Page 24 of Bad Habits

“Wes?” he slurred.

“Yes…” I let my word hang in the air as I met his gaze in the mirror.

It was fucked, but I loved every minute of it. Being the one who would have to take care of him and nurse him back to health because he was incapable of doing it on his own. Never in my life would I have thought this would be me.

He groaned, “It hurts like hell.”

“I know, baby. I’m going to call the doctor when we get to the condo. Promise.” My voice was rough, like the words were sandpaper against my throat. The Ashbourne name had its perks—confidential house calls being one of them. Darius let out another pained sound, and I flicked a glance at the rearview mirror.

“Fuck,” I hissed, seeing him sprawled out like some broken doll.

His face was a wreck, a canvas of crimson smeared across his features, shirt hanging off him in tatters. I turned fully, our eyes meeting in the dim light of the streetlamps we passed.

Darius’s lips twisted into a delirious grin, blood and spit mingling as he slurred out his words. “You gonna make me suck your cock like a good boy, Daddy?”

I froze, the heat surging through me, unexpected and intense. Even with the pain ricocheting through my body, my cock pulsed, hard and demanding. I snapped back around, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. Fuck, even now, he could get under my skin, could make me ache with want.

“Shut your mouth,” I said, the words barely making it past the lump in my throat. But they were empty, because in that moment, every bruise, every cut, every throbbing inch of me wanted nothing more than to say yes.

We arrived at my condo, and I descended into the blackness of the underground garage. I slid out of the car, every move sending jolts of pain through my battered body. The silence of 1:00 a.m. wrapped around us like a shroud. I yanked open the back door. And there he was, Darius, somehow looking both fucked-up and angelic in the harsh light of the parking garage.

“Come on,” I grunted, gripping him under his arms, hauling him out.

He was a mess of limbs, swaying dangerously close to eating concrete. Instinctively, my arm snaked around his waist, pulling him tight against me. His body heat seeped through my clothes—fuck, he was burning up. His head lolled onto my shoulder, breath hot against my neck. “Weston…” he murmured, each syllable soaked in alcohol and slurred into something barely coherent.

“Quiet,” I ordered, but there was no bite to it. I could feel the rhythm of his heart pounding against my side, erratic and wild. We stumbled together toward the elevator, our steps a disjointed dance of survival.

The metal doors slid open with a ding that echoed too loudly in the cavernous space. I maneuvered us inside, punching the button for our floor with more force than necessary. As the doors closed, sealing us in a box of mirrored walls, Darius’s reflection caught my eye—a savage reminder of the night’s chaos.

“Where we going, Daddy?” he taunted, half-draped over me, his voice a mix of defiance and desire.

“Home,” I said, my resolve as hard as the edge in my voice. Home to deal with him, with us, with this twisted thing we couldn’t seem to untangle.

Chapter15

Darius

My head was like a fucking jackhammer. Blood trickled from my nose, warm and relentless. Shit situation, but the weight of Weston’s arm around me, that solid presence—it was a goddamn twisted comfort. His grip told stories, ones I pretended to hate, but deep down, I craved every damn chapter. The elevator dinged its arrival, a sound too cheery for this clusterfuck.

Weston’s hold tightened, possessive, like he owned my battered ass. He half-carried, half-dragged me out, our steps uneven. The cold of the hallway seeped through my clothes, making me aware of how fucked-up I was. But it wasn’t just the chill; it was him, Weston fucking Ashbourne, clutching me like I was his lifeline.

He urged me forward and I stumbled alongside him, each step jarring my throbbing head, my vision swimming. The plush carpet of the corridor blurred beneath us, a path to hell or heaven—I couldn’t decide which.

“Fuck,” I spat from between clenched teeth, blood and saliva mingling in a bitter cocktail.

Weston’s face was a mask of concern I wanted to smash through, find the real shit hiding behind it. His eyes, dark and intense, never wavered from me, even as we moved through the upscale purgatory of his world.

The condo door clicked open, and the familiar scent of cedar and leather wrapped around me like a goddamn noose. I hated this place, swore to burn every memory of it from my mind. But here I was, leaning on Weston, each step an agony less sharp than the one clawing through my insides.

“Shit,” I mumbled as he maneuvered us through the doorway, his grip never slackening. The pain sang a chorus with the alcohol in my veins, a fucked-up lullaby for the damned.

“Easy,” Weston said, a command wrapped in velvet, guiding me to the couch with a carefulness that grated. His face was pinched with pain, but he didn’t let up, not even for a second. He eased me down onto the cushions, and I sank into them, the world tilting dangerously.

“Fuckin’ hell,” I slurred, my tongue too thick, words slipping out filthy and raw.

He ignored me, kneeling to strip my shoes off with quick, efficient tugs. I watched him move, all controlled strength and silent endurance. Grunts punctuated his movements, a testament to whatever shit he’d gone through tonight—because of me, for me.

“Goddamn it,” I cursed under my breath, feeling the heat of his hands near my skin, ghosts of touches I shouldn’t crave. His fingers brushed against my ankle, and a jolt shot straight to my gut. I wanted to kick, to pull away, but my limbs were leaden, heavy with want and whiskey.

---