Page 4 of Dice & Dekes

I scoff. “Yeah. Duh. Of course. No offense taken. I hate you more.” Damn, did I overdo it? I’m not thinking clearly. Also, I think I might be sick.Please don’t let me get sick on Knova at the altar in front of too many cameras and one fake Elvis…Talk about nightmare material.

“Fine.” Knova sighs. “I do.”

“And do you—” Elvis begins, swiveling toward me.

“I do,” I say. Too fast, too eager. Shit. I try to play it off, but the words hang there like a confession I didn’t mean to make.

I’m pretty sure there are a lot of other words, and the longer I stand here, the more my stomach revolts. My legs are wobbly. I need to sit down.

“G-g-groovy,” Elvis croons. “Thank you, thank you very much. You may kiss the bride.”

Knova gags. I think she’s joking, but it makes my stomach roil.

“I’d rather kiss a baboon’s ass,” she says.

No. This can’t be happening. I’ve imagined kissing her a thousand times, but not like this. Not when I know she’ll regret it the second it’s done.

“This was part of the deal,” says Pen Guy. “This is the money shot. You already signed the paperwork.”

Knova sighs. She purses her lips. After a moment, she shakes her head and leans forward. I forget how to breathe. My heart stutters. If her lips touch mine, I might combust. If they don’t, I think I’ll break.

Her perfect mouth approaches mine, and—

* * *

“—Mick,” Knova moans.

I freeze, lips wrapped around her nipple, tongue still mid-lap. The name stabs right through the haze of lust, cold and sharp.

I hate that name.

I hate that he touched her.

I hate that I’m not her first choice—just the warm body she picked when she got desperate enough.

But I don’t stop. I can’t. She’s on my lap, naked and grinding against my cock through my boxers, and I’m halfway to insanity. I shift, rutting up into her, desperate for friction, for more, for anything that feels like she’s mine—even if it’s just for one drunken, fucked-up night.

Her skin is slick and hot against my chest, her dog tags swinging between us like the world’s cruelest reminder that she has ghosts I’ll never outrun.

“What did you say?” I ask, my voice ragged.

“That I haven’t been with anyone since Mick,” she pants, eyes glazed. “So don’t make this weird, okay? It’s one time. I’m just so… lonely.”

Then, quieter. “Tell anyone I said that, Viktor Noah Abbott, and I will literally kill you.”

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or beg. At least she still knows my name.

But instead, I cup the back of her neck and pull her closer like I’ve got any right.

“You can tell me things, Knova,” I whisper. “Even the ugly parts. Especially the ugly parts. I’d never hurt you.”

But she doesn’t believe me. I feel it in the way her body hesitates, even as she melts under my hands like candle wax.

I press kisses down her throat, over the curve of her collarbone, lingering at the swell of each breast like I’m imprinting devotion into skin. I worship the places no one else thinks to love—her scarred hip, the fluttery pulse at her sternum, the sweet little spot just beneath her navel where she twitches when I kiss her there.

She shifts and grinds down hard.

I buck up without thinking—too sensitive, too gone, and before I can stop it—

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