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I’ve barely gotten a reaction out of him before now. Every time I knock him down, it’s like he’s content to just lie there and take it.
Not this time though.
This time, he looks fucking pissed, and I like it.
I want more of it.
Leaning back a little more, I twist in my seat and widen my legs.
Come here.
I don’t say it out loud, but his feet still move toward me like he heard the command. Slowly, he walks over until he’s standing between my open thighs, fingers twitching restlessly at his sides.
We stare at each other for a few beats, and then he snaps, his small hands grabbing for my sweats to search my pockets. I snatch his wrists and twist, making him cry out as I pin them behind his back. With my other hand, I grab the hem of his shirt and pull until his chest bumps mine, my knuckles brushing the soft, warm skin just above his waistband.
Instead of fighting me back, he lets out a sigh and melts against me, a single, defeated tear slipping over his cheek as his body goes limp in my arms.
Fucking pathetic.
“I know you have them,” he breathes out, his pulse beating fast against the side of his neck.
“Have what?” I ask, daring him with my eyes to say it.
He doesn’t—not in front of Frankie and Carter—which is the only reason I don’t shove my fist into that black eye of his and make him cry for real.
“Please,” he whispers, just for me. “I’ll do anything you want, just…please, Nate.”
“Anything, huh?”
He nods, and I can tell he means it.
“What if I told you to pack your shit and get out of my house?”
“I’ll do it,” he replies. No hesitation. “I’ll leave.”
My eyes narrow, and I tug on his body again, bringing him in until his face is right next to mine. Reaching into my sweats, I pull out the strip of photos I stole from his wallet last night, discreetly sliding it into the front pocket of his jeans. He sighs again, relieved, and I run my nose over the scar on his jaw line, enjoying the way he shivers against me.
I don’t tell him to leave.
“Lock your door,” I whisper slowly, ensuring he understands this time.
He pulls back a bit and blinks at me, nodding mutely as he removes himself from my grip. I let him go, watching his back as he walks out of the kitchen and lifts his phone up to his ear, almost barreling into Easton as he goes. Easton grabs his sides to steady him, and Xavi mutters an embarrassed apology, dipping his head to hide his warm face as he walks out the front door.
Easton comes in and grabs himself a plate, still half asleep and smiling like a dumbass, his steps faltering when he catches the glare I’m throwing his way.
“You’re still mad at me about the party the other night?” he grumbles, snatching a piece of bacon and tearing off a bite with his teeth. “I said I was sorry.”
“I told you not to bring him.”
“Carter told me you were kidding.”
“Carter’s a lying motherfucker.”
Carter snorts, and I stand up to place my empty mug in the dishwasher, grabbing the back of his head and shoving it into his plate on my way out. He just laughs, shaking his head at me with that stupid, knowing grin still plastered across his face.
* * *
Later that night, I stare up at the ceiling and will myself to sleep, to forget about him and his crop tops and the piercings on his body, that damn cut on his inner thigh I can’t stop thinking about.
