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He’d been in a dating slump since his brothers had decided to start mating for life like psychotic penguins.
“Because part of me doesn’t want to be alone. Part of me wants to take my bad mood out on you.”
“Seriously, Freckles. I’ve had a bad day, and I kind of want to hurt someone. I have no idea what I’ll do to you if you stay.” “I think I can take it,” Atticus said, not at all certain that was true.
“No underwear. And you’re already hard for me.” He said it like he was pleased, like Atticus had done something well. He could quickly become addicted to this sensation.
“You’ve never what?” Jericho asked, studying him intently. Atticus gazed at a spot on the wall over Jericho’s shoulder. “I told you, I’m not gay. I’ve never done…that before. It’s not a big deal. I’m a doctor, I’ve got the mechanics down. Can we just go back to the sex part because the talking part is killing my mood.” He tried to kiss him again, but Jericho held him still, continuing to study him. When Atticus couldn’t take it anymore, he said, “Do you want me to go?”
It was too much—this crushing want was too much for somebody who never felt anything. It was like thinking you were pressing your tongue to a battery when it was actually an electric fence.
Atticus, naked and willing in his bed, looking so fucking vulnerable it made Jericho want to comfort him and violate him at the same time.
Atticus made a lost sound, his hands clenching in Jericho’s hair almost like he wasn’t sure if he wanted him to stop or take more of him. It didn’t matter, Jericho wasn’t giving Atticus what he wanted until he begged for it. That was the deal.
He didn’t know why he needed Atticus to submit, but he did. He needed him to admit only Jericho could be this for him, whatever it was.
“I’ll be in touch,” Atticus said. He turned away only to find himself spun back around and pushed against the brick wall, Jericho’s lips millimeters from his. “That’s not how you say goodbye to me.”
“You getting laid, Sunshine, or demonically possessed?” Calliope teased. “Though, if the sex is good enough, it could feel like a little bit of both.”
He was frenzied—his kisses gluttonous, his hands brutal, fingers squeezing Atticus’s throat as he nipped at his lips, bit his jaw, tugged on his earlobe with his teeth.
Some part of Atticus admitted he was doing this for purely selfish reasons. If Jericho was going to lose it, if he was going to try to fuck his way into forgetting what he’d seen—what he’d learned—it was going to be with Atticus. Nobody else. He wasn’t going to dissect the why of it. If Jericho needed somebody, it was going to be him. Just him.
“You don’t even know me.” Jericho snorted. “I’d wager I know you better than almost anyone.” He gripped his chin. “Does anybody else know how easily you submit?” He captured Atticus’s bottom lip with his teeth, tugging gently, before letting it go. “Does anybody else know how you sound when you moan my name, when you beg me to fuck you, how your eyes get all cloudy when I tell you to open up for me?” Atticus could feel himself falling under Jericho’s spell. Whatever magic his words carried pulled him under to that place where nothing mattered but him.
Felix shot him a sullen look,
Jericho wanted to own Atticus. To keep him. To protect him. He wanted to be his safe place to land. Wanted Atticus to be as vulnerable out of the bedroom as he was inside it.
Atticus was breathing hard but he still didn’t say anything. Jericho knew he should close the door. Anybody could step off that elevator and find them right there in the doorway, but knowing that only made it hotter. He released his cock and spun him around, trapping him against the door. He yanked his shirt off and tossed it away, hastily pushing his underwear and jeans down to his thighs. He teased the head of his cock between Atticus’s cheeks until it caught on his rim. “Are you already wet for me? Could I just push right in? No prep? Could I fuck you right here against the door? Is that
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“Are you already wet for me? Could I just push right in? No prep? Could I fuck you right here against the door? Is that what you want? Is that what you were thinking about when you were fingering yourself open for me?”
“You know what I want, Freckles. I want to hear you ask for it. I want you to tell me how badly you want my dick in your greedy little hole.” “I hate you,”
“I’m not letting you go, Freckles. I’m just not. You can call it a business arrangement, an affair, a kidnapping, some kind of midlife crisis. But whatever you call it, you’re mine. And I protect what’s mine.”
“Good. ‘Cause I have no problems killing to protect what’s mine. I’m sure you know that by now.”
“I know. I don’t like killing, but I’d kill for you, too.” Jericho’s stomach fluttered. “I know, Freckles. I know.”
Jericho imagined that Atticus, with his delicate sensibilities and his constant need to be perfect, was probably annoying to his younger siblings. It didn’t mean Jericho had to like the way they treated Atticus. And it certainly didn’t mean he’d tolerate it in his presence. Was Atticus an annoyingly finicky perfectionist? Yes. But he was Jericho’s annoyingly finicky perfectionist and he would protect what was his, even if it meant hacking off his future in-laws’ appendages until they got the point.
He needed to know that Atticus was as territorial as he was, as fucked up over him as he was over Atticus. That he’d kill for him. Die for him. That this obsessive compulsion was a two-way street. That there was some kind of unspoken agreement that the only way out of this relationship—no matter how fucked up—was if one of them stopped breathing.
“You really are jealous, Freckles.” Atticus stared out the windshield at the sea of cars. “Shut up.” Atticus jumped as Jericho’s hand landed on his thigh, sliding dangerously higher. “I like it. It’s hot seeing you get all flustered and possessive. Especially when it leads to you on your knees for me. You look so fucking good on your knees for me.”
