in the alley and opened the passenger door. I practically poured him inside, and he slumped against the seat, head tipped back, throat exposed.

Beautiful. Vulnerable. Mine.

I shut the door and leant on it for a second, breathing hard, trying to steady the pulse roaring in my ears. Because every instinct I had was screaming the same thing: Get him home. Get him safe. Don’t let him out of your fucking sight.

I walked around, got behind the wheel, and gunned the engine.

We left the Velvet Lounge behind us, the danger still clinging to my skin like sweat. Baron’s Court was too far. Too exposed. Too risky if he puked, passed out, or tried to wander. My place was closer. Quieter. And alright, fine, I didn’t want to leave him. Didn’t want to drop him off and pretend it didn’t matter that he came to me. Needed me. So I pulled up outside my converted warehouse in the Wick and killed the engine. Tristan’s head had slipped against the passenger window, breath fogging the glass.

“Oi.” I brushed my knuckles over his cheek. “Tricky.”

Nothing.

Then a soft groan, a flutter of lashes.

Good enough.

I got out, went around, and opened his door. He slumped into me, deadweight, all expensive cologne and too-warm skin. And yeah, I carried him. Didn’t think too hard about why, either. Nor care if anyone saw. Most round here would assume he was a body I was disposing of and mind their own fucking business. I got him up the metal stairs. Across the landing. Into my top-floor place with its heavy lock and darker corners.

I took him straight to my bed.

Laid him down.

He stirred, eyelids fluttering, then drifted again.

I sat next to him. Watching the way his chest rose and fell, how his mouth parted, how the tension in his brow eased the longer he rested. He looked younger when he slept. Softer. Not trying to be something he wasn’t. His father, probably.

He shifted suddenly, turning towards my warmth, and slid an arm across my stomach, pulling himself to me as if he belonged there.

Fuck.

I brushed his hair back without thinking. Indulging myself for a handful of stolen seconds. Then another handful. Eventually, guilt or self-preservation made me move, and I carefully slid out from under his arm. I couldn’t leave him in all that gear. Not only was it an expensive suit, but it smelt as if he’d had more than a few drinks spilt down it. So I got him out of it. First: shoes. I unlaced his dress brogues, slipping them off one by one. His socks followed, pale ankles warm in my hands. Then I took off his shirt, buttons clumsy under my fingers because he kept muttering little broken words, reaching for me even half-asleep.

“Richie…”

That one knocked the breath out of me.

“Shhh.” I whispered without meaning to. “I’ve got you.”

I eased him upright enough to peel the shirt off his shoulders, then grabbed one of my old tees from the dresser. It would drown him. But I pulled it over his head, guiding his arms through the sleeves. He blinked awake, eyes glazed but focused, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

That was my undoing.

I kissed him.

Quick. Firm. Almost rough.

Because yes, I wanted it. But also because if he opened that mouth and said something stupid, I wasn’t sure I could survive it.