Page 48 of Breaking the Code

I rub a hand over my forehead. I want him. I cannae deny it. I only wish he were here now so I can explain why I pushed him away.

The silence in the room comes to a screeching end. Music thumps throughout the space. The sound loud and thumping. The beat dirty and sensual. So sensual it tugs at my cock, pulling me toward the origin like a divining rod pulls you to water.

Standing from the couch, I make my way toward the sound, only to stop short in the doorway. My mouth falls open at the sight before me.

Tavish.

Naked.

Well, nae quite, but there isnae much left to the imagination. The satin and lace barely cover him.

He’s dancing to the beat o’ the music. His body gyrating and undulating in a way that has me imagining other things. Things I want very much.

He’s prancing around the bedroom, fresh from the shower. Drops o’ water bead on his skin. His still damp dark hair is slowly drying in the loose curls I want to bury my fingers in while I fuck his gorgeous mouth.

My eyes roam over Tavish’s trim, sexy wee body. He’s on full display and putting on a show the likes o’ which I’ve never seen before.

He’s covered in marks. My eyes catalog each one as they trail over him. They’re all healed, but they’re prominent enough I can see them from a distance. I even recognize some o’ them for what they are.

Once upon a time, I’ve given beatings to subbie boys like Tavish. Beatings that could’ve resulted in marks like the ones he bears. Only the beatings I delivered were for pleasure, nae pain. The ones marring Tavish’s body could only be the result o’ a thrashing that was meant to hurt and abuse.

The marks dinnae detract from the beauty o’ the man, though. Nae. They add to it. They are a testament to the strength, character, and perseverance o’ the man who wears them. Tavish suffered, that is apparent. But he’s lived to tell the tale.

I continue staring at him. My breath catches in my throat, and my cock throbs in my pants at the sight o’ that tiny, perfect, bubble butt. I marvel at the lack o’ tan lines even though he’s covered. That wee scrap o’ fabric couldnae be hiding any. Over the months, I’ve often wondered where his tanned complexion comes from since he rarely leaves the building and the Scots are pale. But Tavish appears naturally tan.

My breath rushes back to me, then shortens into pants. My fists curl in on themselves to keep from reaching for him as Tavish runs his hands over his body. His eyes are closed. They have been since I took up my voyeurish post in the door. The boy is sensual and sexy, and my cock begs me to take him.

Begging turns to demands as I watch Tavish’s hands stop to play with his nipples. Rubbing them to stiff peaks until his mouth falls open. Even though it’s drowned out by the music, his gaspy moan fills my head.

One hand continues playing with his nipples as the other hand dips down his chest to his cock. His head falls back on his shoulders as his hand slides into his underwear. He wraps his hand around his dick, forcing his cock and balls to pop out o’ the fabric as he strokes himself to the beat o’ the music.

Unable to hold back any longer, I yell over the music blaring through the room, “What’s going on here?”

Tavish screams. His eyes fly open, and he reaches toward the blankets on the bed. I can see his mouth moving, the words lost in the music. I dinnae ken if I would’ve heard them even without the music.

Bells and whistles sound in my head. My ears ring as every drop o’ my blood races to my cock. I’ve never been so damn hard.

Tavish’s eyes widen as they slide down my body to my cock. The weight o’ his gaze has me lengthening in my pants even more. I clench my teeth, forcing my eyes to slide close, blocking the sight o’ him looking at me, looking at him.

MISTAKE! flashes in my head like a neon sign. He’s there—dancing and touching himself like he was moments ago. I cannae escape him. He’s burrowed under my skin and into the depths o’ my brain.

My eyes fly open, and I stalk toward him. Grabbing his throat, I push him against the wall beside his bed. My head dips toward his, eyes locked on his shiny, pink lips. I groan as they part and his tongue slides across them.

This boy will be the death o’ me.

“Finally.”

I’m so focused on his mouth that when he speaks, the sound and words take a moment to penetrate. “What?” I gasp through the lust fog that has my breaths heavy and shallow.

“It’s about time, you big ass Scottish bastard. You’re too damn good-looking with the Viking thing and the tall thing and the muscle thing.”

I glance up at him. “What are ye talking about?”

His hands move from my wrist up my arm to my shoulder, ghosting along my flesh. Fire licks at me, following the path o’ his touch.

I feel his Adam’s apple work its way up and down the column o’ his throat.

“Your muscles have muscles, and then those muscles have even more muscles. You twist my stomach in knots and my brains turn to mush. I can hardly ever remember your name because every time I look at you or think about you or see you, the only name that comes to mind is Daddy,” Tavish says.

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