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He arched, both hands on the back of Win’s head, keeping him locked. Keeping his mouth right there so Mathieu could drink him down, get drunk, and return again and again for more. His hips came off the bed, chasing Win’s strokes, fucking Win’s fist while Win tongue-fucked his mouth leisurely.
Blood roared in his ears, sparks scattered along his spine, and Mathieu got louder and louder, begging with no words. Nothing was coherent that came out of his mouth, and all of it Win swallowed as if they belonged to him.
They did.
Just like Mathieu belonged to him.
He burned—lungs, skin, his blood too. But Win showed no mercy. He just moaned in Mathieu’s mouth, panting, rutting against him. Just as lost. Passion consumed them, and as the orgasm churned in Mathieu’s balls the kiss turned rougher. Finesse went out the window and they were all desperation, all grunts and clashing of teeth.
Violent tugs on his dick arched him off the bed and Mathieu reached down, wrapping a hand around Win’s, helping, the both of them jerking Mathieu off. Sound and words got tangled in his throat, his body froze, and he wrenched his mouth from Win’s, shouting as the orgasm blasted through him, tearing him open. He drenched his fingers, Win’s too, cum dripping onto his skin and making him shudder.
Even more heat spread between them and it took a while before he figured out Win had also climaxed. Win collapsed onto him then rolled off, dropping onto the bed with an inarticulate sound. Mathieu grabbed his face with the hand slick with his cum and took his mouth again, kissing him, plunging his tongue inside Win’s mouth, and licking him up. Then retreating to bite his bottom lip and tug on it, suck on it.
He tasted too good.
But then Mathieu had to catch his breath. He fell back, gasping, panting. They stared at each other, too lost to speak, chests rising and falling as if they’d just run miles.
A sharp pounding on the door made Win flinch.
“Boss,” Jason called. “Something came up.”
Fuck. Mathieu didn’t even have the strength to move. “What is it?” It took work to shout.
“Jairo Beltran wants a meeting.”
29
It tooka day and a half to work out the logistics of a meeting with Jairo. Win wasn’t sure how he felt about any of it. When Jason first delivered the message, they’d all thought Jairo wanted to meet with Mathieu.
But no, he wanted to see Win.
Mathieu didn’t want Win anywhere near Jairo and insisted on being the one to talk with him. Win wasn’t havingthat. Jairo agreed to both Win and Mathieu being present, but his errand boy told them if Win wasn’t included then Mathieu shouldn’t bother coming. In the end, Mathieu chose the time and place, and Jairo insisted he and Mathieu each only bring one extra man as backup.
Win sat in Mathieu’s office, waiting for him to finish up a phone call, wringing his hands in his lap. In a little while, they’d be leaving for the meeting, and Win couldn’t stop his mind from conjuring up all kinds of worst-case scenarios.
What if this was all an elaborate ambush? He’d betrayed Jairo’s trust and he had no clue what his husband would do. That was also something he had to discuss with Jairo. They had to dissolve their marriage, the sooner the better. After everything that went down, he was sure Jairo felt the same way.
Mathieu and Jairo hated each other so much. What if whatever Jairo wanted to talk about went south?
Win stared at Mathieu. The other man stood in profile at the large bay windows overlooking the backyard lake. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he was wearing dark slacks. They hadn’t discussed what had transpired between them at the safe house. Mathieu had been in a different mode the moment Jason interrupted them and they climbed out of that bed. Win had his own room at Mathieu’s place and he’d waited patiently for Mathieu to broach the subject of them, but he hadn’t. And Win was too much of a coward to bring it up first.
They talked, sure, but it all had to do with business—Mathieu asking questions about Jairo that Win couldn’t answer.
“Okay, let me know when it’s been handled.”
Win refocused on Mathieu as the other man concluded his call and hung up the phone. He faced Win, gaze sharpening when their eyes met.
“What’s on your mind?” Mathieu rounded the desk and knelt at Win’s side, taking his hand. “You look deep in thought.”
Win shrugged. “Just trying not to think about the what-ifs. This meeting—”
Mathieu shook his head, sandwiching Win’s hand between his. “We’re not gonna go looking for trouble, so don’t even think it.”
“But this is Jairo,” Win protested. “And you two hate each other.” A hatred he’d more than helped to cultivate.
“I’m not afraid of Jairo and I don’t want you to be either. I’ll deal with him.”
Win narrowed his gaze. What did that mean? “What does that mean?”
