Page 43 of A Life Chosen

Mathias lowered his mouth to Rayan’s chest, captured a nipple in his teeth, then grazed his stomach with his lips. Everywhere he touched left a trail of seared skin. Rayan pulled Mathias’s hardened cock from his pants and ran it through his fist, pressing the pad of his thumb into the slick head as the man gave a low growl. Mathias spat into his palm and reached for Rayan as he arched hard and wanting into his hand. His capo gripped their shafts together, bringing his wrist up and down. Rayan’s breathing shallowed, the friction between them sending his arousal surging. When he couldn’t bear it any longer, his hand shot out, stilling Mathias’s movement.

Releasing him with a knowing smirk, Mathias grabbed the back of Rayan’s knees and lifted. His face flushed as he found himself so thoroughly exposed. Mathias teased the hot head of his cock against his opening, and Rayan shivered, clenching his teeth, as Mathias entered him.

“Fuck…” he hissed, and Mathias pulled back. “No—” Rayan clutched at his thighs. “Don’t stop…”

Mathias pushed him into the mattress, his strokes measured, deep. He lowered himself so they lay skin to skin, all distance between them gone, bodies fitting together as though they had never been apart. It was a closeness Rayan craved yet could barely stand, overpowering his carefully laid defenses. Incriminating words threatened to tumble from his tongue. He bit his lip, forcing his mouth shut.

The pace increased, and Rayan felt himself slipping, his vision narrowing as his body shuddered in time with each thrust. “Harder,” he growled into his capo’s shoulder, giving—no longer taking—orders.

Mathias raised himself up and slammed into Rayan, who rolled his head to the side with a groan, anything to avoid the man’s eyes on him as he unraveled.

“I need you here,” Mathias said, his voice tight with restraint. “I don’t trust anyone else.”

He reached down to grip Rayan’s cock, sliding it through his hand. Rayan felt the swell of release. He sucked in air, gritting his teeth as it took him. Mathias’s words scattered in different directions as his mind splintered.

Rayan woke to find himself pressed against Mathias’s chest, the brush of the man’s breath on his cheek. He lifted his head, knowing how rare the opportunity was to observe him this close, lips parted ever so slightly, face void of all expression. It was uncanny, the transformation he went through. One would never recognize the softened features that appeared on the sleeping man, dark hair splayed loosely across the pillow. It was hard to reconcile this Mathias with the severity of who he was when he was awake.

Mathias stirred and shifted toward Rayan, an arm sliding around his waist. Rayan froze, not wanting to wake him. Mathias settled once again, skin deliciously warm against his own. When he found himself this close to Mathias, he felt as though he’d been granted access to a part of him that few people saw.Why does he do it, when he otherwise keeps me at arm’s length?

If Rayan could, he would wake every morning beside Mathias. The thought struck him hard in the chest. Immediately, he sought to erase it. He did well when he didn’t want things. When he didn’t want, he couldn’t be disappointed, only pleasantly surprised by what he did get—like this morning with Mathias in this bed, a man he admired and respected, so clear about who he was that Rayan felt like a shadow in comparison. It was what he’d always found so compelling about his capo—how sure he was about what he wanted.

Rayan stared at the lock of hair that had fallen across Mathias’s forehead. In the darkness of the room, with the man asleep, he reached over and brushed it back with his fingers.

Chapter Fifteen

“Ineed to piss.”

Mathias couldn’t fault the man. It was a six-hour drive from Montreal, and they’d been sitting in the car, waiting for Marco Moretti to show, for almost an hour.

“Go on.”

Rayan pulled up the collar of his winter coat and yanked open the door. He disappeared into the snowy street. Mathias peered back at the run-down office block and rapped his fingers against the wheel in frustration. Not for the first time that day, he felt his stomach thunder in protest. All he’d had since waking were two cups of coffee. That was usually enough to get him through until lunch, but it was now well past noon, and the hunger was making him irritable.

Moretti had offered to meet in Hamilton to walk him through the current setup and make some introductions. The city was a dump, filled with layer upon layer of opportunistic scum and home to many a small-town drug lord. The family maintained a presence here in the hopes of regaining access to former narcotics channels along Lake Ontario—that and because of its proximity to Toronto, the country’s financial center.

Unlike Montreal, where the family reigned unchallenged, in Hamilton, their influence was slippery at best. The Red Reapers, a self-proclaimed outlaw motorcycle club led by chest-thumping fascist William Truman, occupied most of the territory worth having. During his tenure here, Moretti had barely managed to hold a seat at the table. The former regional head had taken a questionable approach to maintaining amicable relations with the city’s various criminal factions. From what Mathias had heard, Moretti had been far too generous with his cuts, to the point where local thugs were earning more than the family itself.

While Mathias wasn’t due to make the move for another two weeks, he figured the more he knew going in, the better. He’d planned on making the trip alone buthadn’t completely shaken the feeling that Piero had eyes on him. So Mathias had brought Rayan. The man was still his until the end of the month—not that he’d bothered to let Tony know. Even though the decision had been made, Mathias found himself putting off making it official.

Driving across Burlington Bay, he’d watched his second stare out the window as the city came into focus, dusky eyes reflected in the glass. It was Rayan’s first time in Hamilton, the farthest he’d been outside Montreal city limits. Mathias hoped he wasn’t expecting much. Both of them had said little on the ride over. He knew Rayan was still sore about being left behind.

That night at his apartment, Mathias had returned from the bathroom to find Rayan asleep. No one slept in his bed but him. He was protective of his home, a final barrier against the world outside. Mathias had waited for the spike of irritation, but nothing came. Unable to think of a good enough reason to wake him, he’d simply climbed in beside him. For someone who asked for so little, Rayan had made a bold claim—unconsciously or not.

Mathias hadn’t told his second the whole truth. The situation in Montreal was evolving quickly, and he needed someone on the ground. Someone he trusted with his life. Or so he’d convinced himself. In all honesty, it was the man’s name on that slip of paper that had forced the decision. Rayan Nadeau was no one to Piero Russo unless he was connected to Mathias. Bringing him here would only succeed in keeping him a target.

The passenger door opened, and a rich, greasy smell entered the car. Rayan pushed a hot wrapper into his hands. Mathias peeled back the paper to reveal thick slabs of ham and cheese stuffed into a warm croissant. Rayan was already taking a bite out of his. He looked over at Mathias, chewing absently.

“Deli,” he said when he swallowed. “Saw one around the corner.”

Mathias took a bite, making sure not to let Rayan see how good he found it. He gave a grunt of approval and turned back to watching the building. By the time Moretti showed—over an hour late—Mathias was livid. The man’s black Beamer pulled up outside the crumbling building, and he emerged from the passenger side as Mathias and Rayan got out and crossed the road to join him.

“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” Tony had told him shortly after the humiliating meeting with the boss. Mathias didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right, but over the last few days, the gnawing anger had turned into fuel, a plan forming to recapture what had been lost. He recalled Belkov’s offer. The Russian head had contacts in the city. Mathias would have to start back at square one.

The family’s Hamilton office resided in a squat multistory concrete-block building sandwiched between two public-housing towers. From close-up, it was clear things were in a state of disrepair—graffiti sprayed across the walls, wooden boards covering the windows. Stepping around a series of stagnant brown puddles, Mathias walked up to Moretti. The man stretched out his hand, and Mathias took it, finding it slippery with perspiration.

“Welcome to Hamilton,” Moretti announced with a grin that revealed his yellowing teeth.

Mathias fought the urge to wipe his palm against the side of his slacks.

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