Page 35

Me, Salem, and Devon. We all gaze at one another awkwardly until my wife rolls her eyes before spinning away.

“I'm not playing,” she grumbles, taking her beer with her. Before I can even think about following, Devon grabs my arm.

“We're up first,” he says, yanking me toward the mechanical bull while everyone cheers behind us.

“Absolutely not,” I grunt, trying to dig my heels in, but the bastard’s stronger than me. “Devon, no.”

“Logan, yes,” he grins, eyes wild with a familiar wicked energy that punches me right in the gut.

I glance toward the bar, where Salem’s already halfway through her beer and very aggressively ignoring us. There's someone next to her that I can't see through the crowd, but I don't get a chance to figure it out because Devon picks me up and tosses me over the saddle of the bull.

“Come on, little brother,” he pants, practically straddling my lap as he climbs in front of me. “I promise I’ll go easy on you this time.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” My stomach roils, beer foam bubbling in my throat at his words. “Get off me, Devon.”

Fear spikes my heart rate, but another glance toward the pool table tells me that no one is paying attention…

Well, no one except Huck.

Devon chuckles in that condescending way he always does as he motions for the bartender to start the ride. You Make Me Sick by Egypt Central echoes over the speakers. “That's not what you were saying six months ago.”

The bull bucks to life beneath us, jerking hard to the left. My first instinct is to grab onto anything I can—which ends up being Devon’s thighs.

“Shut the hell up,” I grit out. He gives me that classic lazy grin and leans back in the saddle.

I want to spit in his face.

The bull kicks forward, and suddenly he's right there in my lap, hands gripping my shoulders to steady himself.

“Devon,” I hiss, trying to shift back, but there's nowhere to go. His chest is nearly flush with mine and we're locked into this ridiculous ride with way too much eye contact. “This is wrong. Everyone's watching.”

“Watching what, exactly? Just some family bonding with the guy they all think is my nephew.”

“Which is exactly why this is fucking wrong.”

He just laughs, bracing himself with one hand behind him, the other sliding down to grip my knee when the bull bucks again. His fingers curl there tightly, the heat of his skin seeping through thick layers of denim.

“I hate this,” I growl, trying to think of anything else besides the pressure Dev's putting on my crotch.

“Yeah?” His grin widens. “Then why aren't you looking away?”

Because I can’t. Because his face is inches from mine, eyes locked, pupils blown. He looks fucking wrecked. He’s either drunk, high—or both.

“You’re not even trying to stay on,” I accuse, clutching the saddle horn like my life depends on it.

Dev licks his lips, wetting his piercing so that it glitters under the neon lights. “Oh, I am. Just not on the bull.”

“What is wrong with you?”

The machine jerks again, shoving his hand farther up my leg. My breath catches. Yet again, I try and fail to squirm out of his grip—but it doesn’t work. There’s a sharp wrench forward, and Devon’s palm slides right up my⁠—

I freeze as best as I can on a bucking machine, watching in horror as Devon’s eyes drop down to my lap. To his hand covering my hard-on. I know he can feel it. There's no hiding my shame from him.

The worst part is I don’t move his hand.

I should, but I don’t even attempt it.

Not when it feels too fucking good when he squeezes subtly. Not when Salem is across the room pretending like I don’t exist. And not when Devon leans in again, his nose brushing mine. “I can take care of this for you. Just say the word.”