Page 33 of Bad Habits

“Enjoy,” the old man grunted before shuffling away.

I pulled back, the heat from Darius’s mouth still lingering on my own.

“Let’s see you handle real food, big shot.” Darius wasted no time. He grabbed his sandwich, fingers sinking into the soft bread, beef spilling over the edges, sauce oozing out.

I stared. Fucking barbaric.

“Where the fuck are the utensils?” My voice was rough, tinged with disbelief. No silverware in sight. Just this… mess.

“Your hands, princess.” Darius’s eyes danced with mischief, and goddamn, if he didn’t look like every fantasy I’d told myself I shouldn’t have. “It’s finger food.”

Fuck me.I reached for my sandwich. Sauce dripped onto my hand, hot and sticky. I brought it to my lips, cautious, then took a bite.

“Like that, huh?” Darius grinned, mouth full, cheeks stuffed, sauce smeared on his chin. It was obscene. It was fucking glorious.

“Shut up and eat,” I growled, but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me. I watched him take another bite, his throat working as he swallowed, and felt something twist deep in my gut.

This was new territory, raw and undignified. But watching Darius devour his meal with such shameless hunger, I couldn’t help thinking maybe there was something to this greasy indulgence after all. I tore into the sandwich like it was my last meal on death row. The flavors exploded—garlic, oregano, a tang of vinegar from the giardiniera. I groaned, the sound more carnal than it had any right to be in a public setting. “How the fuck have I never had this before?”

“Because you’re used to caviar and truffles,” Darius said, his mouth packed with beef, his words muffled.

“Where’d you learn about places like this?” I asked through a juicy mouthful.

“I hang out with common folk,” he shot back, an eyebrow cocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Common folk,” I echoed, shaking my head. “You sound like my goddamn mother.”

We devoured our food, sauce smeared on our faces, hands sticky and glistening. The world shrunk down to the booth, the sandwich, and him. Time lost meaning as we ate, lost in the primal act of feeding, no pretense, no bullshit. Just two men and their hunger.

The end came too soon, the plates barren, sauce-stained napkins littering the table. Satisfaction sat heavy in my stomach, a pleasant weight that made me want to lean back and close my eyes. But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Not with him here, watching me with those eyes that saw too damn much. The waiter dropped the check between us. I reached for it, but Darius was quicker. He snatched it up with a swift motion, digging into his wallet without looking away from me.

“My treat, lover boy,” he said, his voice low and rough, counting out bills with a deliberate slowness. He slapped the cash onto the little tray, stacking it neatly.

“Can’t let you pay for everything,” I muttered, still reaching for my wallet.

“Shut it.” He leaned forward, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Tonight’s on me.”

This was Darius taking control, and fuck if it didn’t make me want him all the more.

Chapter18

Darius

We left the Italian restaurant, holding onto each other as we stepped out into the lively night. I wanted to make the most of it, so I led him towards the loud bar we passed on our way to the Italian beef spot. Weston claimed he only wanted to stay for an hour, but before we knew it, the clock struck midnight. Liquor hummed through my veins and loosened my inhibitions, set them free like caged birds, and I stared at Weston—seductive, hungry stares that I knew would get me in trouble.

“Careful,” he warned, his deep voice slicing through the air. “Keep that up, you’ll end up face down, ass up.”

Fuck. Those words sent a shiver down my spine, sparking images that made my blood hot. Me, sprawled out on his luxurious sheets, waiting for him to claim me in ways that would leave us both wrecked. I shifted closer, letting out a low moan. My body ached for it—for him—to be split open and devoured by his touch. The ride back to the condo was a blur of streetlights and shadows, my thoughts consumed by the man beside me. When we arrived, I watched him fumble with the keypad, a smirk tugging at my lips as the cool metal clicked and the door swung open.

I was on fire, every nerve ending screaming with want. Vague recollections of the bar’s pulsating rhythm echoed in my mind, but it was Weston’s heartbeat I craved to sync with now. I needed to feel him, raw and unfiltered. The alcohol in my system only fueled the twisted feeling deep in my gut.

“Bedroom,” he ordered, a command that pulled me along. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, tasting blood. My gaze locked onto the firmness of his ass as he led the way. His strides were confident, assured—as if he owned every inch of the ground he walked on. And damn, in that moment, I wanted him to own me just as completely.

I followed him like a shadow, close enough to sense the warmth radiating from his body, yet not touching. Not yet. I reveled in the tension. I wanted him to fuck me until we both forgot our names, but I also wanted to see that composure crack, to push him to the edge and watch him fall apart.

I moaned, the sound torn from deep within as I climbed onto the soft mattress. My arms wrapped around the large pillow, and I hoisted my ass into the air—a silent invitation that screamed louder than any words could. Weston’s movements were methodical, shoes slipping off with ease, his phone finding its place on the nightstand with a soft thud. The fabric of my jeans strained against my cock, the rough texture had me palming at my cock through the denim, another low moan spilling from my lips. The image of Weston, powerful and relentless, driving into me was enough to make my head spin. My need to be his personal little fuck toy was laced with something deeper, darker—it fucking scared me.

“Uncle,” I called out, the word hanging heavy in the tension soaked air. There was a beat, a single moment of silence that stretched between us like a tightrope. And then it snapped.

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