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“Bullshit,” he growls. “What men?”
“What?”
He lunges at me and slams me up against the wall so fast it takes me a second to realize he slid one hand around the back of my head so it wouldn’t bounce off the hard surface. He grips my throat with his other hand, his fingers tight and his eyes narrowed. “What men do you fuck?”
I stare him down, refusing to drop his gaze as I grit out two words. “Not. You.”
A long minute passes, our breathing the only sound in the quiet of the hallway.
At last, he scowls and relaxes his grip. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Now who’s jealous?” I ask, smirking at him.
“I’m not fucking jealous,” he snaps, his eyes flashing with fury again. “And you’d fuck me if I let you.”
I give him a hooded, indifferent look, even though I’m sure he can feel how hard my pulse is pounding against his fingers.
“Oh, Duke,” I say, wrapping my own hand around his throat. “When are we going to stop playing this little game of pretend?”
I don’t squeeze the way he did. I let my fingers rest as gently as a whispered warning over his windpipe, a promise of the pain I could inflict if I chose to give him that gift.
He swallows, his eyes hazy and uncertain, but then he tightens his grip again. “You’re the one pretending,” he growls.
“Take your hand off my neck,” I say slowly.
He swallows again, but he doesn’t drop my gaze for a long moment. I keep staring him down, and at last, he obeys, his hand sliding from my throat and spreading wide across my chest, his fingers resting on my collarbones. He’s so close I can smell the beer on his breath, see the variations of bronze and chocolate in his irises.
“Good boy,” I say, watching his gaze drop to my lips when I speak.
Suddenly, he rakes his hand down my chest, then turns his palm, so his fingers are pointing downwards. He pauses, waiting for me to stop him. The challenge is clear in his eyes, and I know he’d take his hands off me if I ordered him to—and that he knows it. My abs contract as he moves lower, slowly, like a dare, his gaze holding mine.
He slides his fingers over my belt, over the front of my pants, palming my erection. I don’t move as he runs his hand all the way down my length and back, keeping a firm pressure until he reaches the tip. Pleasure stabs into my groin, leaving a dull ache that builds as he gives a good squeeze. I drop my head back against the wall, only to find his hand still waiting to cradle it while I draw a slow breath through my nose.
Curling his fingers around my cock, he gives a tug, bringing me back to reality. When I open my eyes to meet his, he lets an adorable little grin tug at one corner of his mouth. “This doesn’t feel like you not wanting to fuck me,” he murmurs.
I press my head into his palm and let my lids fall halfway closed as I smirk back at him. My fingers are still around his throat, and I caress his pulse point and sway my hips forward, pushing my dick into his hand in invitation. “Keep going and I might.”
A sharp inhale is his only answer, but he starts jerking me through my pants, his breath hot against my lips as he leans in closer, daring me to close the distance and take his mouth.
I lose myself in him the way I did Dixie, the way I do the pills—let his strong hand and firm grip take me to the edge with each stroke, torn between the need to cum and the need to make the pleasure last. The sound of our hot, ragged breathing fills the hall like a restless wind through a ravine. I inhale the alcohol fumes on his breath, savor them like aged whiskey on mytongue. The sweet, melted chocolate of his warm gaze threatens to drown me in bliss as his hand drags me deeper into hell with each pull, luring me to join him in the place where he’s made a home.
The back door bangs open, ricocheting off the wall, and Duke leaps back from me quick as a snake, faster than a guy fucked up on that many pills should be able to move. My head is still spinning as I blink to comprehend that Dixie’s standing in the doorway, gaping at us.
“What the fuck?” Duke yells, his eyes wild. “Get away from me, you queer!”
“What’s going on?” Dixie asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Dixie,” I say, stepping toward her.
“Your boyfriend here was hitting on me,” Duke says, gesturing angrily at me. “That’s what’s going on. Fucking homo.”
“Colt?” Dixie asks, her brow furrowed with confusion as she tries to puzzle out what she just saw through her own drug haze.
My eyes meet Duke’s, and I see the desperation there, the panic. And I remember him saying words hurt, and I know I could hurt him right now in a way he’s never, ever hurt me.
But words don’t just hurt. They hold power. The power to erase, or replace, or reverse a debt.
So I swing my gaze back toward Dixie and shoot her a sloppy grin. “Damn, this Alice shit really fucks you up,” I say. “I’m lucky I’m not hitting on my cousin right now. Come here, babe. Let’s go to my room. If I don’t fuck somebody in the next five minutes, my dick’s going to fall off.”
