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“I don’t think I remember much about Rue. He’s your oldest brother, right?”
Atlas nods. “It went Rue, Ryder, me, and the twins. I was thirteen when he left. No note. No phone call. No goodbye.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, splaying my fingers over his ribs and feeling the skin pebble. “I couldn’t imagine leaving you or Shiloh like that.”
“You could,” he says softly, parting my legs to fit one of his between them, angling his body closer so he can press our foreheads together. “You could do so much without your worry about us holding you back.”
I scoff, and Atlas tips my face so our lips almost touch. “What would you do, Blair? If you didn’t have to worry about your dad, his mountain of bills, the university shit?”
“But Shiloh—”
His lips press against mine, then trail along my jaw. “Shiloh is twenty-one. He can take care of himself. And he has me. Would I let anything happen to him?”
With his mouth pressed to my ear and his thigh putting a steady pressure on my crotch, the fire from before rekindles inside.
“What would you do? Who would you be if you weren’t your family’s caretaker?” His hand is spread across the length of my neck, thumb under my chin keeping me from backing away. Not that I would. I’ve spent weeks living for this touch. I’m not strong enough to walk away from it.
“I…” His mouth distracts me as it ghosts down my jaw back to my lips, but he doesn’t kiss me again. “I want to design tattoos.”
I’m rewarded with his mouth on mine, with a brief grind of his thigh that makes me gasp. “I’d open a shop. I’d specialize in covering up scars. Self harm. Accidents. Surgery scars.”
I make an obscene moan that Atlas swallows, his hand falling to my hip to rock me against him.
“Should I find that hot?” he mutters with his mouth still ravaging mine. “Even when it’s about you, it’s about someone else.”
I manage to break away long enough to gulp in a breath, and I duck my head to his chest, pressing my nose to his clavicle. “I like making a difference in someone’s life. I want to know something I did meant something to someone.”
That I mean something to someone.
But the words burn my throat like acid and never make it past my lips.
“You’re so fucking attractive right now. Brain boner is going mad.” He pants into my hair, his hand sliding down to cup my ass cheek. “Can I make you come? I want to make you see stars, the ones in the sky and the ones I’m going to stir alive all over your body, praising and worshipping every inch of you.”
“Atlas.” I’m already hard and leaking, rutting my stiff cock on his thigh like a horny teenager. His hand wraps around my braid and pulls my head back, lips claiming my throat with rough sucks and tender bites. Tomorrow is going to be a turtleneck day.
He pins me on my back, his leg keeping a firm pressure on my erection. His hands press mine above my head, but he doesn’t hold them down, instead slides his touch delicately down my arms and over the tattoos on my chest and sides. They finally rest on my thighs, hiking one up around his waist.
“You’re handsome and kind, and fucking beautiful with the moonlight casting over your flushed cheeks.” His lips brush them. “The red down your chest.” He trails light kisses along my sternum, and I arch into him.
He flicks his tongue over my nipple, closing his lips around it to give a gentle suck before switching to the other. The fingers digging into my thigh slide up to press on the underside of my balls, weighing them in his hand with a gentle squeeze that has me moaning and baring my neck for him to place more dirty kisses on.
“Confirmation, B,” he whispers into the hollow of my throat as he swirls his tongue along a pulsing vein in my neck.
I want to nod, but I don’t want any of the things his mouth is doing to me to stop, so I wet my lips and let out a hoarse, “uh huh” before thrusting my hands into his hair and holding him down so his lips keep wrecking my marred skin.
He gives my dick a long, slow stroke through my underwear, stopping to fiddle with the balls at the end of the barbell on either side of my tip. My hips respond in earnest, and he grips me tight.
“I want to feel you,” he says, slipping the jockstrap down, and I do nothing but moan in agreement because I’m already lost to the pleasure of this man’s hands and mouth.
He wraps his fingers around my bare cock and precum spurts from my slit, dripping down to coat his palm. I’ve never been this turned on before, never felt this insatiable need coursing through my veins like a ticking time bomb.
His strokes are soft, unsure at first, but with each gasp and groan that passes my lips, with my hips jackknifing and grinding up in his hand, he gains confidence. He explores my shaft, digs his thumb to the bundle of nerves on the underside that makes me whimper and claw at his shoulders. He collects the stream leaking from my dick and spreads it all over his fingers, then brings his hand to his lips to lick a wet stripe along his palm before returning to my cock.
“You deserve beautiful things,” he says as he starts a slow and steady rhythm that has my abs clenching in anticipation. “You deserve to have the life you want. You deserve to be happy. To be loved. To have someone cherish you and take care of you.”
The hand not on my dick takes a loose, possessive hold of my throat, fingers resting on my pulse points but not applying pressure. I stare up into his eyes, watching those rich brown and green irises blow wide, his cheeks flushing, but there’s a determination in his gaze that squeezes the pounding muscle in my chest.
His lips part, eyes dart down to where my cock is disappearing into his slick fist, dark and shiny and only a few strokes away from coming undone.
