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I dart my tongue out to wet my lips, noticing the way his breath catches when it brushes against his thumb. His cock grows hard where it's pressed against my hip. I shiver.
“I don’t care if it’s tainted," I say, trying to sound confident but pretty sure I come off desperate instead. "I want it anyway.”
“Christ, Casey.” His trembling hands frame my face. Our foreheads meet. “I have to fucking kiss you. Right now. Please? Can I? Can I kiss you, baby boy?”
I shiver again. “Please.”
His fingers tighten just enough for me to really feel them before he crashes his mouth against mine. It's nearly violent in its urgency, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth like he's starving for me. I don't get triggered or scared, but I still pull away. It's the taste of vodka on his tongue. The reminder that he's drunk. "Wait. No."
“What?” he pants, pulling back enough to look into my eyes, searching frantically for an answer. “What’d I do? What's wrong?”
“You’re drunk.” I wrap my hands around his wrists, hating myself for stopping this when I know damn well that I might never get the opportunity again. “We should stop. Should - should wait. Until you’re sober. Until you can decide what you want. I don’t think I’d survive if we go any further and you change your mind tomorrow.”
I don’t think I’ll survive regardless, but it’ll be much worse if I let this continue.
I want him to argue. To say something lovely about already knowing his answer, how he’s always known it and now he’s ready to stop fighting it. But he doesn’t. He just steps back and gives me a tight nod.
We go to bed, a world of space between us, the air thick with tension and the possibility of heartbreak. I try to stay awake, desperate to soak in what might be our last night together, but my body recognizes his body beside it, recognizes the safety of that, and I’m rendered helpless against the pull of sleep.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jake
My head is fucking pounding, the rhythm steady, an ache splitting my forehead in two. I groan and roll over, pressing my face into the pillow with the hope of relieving some of the pain. Instead, the pounding gets worse. Louder.
Wait.
I lift my head, wincing as my mind swims beneath waves of vodka and memories of - oh fuck, did I kiss Casey last night? I squint at the body lying beside me. Yeah. Yeah, I definitely kissed him. And admitted to wanting him.
Fuck.
The knocking - and that’s definitely what it is, I realize, not pounding in my head but a knocking on the bedroom door - gets louder. Then I hear Travis bark, “Jake, I know you’re in there, get your ass up!”
I force myself to get up, mostly to avoid him waking Casey. The boy is already shifting on the bed as it is. I run a hand over his head and murmur, “Keep sleeping, little one,” and he thankfully settles.
A slightly dramatic groan falls from my lips as my head pulses with the beat of each step toward the door. Fuck vodka. Fuck Travis. Fuck everything.
I glance at Casey over my shoulder, something softening inside my chest. Well, maybe not fuck everything.
But definitely fuck Travis. And the vodka.
And fuck Thomas Edison because the light from the hallway when I open the door is fucking brutal. I squint at Travis with one eye, hoping he can tell that I’m extremely unimpressed with his presence this morning. And his bad influence last night, now that I think about it. I consider punching him. Just once. Like… just lightly? A brotherly punch. With love.
“How would you like to go get your hands on Scott Quinton today?” Travis asks, raising one eyebrow knowingly.
My hangover is forgotten, replaced by adrenaline and excitement.
“Fuck yes,” I say without hesitation. We’ve been wanting to get Scott Quinton for a while now. He’s not only the man who enslaved and sold both Carter and Casey, but he’s also the man who sold Elliot. He’s not in the area Travis and I’s operation worked. He’s a different operative’s problem, technically. But that’s not how we see it. The moment he bought Carter from his original kidnappers, he became our problem. Also, he’s our best lead on Elliot. We just never thought the mysterious man in charge of us operatives would ever approve a mission to grab him. “What are the optics?”
Travis hands me a mission packet. I flip it open, scanning the information as he explains. “He’s going to be on the move tonight - just him going to see a friend. We’ll grab him on the road. Dress in black tactic. Weapon up in case shit goes south.”
“Team of four,” I murmur, noticing the team members aren’t listed. “Who else is coming?”
“Maison and Keats.”
“Good. Good picks. I’m excited to finally see Maison in action for myself.” I shoot him a grin, closing the packet for now. I have a lot to do if I’m going to be participating in a mission tonight. I need to find a recovery drink and pain killers for this goddamn hangover. Food would be nice, too. I need to study the map of the area we'll be doing the grab in and pack accordingly. I need to hit the weapons vault. I need Ace to do a workup on the location we're bringing Quinton to while we extract information from him - How close is the nearest civilian? Who owns the property? What is the cell reception like? How fast could the police be on scene if someone were to report suspicious activity? I need to - fuck.
I need to tell Casey.
