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Her question echoes in my skull as I gather my jacket and my keys from my desk and get the fuck out of here.
I need to find Jet.
***
I call his cell phone, but he doesn’t answer. Typical. Probably forgot to charge it, or switch it on—or he’s walking. I pass by the store, but the Closed sign is on, so I drive on home, wondering what I’ll do if Candy is there.
Lose it like a motherfucker, probably.
Which makes me glad there’s only Jet when I enter the apartment. He’s in the bathroom, hands braced on the sink, shirtless, only clad in his briefs. He meets my gaze in the mirror, and it roots me to the spot.
Anger. Sadness. Misery. Despair.
Fuck, he knows. Now it makes sense why Candy isn’t here with him. I can picture it in my head—Jet seeing the picture, the comments, confronting her.
I have no fucking clue why there’s a heaviness in my chest, or why my eyes ache. I’m so fucking angry, dammit. So fucking mad.
And horny.
There’s no conscious thought involved. I grab Jet and turn him around, push him back against the sink and slam my mouth on his.
He reaches for me, kissing me back like he’s punishing me, and that’s good. I need that. He’s all lips and tongue and teeth and stubble, his hands threatening to break my bones where they’re gripping my biceps.
I push, and he pushes back. We wrestle in the bathroom, hitting one wall, then the other, until I manage to pin him against the shower stall. I push a knee between his legs, and in return he bites my lower lip so hard I’m pretty sure it’s bleeding. He yanks me to his chest, thrusts his tongue deep inside my mouth.
Rough and angry and desperate, like me.
His hands slip down my sides to my pants. They find my zipper and open it. I do the same for him, and we fumble with our underwear until we grip each other’s dick, rough, hot hands on rock-hard cocks.
But that’s not enough.
I push his hands away. He struggles against me, and I shove him back so hard his head hits the wall.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
I pull down his briefs and kneel at his feet with my hand on his cock.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He glances down at me, tries to pull back.
“Stop fighting me, Jet.”
“You’re the one who’s been fighting this.”
“Then let me have you.”
He stills, his eyes wide. “Hell, I’m yours, J. Always was. But—”
“Good.” I lap at his cock, tasting him for the first time and he jerks in my hold.
“Fuck…”
I suck him in, taking him as deep as I can, and he groans, a deep, needy sound. Both his hands land on my head, tangling in my hair.
So this is what a man tastes like, I think, licking at his salty bitterness. What Jet tastes like. I tried my own cum once, but wasn’t crazy about it.
Jet, though… Dark, musky, salty, strong like booze. His taste turns my dick to diamond. He jerks on my hair, the sting of pain another jolt straight to my gut, making my balls heavy. I suck him harder, deeper, drawing a long moan from him.
He’s staring down at me, his eyes round and black with arousal. I curl my fingers around the thick base of his cock, tugging in time to my lips sucking him, and lift my other hand to his balls, wanting to feel them.
